Twisted 50 Volume 1

by Wessell, Stephanie

  The old life returns, with all the old precisions. The corridor runs straight and true. It is lined with doors, doors of painted steel and rivets and little spyholes which you can look through, or open, or shut. When you look through the holes you can watch a little room just like your own. If there are men in it you can watch them as they talk or ruminate or piss on twisted sheets and hang themselves. You can watch them as they smoke and play cards. If they are not talking ruminating pissing hanging smoking or playing cards, they are in another room; they may be bathing and fornicating, they may be scoffing instant mash and alphabet spaghetti. I'm not joking. Life's like that.

  You try keeping a straight face next time you watch another yahoo shitting on a newspaper. The real cases do it on page 3. They're all on D Wing. You go down and down the corridor, past the green paint and the steel and the rivets, everything very pukka, deeply, deeply appropriate to the odour of the faecal tide which awaits you as you cruise through the node, the caged valve and enter the second face of the angle. You can hear them screaming. You can go and look through spyholes at their rooms too. You can read what they've written on the walls in their own shit.

  Keeping A Head

  by Jonah Jones

  I've always wondered what happens when someone's head is cut off, haven't you? It would remain alive because the brain would still be functioning as long as there's sufficient blood in there and the oxygen levels are high enough. It would be like holding your breath until you die, I suppose. But I've thought of a way around that. If you keep the head immersed in oxygen-rich liquid, it should continue to function indefinitely. Still able to see, hear, think. . . wouldn't be able to talk, of course, because it's no longer attached to its lungs. Which is why I've taken up lip-reading so that I can understand what you're trying to say.

  Project Approved

  by Andrew Williamson

  Daniel Middleton pours himself another two fingers of ‘supermarket value’ Scotch. Not as smooth as the twelve-year-old single malt that was his previous poison, but the end game was similar. Make that three fingers; after all, he can’t have damaged his liver the previous night as much as he’d thought because the bottle was a little fuller than he remembered. Plus, this evening’s previous two fingers had eased their way down his neck in one swift swig before he’d begun assessing A-level biology experiment project plans. That was twenty minutes and three project plans ago. Only another eleven to go, and if they are just as unimaginative as the previous three there is a risk the whole bottle will be empty by the end of the evening. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that in the last couple of months.

  Daniel slaps down his whiskey tumbler in a space between school exercise book towers on the folding, fake veneer, two-seater kitchen dining table, and sits on one of the two PVC-covered chairs – the kind upon which you don’t sit with bare legs at the height of a scorching summer for fear of peeling off the skin at the back of your thighs.

  Sitting with his back against the rear wall of his studio apartment, he takes in the view of his new, cramped habitat. The tiny, bric-a-brac affair, with peeling Anaglypta wallpaper, stiff from a dozen layers of paint, revealing patches of black-speckled, tell-tale mould underneath, is a far cry from the shiny, fashionable two-bedroomed riverside apartment, kitted out by plummy, pretentious interior designers, that he’d shared with Melissa.

  Daddy’s girl, Melissa. Daniel takes another gulp of Scotch. Definitely not as smooth as his old tipple, and there’s that weird aftertaste he hadn’t noticed before. (You need to be drunk to drink this stuff.) He should be assessing the goddamn project plans, not wallowing in dysphoric recollections. The irony: that’s the exact reasoning that led him to inner city slumdom.

  Daniel picks up and opens the next exercise book. Terrence Attingham: Comparing antibacterial action of Strepsils versus Fishermen’s Friends. Thank God for Terry, the one human boy in a cohort of privileged clones, and not the normal Hesketh College student by some margin. His parents – a civil engineer and a police officer – are hardworking, useful members of society simply trying to give Terry a leg up in life at great financial sacrifice to themselves. And Terry repays them with hard work and a highly-developed sense of humour, despite the best efforts of his class colleagues; those spoilt offspring of old and new money. Ungrateful, arrogant and inhuman, always ready to put down someone not of their own kind.

  Another swig of Scotch. Perhaps taking sips from now on would be a good idea. Daniel’s parents had done the same for him in their own, smaller way. Like Terry, he’d appreciated that effort, by studying hard, behaving well, getting a career, and making everyone happy. Everyone but himself. Hindsight is a horrible thing. Terry even had the forethought to use replica plating technique, smart boy. Let’s hope he chooses a career he enjoys.

  Next. Oh God, here we go. Felicity Greythorne: class genius. If the film industry ever wanted a template for a female Damien, they need look no further than Felicity Greythorne. What’s the meaning of her first name again? Joyfulness, bliss, delight, or a source of happiness or good fortune? That really is a piss-take.

  Back when a career in the fee-paying sector seemed like a good idea for an aspiring young teacher, the Felicity Greythornes of this world were not on the agenda. Another mouthful of Scotch. Sips just won’t cut it tonight. Daughter of Lord Greythorne, the government’s ‘go to’ chief research biochemist. Why at Hesketh College? Why now? Why me? She’s a chip off the old block all right; a first class brain for sure. Not the stretched, second class brain some of us have to cope with. She must be the poisoned apple of her father’s eye. And what a bitch with it. Just sip. Felicity Greythorne: Efficacy of the delivery of active biological agents through ethanol media.

  If the split with Melissa hadn’t happened, or more accurately (because, in truth, separation was inevitable), if Daniel had handled it better; if he’d drunk less and slept more, and thus been better able to make decisions; if he’d deleted the internet history on his laptop instead of falling asleep; if he’d not taken his disappointments to college, and missed the whole section of the syllabus on enzymes, resulting in the whole class receiving grades two levels below those expected; if Felicity hadn’t belittled him in front of the whole class when he’d written “condom” on the projector instead of “codon”; if he’d taken it on the chin like all the previous, similar events instead of barking at her and dragging her out of class; if Lord Greythorne’s billion-dollar corporation didn’t sponsor the college; if the principal - spineless Spalding – had realised the stress Daniel was suffering; if he’d any luck whatsoever, then maybe, just maybe he’d still have an apartment that didn’t smell like a supermarket wheelie bin, a career he hated, and a fiancée who despised him.

  Another sip. Daniel’s lips are so numb he can hardly feel the glass against them, and his fingers around the glass feel like enormous sausages – time to ease up on the liquor. Biological agents in ethanol? What biological agents? The biological agents are genetically engineered to survive in normally catastrophic ethanol. Although on a macro scale, the organisms to be transported should be transparent when suspended in liquid. The organisms are of a similar refractive index to ethanol-based liquids, and as such they are, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the human eye.

  Once swallowed, the organisms make their way to the small intestine, attaching themselves to the intestine wall. They secrete an anaesthetic directly into the blood stream. A dose of 100 ml of liquid media containing typically fifteen to twenty organisms will paralyse a 75 kg human being in approximately 30 minutes. At first the host will suffer anaesthetic awareness, losing the use of and feeling in all skeletal and facial muscles, but remaining fully conscious. The organisms then use fine filaments to enter villi and force their way through the membrane wall and into the bloodstream, where they inflate to many times their original size by consuming blood cells.

  Approximately 30 minutes after paralysis the organisms are gorged on blood and begin to block the flow of blood
to some parts of the body. The organisms then wriggle constantly within the circulatory system to travel to increasingly larger cross-sections enabling contiguous feeding. The action of the wriggling can be felt and seen by the host, but of course, now completely paralysed, they are unable to do anything about it – not even call for help. Truly an itch that cannot be scratched.

  The wriggling usually lasts for approximately 15 minutes (though to the host it feels like a lifetime of indescribable torture), by which time the organisms have overindulged to a standstill – there are simply no vessels of sufficient width within which they can travel. At this time the supply of blood is heavily restricted, and the host’s blood pressure will have dropped sufficiently that they will lose consciousness and heart failure will ensue. With no blood pressure, the organisms exhaust the consumed blood, and revert to an invisible status. The anaesthetic similarly becomes undetectable. An autopsy would conclude heart failure, with no suspicious circumstances.

  Utter nonsense. Daniel commands his hand to bring up the tumbler to his lips, but it won’t budge. He strains as hard as he can to move just a finger, but there’s no response. He struggles with all his might to move his eyeballs a few degrees and notices the bottle of Scotch. He remembers clearly that when he replaced the cap on the bottle before putting it in the cupboard last night the level of the Scotch was in line with the top of the label - exactly where it is now, even after pouring two healthy glasses’ worth. Daniel sees the wall-clock, and realises that he started drinking around half-an-hour ago. His eyes drop to focus on Felicity’s perfect handwriting. At the bottom of the page it reads: You really should have looked after your apartment keys. Goodbye, Mr Middleton.

  The exercise book slides from Daniel’s rigid left hand, plops onto the table and closes. Still gazing at his hand, he notices movement in a wrist vein, and watches as it slowly wriggles up his forearm. Yes, a first class mind, but a bitch with it. Project approved.

  Meat

  by Neil Bebber

  The thing is, I had no choice. Whatever you, whatever society, might say. Because, let’s face it, society is increasingly finding ways to stop us acting on our instincts. Indulging our natural urges. Exploring our, our curiosity. Because it makes us more controllable. Like, like sheep. But we’re not sheep. We’re humans. Top of the food chain. So it’s in us, right? All of us. Not just me. So it must be normal. Natural. Mustn’t it?

  And anyway, what is civilised? Really? What does it actually mean? It’s just a word. The Romans were civilised and look what they did. It’s not as if I’ve fed a helpless family to the lions for my own entertainment, is it? Clapped and cheered as screaming children watched their parents shredded. But they’re remembered, aren’t they? The Romans. For their achievements. Their viaducts. Their arches. Their sandals. So why shouldn’t I be remembered for the things I’ve done?

  Remembered. Re. Membered. Dismembered. Dis. Membered. Never noticed that before…

  When we were kids, we ate raw sausages. Raw pork. Raw pig. Porky pig. And the taste? Well, that was something special. Really special. They had to be room temperature. You can’t taste anything when it’s cold. Room temperature. Body temperature. And the meat… The meat was pink. Pink and sweet.

  Wouldn’t do it now, mind. The kind of shit they pump in. All the chemicals, the hormones, the water. The pigs are all bloated. Can barely walk. And that’s not normal. Not normal at all.

  *

  It was as though she just appeared in front of me. Floated over. No footsteps. I just looked up from the counter, from my meat, and there she was. A vision. Like a painting. A classic. But with clothes on.

  “Excuse me,” she says, gently miffed, as if she’d said it once already. And I’m smiling. Inside. Not sure what to say. Transfixed, liked a dying man in a museum.

  And, eventually, I say something like, “Sorry, madam. Miles away. Talking to myself again, probably. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “I’ve been told I need to… never mind. Beef’s got iron in it, hasn’t it?” Word for word, that’s what she said.

  “Yes, madam,” I say. “Full of iron. Full of it. I mean, a magnet would probably stick to it.”

  She pauses, smiles politely, and then says, “Good. Then I’ll have some beef, please.”

  Some beef. I know. No idea. “Well, we’ve got minced beef, sliced beef, aged beef…”

  “Steak?” she says.

  “Yes. Steak’s good. Very good. Steak is actually beef, too, but…”

  “What would you recommend?” she says.

  And me, with no hesitation: “The aged steak. Definitely. Special piece of meat, that. Hung for 28 days. Dried. Concentrated flavour. Dark.”

  “Perfect,” she says. And she was right. Well, at the time, anyway.

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  Looking back, I suppose it was pretty obvious, but I ask, “Well, will you be eating alone?”

  “Yes.”

  And then, like a wolf, circling: “Pretty woman like you shouldn’t be eating good steak like this alone. It’s an experience. Something to savour. Something to share. Like seeing the sun set red on Ayer’s Rock.”

  She softens. Rolls over. Shows me her belly. “How about enough for two of us, then?”

  For two of us. For her. And for me. Don’t be too keen. Too smug. Make it too obvious. “Sorry, madam?”

  “Would you like to share it with me?”

  And I did.

  I watched her eat that meat. Rare. A mouthful, then a groan. Another mouthful, then another groan. You have no idea…

  I couldn’t eat mine. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t take my eyes off her. The blood on her lips. On her teeth. And when she’d finished, I had her. Right there. On that table. Licking the blood from deep inside her mouth. Her dress stained as we rocked on bloody plates. Her nails dragged at the skin on my back. She bit my lip. Hard. And blood flowed from my mouth into hers. Warm.

  *

  When we were kids, we cut our hands and did blood brothers. It was a bond for life. This. This was a bond for life. She needed a ring to make it official, but not me. And then, one day she turned up at work, appearing, as she always did, out of nowhere.

  “I’ve got some news,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “Well?” she said, as if I should know what to say.

  “Look, I’m really sorry but can it wait? I finish in an hour and I’m way behind.”

  “But…” she said.

  You’re not listening. “Seriously, today’s been an absolute nightmare.”

  “OK, I’ll wait.”

  Or you could go. But instead I say, “Fine.”

  *

  And so our creation grew inside her. Our calf. Our lamb. Dividing. Firming. Criss-cross strands, fibres forming.

  *

  After she’d, you know, pushed it out, after all that gas and screaming and air, I mean, she was out of it, so I… I asked for the afterbirth. A little indulgence I hid at the back of the freezer. And every time she went out, I defrosted another bit. Excited and afraid that at any moment she could walk through the door and find me there. All bloody and naked…

  Then, when she came home, I suckled from my love. I tasted the thin, sweet water from her breasts. Warm. Like her. She would kneel over me and I would feed. Like Romulus. Or Remus. Tugging. Pulling. Until my belly was full, but…

  At some point, she started to drift. To lean back. To pull away. And when she appeared that day, she seemed different. Translucent.

  “We need to talk.”

  Delaying. Knowing. “I can’t. Not here. Not now. What’s the matter?”

  Different. Impatient. Pushy. Yes. Pushy. “Can’t you take a break?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, I’m going to my sister’s. I wanted to tell you. To your face.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You know why…”

  Of course I did. Deep down. But she, we made
a vow. “Look, let me see if I can…”

  “Actually, no. Maybe it’s best if I call you later. OK?”

  Nodding. Helpless. Out of control. Out. Of. Control.

  “I’ll call you tonight.”

  Please. . .

  *

  If something’s important, really important, we’ll do whatever it takes. Even make promises. Promises we know we can’t keep. But I couldn’t lose her. I wouldn’t lose her. And the next day, she came back.

  But we are what we are.

  When we were kids we ate black pudding. Blood sausage. Black blood sausage. Blood and fat. Metallic and salty. And warm. With eggs. And bacon.

  The Germans call it fleisch. Literally, flesh. The Germans are braver than us. More pragmatic. Call it what it is. Flesh. Some skin. Some muscle. Some fat. My grandmother used to eat the brains. The lungs. Intestines. A whole pig’s face boiled down, then stripped and pressed into a loaf tin.

  And the rabbit man brought rabbits, still warm, and we’d sit, me in my pants, to keep my trousers clean, plunging hands into hot slits of blood and blue guts.

  Please…

  *

  Me: “You look good.” Then back at my meat.

  “Thanks.”

  Smiling. “I could take half an hour. I could do with a break…” Am I pretending? I don’t know.

  Silence. For an age. Then me. Again: “Where’s my princess?”

  “She’s with my mum.”

  “Right” is what I say. But what I see is her mum and me, me pushing her. Off a building. A cliff. I don’t know. Something high. And her, flying, falling. Stopping. Smashing.

  “We’re going away.”

  Shattered sockets. But eyes, eyes still seeing. Seeing me, looking down. “Sorry, what?”

  “I know. I know you’re really trying. I can see that. But it’s not fair. On either of us.”

  “But I…”

  “You should be able to… I don’t know… Be with someone that you can be yourself with…”