On cards either side of this one were varied animals, some in attacking stances, such as an unkindness of swooping ravens, with gobs of blooded skin dangling from their beaks; their ungodly eyes blood red - their bodies meek and balding, revealing pulpy, torn flesh. Zombie black birds, Sid thought?
Directly above the ravens was a picture of a decent sized medieval warrior, his great hammer of war in mid swipe. This revealed some of his back, and a quiver of sorts could be seen holding a spiked club; a holstered mace dangled from the left hip. His muscular frame draped in sheep skin. The boots on his feet made from the same material, held together with the aid of black twine. The mighty warrior’s body looked marred with battle scars. His mouth etched into a war cry - the eyes as grey as stone. The detail on the lone violent figure and the aggressive birds held Sid’s gaze, until broken by the receptionist:
“May I help you, sir?” her manner was soft, and she spoke well. Her image and tone clashed with each other: she was a hefty, young woman with thick arms that were made up with tattoos - her lips and ears resembled a pincushion. Her desk/counter was built into one corner of the scantly lit area which seemed to have her robust figure hemmed in.
Sid couldn’t help but stare into her majestic, blue eyes. Purple eyeshadow lay heavy on her eyelids; the colour of her lips matched that of the eyeliner. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty.
“I…err, I’d like a tattoo.”
Had she thought him weird for staring like he had? He hadn’t meant to; it was just an air about her, and the rhythmic tone of her voice. His penis started to push against the front of his jeans - he blushed slightly. He stepped up to the counter, hoping to conceal his embarrassment. She was far from his type of woman. But she had something about her - maybe it was more than her voice. Maybe it was the way her unkempt hair flanked her pretty face - giving her a just-got-out-of-bed-look.
“Okay,” she said, smiling pleasantly at Sid. “Let’s see if we can fit you in today.”
“That’d be great.” He returned her smile as best he could, he was shit at picking up girls - always had been. Sid could feel his smile (and hard-on) falter.
“Don’t be nervous, Khan is a very good tattooist, even though he may not look it when you see him.” Again she had that beaming smile for him, and he couldn’t help but think that she liked him.
“Why don’t you take a look on the wall, see if there is anything you fancy?”
The four walls in the reception area were plastered with every kind of tattoo design you could think of, not just the animal and warrior ones Sid had just been looking at. In the corner of the room stood the entrance to the artist’s studio, which was a cascade of brightly coloured beads - beyond them, a thin steam appeared to be escaping the room, causing a very transparent mist to circle overhead in the waiting area. It had the smell of incense, Sid thought.
“I already know what I want,” he said in a shaky tone. “I saw it as soon as I walked in through the door.”
“Oh well, in that case, take a seat and I’ll see if Khan is ready.”
When Khan stepped through the curtain of beads, Sid thought he’d made the biggest mistake of his life: He was expecting a brutish looking biker-type, with tattoos covering all areas of his body that his clothes failed to conceal, such as the neck, face and lower arms, to step into the room. Not some weak looking man that could be easily carted off by a slight breeze. His plain blue gown hung about his body, looking as though it was made for someone twice his size. He wrung his hands and looked over at Sid with a grandfather’s smile. This small and feeble looking bloke didn’t seem up to the job, with his brittle hands and watery squint. Just like the girl taking appointments had told him he may feel, on seeing Khan.
Sid showed him the image he wanted, sure that the design was of a Boa. It had the fat, robust body of a Boa, but there was something quite mythical about this one.
“Ahh yes, the snake.” Khan uttered, then something else, more faintly under his breath, which Sid failed to catch.
It made him feel very uneasy to go with the docile looking man into the backroom, which was filled with bizarre trinkets: fake shrunken heads, stuffed plastic bats (that made him smile) and strange jewels that dangled from nails in the wall and books on ancient arts, languages and mythological monsters with their snapped and wrinkled spines lining a decrepit looking bookcase - Khan told Sid that the bits and pieces had been collected from all around the world, and that most of them held many a strange secret and myth. Yeah right, Sid thought. You just went down to Woolworths after Halloween, and cleaned up on the bargains.
Sid had thought right in the reception area about the smell. A thin stick of incense was burning away in one corner of the nearly dark room. But its whiff was unsuccessful in its attempts to mask the waft of oils, and sterilising fluids that ambushed him as he walked into the room - which just the one bulb glowing, which hung naked and direct above the artist’s chair. A CD player somewhere in the room turned out music that sounded Oriental; Chinese or Japanese, wherever Khan comes from, Sid thought.
Khan’s friendly manner relaxed Sid, making him rather eager to jump into the dentist-style chair and let the tattooist do his thing. Once in the chair, Khan firstly shaved the area on Sid’s limb, ready for it to receive the tattoo. Then he applied a transfer of the design to the arm. After this the ripping of the skin started, Sid watched as the mini jackhammer tore along the black lines that the transverse had left behind. The sliced tissue leaked blood and ink. Sid gripped the padded arms of the chair, as the needle gyrated, buzzed and veered its away around the design, making Sid want to buck and thrash in the seat. The noise reminded him of a bee hive. Through it all though, Sid just kept thinking of ways in which to ask the receptionist out, whilst chatting to Khan about various things - not just about the odd stuff the artist had in his room - that took his mind off the ripping sensation his arm was undergoing, and the intense heat that pulsated through him.
When Khan finished, Sid went out to the receptionist to pay for the tattoo. He’d tried to build himself up to asking her out all through the torture in the chair, but failed.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“Yeah, it was a cool experience.” He tried not to hold his arm in agony as he walked over to her. Not wanting her to think him a wimp that couldn’t take a little bit of pain. But it must have been written all over his face, because she was smirking.
“You’re looking awfully pale, are you sure you’re okay?” He couldn’t tell if she was mocking, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to get out into the fresh air, just in case he threw up everywhere. He paid and left, not even bothering to ask her for a date.
Now, standing at the sink in the bathroom, he tried not to remind himself of how much of an arse he’d made of himself, peeled off his t-shirt and turned his muscular and patched right arm toward the mirror. I could always go down there one day, and ask her out he thought. But what would I say? That I was thinking of having another tattoo, that I think you’re one awesome looking woman, and that I would love to take you on a date? Fuck it, I’ll only make a bigger tool of myself.
He proceeded to unravel the dressing very carefully; he winced as it picked at his skin. Once the arm was clear of the obstruction - the extraordinary oranges and yellows that coloured the Boa’s scales sparkled at him; the beady, green eyes glimmered like precious emerald. A whispered “wow” escaped his mouth.
Sid stepped closer to the glass and took a better look at his arm - it looked pitiful. But the Boa surpassed that. Its spring-like body was in a coiled shape; the tail finished off just above his elbow - with the heavy head at the top of his shoulder.
He filled the sink with tepid, soapy water then submerged his flannel into it. Sid raised it to his swollen bicep, and began to clean away the blood, dead skin and a gel that had been used to tame the burning sensation. As he did this he thought back to Khan, and the way he spoke as he rubbed Sid’s arm down.
Sid saw movement under t
he flannel; he lifted it to see his skin move and then suddenly stop; his eyes bulged. He was about to scream, but stopped himself - “I only thought I’d seen movement,” then let out a shaky laugh and continued to clean the wound. After ten minutes or so of swabbing, Sid’s heart flipped, as he noticed most of the tattoo had been washed away, and the rest of it was now just a mass of running colours.
“What the fu…,” he was cut short as a bolt of pain rushed down his arm, making him toss the flannel to one side.
He buckled at the knees and grabbed hold of the sink. Sid’s mouth was flapping, but no words came - not even a whimper.
As the tremor under his skin moved up and down his arm, and across his shoulders, Sid was thrown around the bathroom. He managed to catch the mirror full on with his head, which exploded it into a shower of silver droplets with the big shards falling into the sink and the others sprinkled the linoleum floor. Now he was screaming. His skin began to split at the shoulder - a forked tongue appeared out of the torn flesh, with blood and bone spat free; he could hear the bones in his right arm disintegrate, and splinter under a vice-like squeeze.
Sid went for one of the large pieces of glass which was still intact in the sink with his left hand, and began to stab and tear at his right limb. He felt muscle tissue puncture as he speared the skin. But the compress of the bone in the arm, and shoulder caused spasms of pain to pass through him, causing him to drop the weapon, and pass out. But before he did, Sid saw those sharp emerald eyes once again - as they emerged from the ruptured skin.
* * * *
It was said that Khan’s tattoos worked in odd and strange ways – that Khan could give you happiness, sadness, death or just make your life a complete and utter misery. Whatever he chose for you.
She’d believed the ‘Sid story’, and other stories she had heard. Like the one of an old University friend, who had gone to Khan for a tattoo, and found wealth and happiness. So, Crystal had decided to take a risk, and went looking for a tattoo by Khan and hopefully contentment, and not death, along with it. He had told her that he could feel her pain for not being able to get anywhere with her acting and performing work. He said he would help her, by giving her, her chosen tattoo that would help change her life.
Whilst having the work done, she’d noticed Harry sitting on one of Khan’s chairs. She’d asked about him.
“I knew you’d ask,” he said. “And he will be yours, to go with your tattoo and new life. Together you will find work and happiness.”
She hadn’t known what he’d meant then. But, over the course of the weeks and months that lay ahead of her after the tattoo, she found out. Harry talked to her. Helped her. Since then, she’d never looked back.
“How much further to the hospital?” Harry asked, sharply.
Crystal smiled over at him, “Not far now, my love. Give me another story.”
“I’ll give you more than just a story, you fucking slag!”
“Ha-ha, stop it. Story, please.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get all moist on me. I’ll tell you another story. This one is called “Stitch.”
STITCH
He splashed aftershave on his freshly shaven cheeks and massaged it into his skin. He bent down and eyed himself in the bathroom mirror whilst doing this, and bared his teeth to inspect their cleanliness. Norm was happy with their condition. He unbent and straightened his tie. He ran one hand over the top of his cow’s-lick. Something he did out of habit.
His bulky frame was wrapped in a hugging, plain black shirt; the big muscles in his arms and shoulders were visible through the thin fabric. The jeans he wore were slightly faded and did not match the coal-like darkness of the shirt. He was ready for his date. But he couldn’t stop fidgeting in front of the mirror. He was delaying the inevitable.
“Best I go in and tell her that I’m off out again.” He shook his head from side to side. “God, she is going to hit the roof this time.”
He walked into their bedroom. She had her back to him, and was looking into the vanity mirror on top of the dressing table. She fixed Norm with a stare which held him to his spot. Only her steel-coloured eyes could be seen in the glass: the rest of her face was shrouded by shadows cast by the single lamp in the room.
“You’re off to see some jezebel in town again, tonight. Aren’t you?”
Though he couldn’t see Angharad’s face, just her eyes, Norm knew that her brow was furrowed, and that her mouth was turned into a scornful twist, ready to unleash more words of disdain. It was mostly the drugs and depression that caused it, ever since the accident…His thoughts trailed off as she spoke again.
“Managing to exercise your libido, is she? “I bet you don’t have your limp problems with her that you do with me?” He noticed that her eyes seemed to sparkle with that twist of the knife – the bitch. It was not like that at all, he was just taking someone special…
“Ever since what happened on the cliffs you haven’t looked at me in the same way. Where’s the big, strong logger gone; the man that loved me like no other? Where in the hell has he gone? Well, all I have to say is, be a man Norm, and fuck me once in a while. Maybe that way you wouldn’t have to go running to any slut giving it away for nothing.”
God, he hated her so much at times. He felt his face flush, and a wave of anger washed over him. He wanted to take the lamp to her head and stove her skull in. But as quick as his temper had flared, it died just as fast.
He despised how foul-mouthed she had become. Sometimes he just wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake the living hell out of her. But he knew it was the tablets making her so vulgar towards him. And for that, he always let it slide. Plus, she was right. Norm didn’t pay her attention like he should. These days they just seemed to live together as landlady and tenant. Norm wanted his old Angharad back, the one before the mishap. Because deep down, he still loved her.
“Well? Are you just going to stand there transfixed? Or are you going to inform me about where you’re off to, and what time you will be back? Aw, and do I need to make myself scarce? More than likely you want to bring some floozy back here tonight. It was bound to happen sooner or later I suppose.”
He bowed his head, shamed for having to ask the women who had given her body and love to him, to make herself ‘scarce’ as she put it. “If you would please, it would make things a lot ea…”
She cut him off mid-sentence. “I bet it would, you dirty bastard.” Her eyes had scrunched up. “You just remember this, Norm. When I am healed, I’ll be bringing every Tom, Dick and Harry home. They’ll be able to give me what your sorry arse can’t.” She stopped, just long enough to regain her breath. “I’ll spend the evening in the spare room reading. That way I’ll be out of your hair when you get home.”
Norm accompanied Angharad as she made her way to the unused room at the end of the corridor. Once inside, the door was slammed closed. He placed his ear to the cool wood, and heard her weeping on the other side. She often got like this after an argument.
He rapped on the door, “Angharad, love. Please don’t forget to take your tablets later on. I may not be back to remind you.” Norm listened for a reply. But nothing came, just her murmured sobs. “Just remember, love. I’m doing it for our own good. You know that you and I are…”
He let himself trail off, knowing that she had gone into some sort of trance; that happened more often than not these days. It’s the pills he reminded himself, all will be well with her again, soon.
Norm turned from the door and made his way to the kitchen. On top of the work surface, next to the kettle and a bottle of anti-depressants, were his keys. He grabbed them and looked at the small plastic container. She’ll be fine he told himself, and then left.
Glad to be out of the house, and free from Angharad’s tongue-lashing, he got into his old, beat-up Toyota pick-up and drove to the Ivor Hael pub in Llwynypia to meet Stephanie. Norm couldn’t wait to see her again. This would be their sixth date and things were going well. He’d met her whilst out wit
h some work mates three weeks ago, on a Friday night in the New Inn; a haunt that he used to take Angharad to. Norm would take Angharad now, which would probably make her feel better, being around people again. But Angharad won’t have any of it, saying that she is ugly. Nothing could be further from the truth as far as Norm was concerned.
Norm parked in the petrol station opposite the Ivor. He got out of his four-by-four or his ‘workhorse’ as he liked to call it, as it carried all his lumberjack tools. He hoiked his jeans up, glanced at himself in the wing mirror for one final inspection, then crossed the road and walked up to the pub. A notice board on the outside told Norm, in purple-coloured chalk, that there was an artist here tonight:
Crystal and Harry’s Amazing Ventriloquism Show:
Live, Lewd, Lusty And Uncensored.
9.00-11.00 pm.
He entered the pub. Lounge entrance. Standing in the doorway, scanning the area, he inhaled the sweet aroma of ale. It had been years since he’d graced the inside of this place. The tatty old carpet that had once been underfoot was now replaced by a plush red one. The rickety, woodworm eaten furniture had been substituted for solid wood furnishings. Lights dotted around on the walls here and there supported by sconces, gave the place a cheery, warm glow. The joint had lost its dank appeal, which had once earned the pub its nickname as – ‘The Bunker.’
Slowly examining the faces of the barflies, he was relieved not to recognise any of them. And they too did not seem to know him. As he stepped over the threshold onto the rich carpet, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket – buzz, buzz, buzz. He ignored it until he found a table to sit at in the corner of the room by the open fireplace.
The wood crackled as it whispered fiery secrets. Norm’s cheeks instantly flushed from the heat. He dug around in his right jean’s pocket for his mobile and fished it out: new message flashed on the screen. Norm opened it, and read it to himself: Hi Norm, sorry to have to tell you this but I’m running late. I’ll come straight to the pub to meet you from work. I won’t bother going home and getting changed or I’ll never get there. See you soon, Stephanie. He glanced at his watch, almost twenty-five-to-eight. They had arranged to meet at seven-thirty.
White Walls and Straitjackets Page 6