by Laird Barron
“Nnnn,” said the skinny whore in his bed, turning over and wrapping herself in the whole lot of the bedclothes, now that he was out of bed. Blonde locks rustled on her bare, tattooed shoulderblades. He saw a face tattooed on the right one, that looked of heathen Indian design, like a totem-pole, and something that could have been a mermaid, an angel or a demon in the dim light, crawling down the slattern’s arm.
He could smell rut in the room, and it made him sick. Not opium, not absinthe, not morphine. Nowt could’ha’ caused this thing to be. She’s a woman, for one thing, no rent-boy I take and use and send away. Could never make it wi’no woman, even if I wanted to. Can’t even make it wi’the rent-boys, half the time, like, but…
The thought was gone. That window’d had frost on the outer sill, he remembered, and trembled back to shut it. I never knew she was expecting, when I did for her. Mad and maybe a month along, and what expecting mother ain’t a little bit mad? What’s done is done, but if I’m damned then by God I’ll have my Day of Judgement, I—
CRASH. His eyes went white, and the headache took him hard, right through the scar. Right through the itch. His knees buckled and he almost fell, but made it close to the direction of the pillow on the right.
At that, the whore in his bed (Ay, she’s got to be… No ring on the left hand that… Ah, down a bit, yes, lay me flat, there’s a dear) stroked his scar tenderly, kissing his cheek but planting him as firmly prone on his back as though she were a nurse, and he a patient, and…
He made a noise. “Shoosh, shoosh, sailor,” she whispered, in a marvelous raspy voice like the rattle of half-crowns in a purse. “Your wound must be excitin’ you again. You Limeys just keep going until you drop. Must be the English way.”
“Sailor.” He sat bolt-upright. “I’m… Wot? No sailors, here. I’ve never been to sea. I… I work in a bleedin’ ’ospital. I—”
And then a strange thing began to happen. He blinked, taking her in,(Cor, that’s a lot of tattoos she’s got, but,) her bright green eyes focused visibly, and her serpentine mouth pursed. She spoke with her hands a lot, like his Mum.
“You’re just like that other sailor,” she said, almost to herself. “I had a john last year who couldn’t remember his own name.” Her laugh was nervous, and sounded a little sick, but held the fatalism of the streets, the cold fog and the warm doorway and the big night, the long dark… “He’d been Shanghaied.”
When he said nothing, she seemed to understand his blank look. “Great big knot on his head. He worked on a freighter. Said some crimp in London did for him with a cosh to the back of the head when he took to drinkin’, and put him on a ship. There was just an X on his papers where the name was, he told me, so he just called himself Ishmael, like in the Bible.”
He felt the cold sweat begin to bead on his face as she spoke. Every sprout of beard-stubble itched. His heart was pounding. “Don’t fink they can fix me, just yet,” he sighed. She didn’t ask what he meant. He knew she thought she understood. Hell, he almost understood himself.
Outside the window, the bloody fingers of Dawn pointed at him from the East. But East was the wrong way. The whore was still talking.
“I remember—” She frowned. “In Collier’s Weekly or one of those magazines from out East, something… Something about this railroader, years back. His name was Gage something. Took a tamping-rod right through the head, and lived, but it took him years to come all the way back to himself. Years.”
Again, the fatalistic chuckle, the wide white smile. He saw a silver incisor, and smelled his own sweat on her sweet breath. She took his hand in both of hers.
“My name’s Mina,” she told him. “Do you remember yours?”
He pushed her hand away, but gently. “I… I’m not sure.” He was, but she didn’t need to know it. She was insistent, and took it again. “Do you remember where you live?”
He sighed. This was getting intolerable. She didn’t need to know that, either. Or why. No reason to lie… “I fink I know me own address, dear,” he muttered. “It’s… in Prince William Street. Whitechapel. ’Ow… ’Ow close are we t’… ”
She relaxed a little. “Oh, we’re in Whitechapel. That’s a very good start, mister, sure enough. But there’s no Prince William Street anywhere here. You’re on B Street, sir. B Street and Fourth Avenue. The old Phillip Hotel… I’m not even supposed to be here.”
It was a good start for him, too. A little. He tried to smile. “Wot, no respectable place for a lady?”
Now wasn’t the time to betray the true thoughts that screamed through his head, begging him to be up and gone. There was important work to do, and so much lost time. He could feel how much lost time. But the time wasn’t now.
“Ha,” Mina smirked. “ This is Skid Road. There’s no lady anywhere in Portland, Oregon, comes this far west of Wash’nton street, English! You’re too kind. No, that day man on the Front Desk doesn’t like me. Hisses and spits like a cat, and then gives me the bum’s rush. I think he’s a fairy.”
Portland. Oregon. America. Dear God. Dear God… “Oh, aye? As you say. Doin’ for a woman like that. Never a policeman near when you need one…”
Now he understood why his heart was pounding so hard, the cold sour sweat springing anew. The strange breeze. The sky that wasn’t gray soot, the streets so empty. “Can you tell’s one more thing, love?”
Mina twinkled. “Anything, English. Speak.”
He was insistent. “The year.”
This put her off a little, but only momentarily. “Sakes alive, you really must be like that Gage fellow.” But her smile came back, and grew a little warmer. “Eighteen hundred and ninety-two.
Red lightning ate his eyes again. The itch in his head was all there was. Three years. Maybe almost five. So much lost time. So much work left to do…
The window full of Dawn before him was red, too, and the light fell on a new field bright for reaping, reflected back double from the vanity mirror and the mother-of-pearl inlays on his straight-razor.
So much lost time. So much work left to do.
“Clever, you are,” he managed to whisper. “I fink I’m… ’ow’d you put it… comin’ back to meself already.” His heart was in his throat. “I’ll set this town alight…”
He loved his work. He wanted to start again. He could only wait a little longer.
No time now. No time to squeal. The whore was lying flat now, with the bedclothes off. Waiting. Blushing to the tips of her shell-pink ears. Mina smiled again as he got up to lock the door.
FOR HARLAN ELLISON
Juliette’s New Toy
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
for Robert Bloch and Harlan Ellison
Expunge
Erase
Delete
Rub out
wipe out
obliterate
child’s play…
Juliette smiled. Her mouth cradled the color of desire. Settled into her pillow. Closed her eyes and peered into a dream…
…Lustrous knife. Sexy blouse. A whisper of cleavage.
She could climb to heaven on flesh. Be born in the flight of color. Blood in the moonlight. Her eyelids flutter. Her lips, larks above the bones.
Red.
Glimmering.
She hears a violin in the vineyard. Sees a drunkard’s wrist, throat, beholds the spectrum of fruit. Hears the lyrical beauty of a scream.
Temptation.
Action.
The soul of a man. Guiding her. Prey healed of the world’s chain of suffering and pain. The frequencies of her philosophies slow …s…l…o…w… Or you’d spoil the game. Deprive fun its bursts and frolics.
16 going on 722. Ready to bloom… Again…
A street attired in poor shabby roofs. Unhurried clouds begetting shadows.
Juliette’s red lips sip forever from a vial. She has returned.
He came. A monster carved by the full moon. Entered her Perfect. Carved Hell in her war paint, shamed her belly with his rooting snout. Closed
the theater dance in her eyes.
Jack
White skin.
Nest of black hair.
Slippery Jack.
He touched. Thickened. Exhausted her years with between. Howled in her deepest ruts, in the lanes and alleys she kept under lock and key. Took the stars from her seams.
Gave her slave language. Surprised her lightning with taboo.
The ages and branches of her fields traveled from ash to dust to void.
His “Ah” peeled her rind. Brutal, swelled by absolutely, bars her from azure and the moon. His hectic teeth—reading, inquiring, spit lust, as they wandered, flowering her tender with void. His open mouth won’t be sidetracked by her wings and eternities. Open. A waterfall of Jolly. When he clipped off her ear.
Left her in the desert street for rats.
Then he took the path of Future… Again…
Dead, but she did not die… in the litter of the dead she crawled… found a shaft… tasted the supplies of life… ate the storms of nothingness… opened what was forgotten with breath…
She waved down the taxi. “Flower & Dean.”
“Out for a pint, Miss?”
Of blood. “Yes.”
A knowing grunt. A cluttered smile.
“Calms the cursed swords of a godforsaken day it does… Breaks the blacks of the horizon’s unforeseen events.”
The cabbie nods in agreement. “Up and on it is, Miss.”
Chariot of yellow and chrome deposits her at the door of The Little Blue Book. Lightyears swing low and flee the club’s windows.
The demon and the hulk employed as bouncers smile and let her pass.
IN.
Bump and grind on FUNK. The star children and thumpasorus people ridin’ lowdown are out. Gamin’. Watching for getten’-to-know-you and surprise. Comin’ for ta carry you to love, or sureshot fever.
Glasses of Ride On and escape ecstasy shine in the senses;gladly flashing laser light. Wide RED hooks under the summer night religion of BLUE. Strobes translate hands and faces harvesting the flavor of silk soft altitudes. GREEN loose at the hip and Emphasis-ORANGE fly to free your mind.
Thrust.
Nuthin’ but a party bangin’.
Shake.
Shake.
In 3-D.
Feet perfumed in getaway burn with fire-method, hoping to persuade careful princesses to points where trembling sears skin in overnight.
“Soul food.” Juliette smiles at the fruit of life.
Let them sing. Let them dance. Let them drink. A playground should thrill.
She needs to stretch, needs a little taste
before
Jack.
Before she climbs the streets and the stars in search of the death-rattle of his heart…
Jack.
The flower.
The hanged man.
Baked.
Burned by the hunger of her ink.
Jack.
Deep in PAIN.
Jack.
Never existed.
Never had color.
Jack.
Just raw material.
To feed to the black stars.
Soul food.
A bird at her shoulder. A pale courtier. Smooth-shaven. Lion’s jaw. Climax eyes. I celebrate what pleases you in the tango of his words.
She’ll have him barefoot and sailing the unavoidable.
This one will do.
And they do.
Curtains down. Stories of violence open. Getting down. No textbooks.
Chest…
Belly.
Massacre without explanation. Juliette’s silhouette gestures as she operates.
Her ringmaster-need bites as her sculpture clings to the scream.
Time is dragged off to another shore.
It’s mouth and hands and wounds smell like
“Jack.”
She puts on her stockings and her bra.
“Here are my hands.”
Runs her fingers through her hair.
“I am motion growing… An ancient lamp to unlock the truth of your chapters.”
Bends to take in the perfume of a bundle of peach-hued flowers united in a vase.
“I will show you the petals of silence.”
(Parliament Mothership Connection)
Villains, by Necessity
Pete Rawlik
It took five days for Thomas Newcomen, formerly Inspector Thomas Newcomen of Scotland Yard, to come out from under the influence of the pipe. He hadn’t always used opium, but he like so many others had developed a taste for it while in Afghanistan. His occasional use continued after he came home to London and found employment with the Yard, but never while on duty, and only in moderation. It killed the pain, dulled the memories of the things he had done in the war, and made being a civilian more tolerable.
All that changed after he botched a case; when he couldn’t see what was, in retrospect, quite plain. Who would have thought that the events of what became known as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde would have destroyed his career. How he had missed the obvious; after years of soldiering, of hunting and tracking, was inexplicable. Afterwards, there were reprimands and a review board. His use of opium and prostitutes came out. That he was fond of young men who could stand the lash seemed particularly troublesome. So was his war record; the incident in Dewangiri, for which he had received a commendation, was being scrutinized. Had he killed all those boys out of necessity or simply wanton bloodlust? How could civilians judge what had occurred in the heat of battle?
Rather than defend himself, he took early retirement, with a significantly reduced pension. Whether it was the boredom or the depression, he eventually began using regularly, and lost weekends or weeks, depending on how much dope he could afford, became common. He had been thusly incapacitated when the thugs came for him, so strung out that he couldn’t even put up a fight. They locked him in a room with a jug of water and a bucket and let him sweat it out. At times he screamed until his throat was raw, but in the end his gray skin gained some color, his eyes returned to normal, and his thoughts became his own. They fed him porridge with some bits of dried fruit, and he gained some strength. Gin and tonic water helped settle his nerves. Even so, when they came for him again he didn’t resist.
Despite the hood he knew from the smell that he was near the Thames. The bag they had used to cover his head reeked of dead fish, but even that wasn’t enough to cover up the Stink. That he was near the river was clear, but when his abductors moved him roughly through a door and then down several flights of stairs their clumsy footsteps echoed back at him. From these observations he concluded that he was in the basement of some kind of large open building, most likely a warehouse or some similar structure. The men who had taken him had smelled of green tea and rice water, but they barked at each other in a language that he did not recognize. They could have been speaking Japanese, or perhaps even a dialect of Malay.
Without warning he was shoved into a chair, wooden and ornate by the feel of it. He flinched as a knife cut the hood apart and grazed his ear in the process. Even in the dim light he could make out the shadowed forms of guards armed with guns and large daggers. These he knew were only hands, tools to be manipulated, those in control sat on the dais before him. The man on the right was Chinese, taller than others of his kind, with evil green eyes. His imperious attitude would have been evident even if he had been dressed in rags rather than in the fine silken robes embroidered with golden dragons that currently draped his form. The other man was Irish, dressed as a gentleman, but not as a dandy. His frame was bent, and the unobservant might consider him older than he actually was. His face was gaunt, such that his thinning hair made his visage appear almost skull-like. When he spoke it reminded Newcomen of the headmaster at his son’s school.
“Inspector Newcomen, do you know who we are?”
The old policeman nodded and spoke respectfully. “I do, Professor. Though I’ve never seen either one of you in person before, I
know you by reputation, and from blurry photographs at the Yard, though the analysis suggests that the two of you in the same room is something that would be considered very unlikely.”
The Professor grinned maliciously. “Circumstances make for strange alliances, temporary though they may be. I and the Doctor,” he gestured at the Chinaman, “find ourselves with a common problem, one that we think you would be interested in resolving for us.” The Professor turned to look at his partner, and the Chinese Doctor gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval, but before either of them could say anything Newcomen protested.
“What makes you think I would do anything for either of you?” He tried to maintain a tone of respect even as he attempted to rebuke them both. “If you want favors you have an odd way of asking for them. Why me, surely there are plenty of other constables and inspectors in your employ?”
“You come highly recommended. Your former commanding officer says you are quite skilled with a gun. He would be here himself, but he is indisposed at the moment. He reports that excluding himself, you are the quickest shot he has ever seen. He also says that you lack certain moral compulsions that might prevent weaker men from accomplishing the task.” At the implication that the Colonel had recommended him for the job Newcomen relaxed slightly and motioned for the Professor to continue.
“These murders in Whitechapel; the Ripper, the Torso Killer, the Strangler, it is all very bad for business, not just in Whitechapel, but throughout London. People are scared. They are staying home at night. Pub patronage has dropped ten percent. Prostitutes have become uneasy, and some twenty-two have left the city for safer venues. Their clients are afraid as well: Of being wrongfully accused, of being attacked by nervous girls, of being targeted by George Lusk and his Vigilance Committee. Revenue from gambling has decreased by twelve percent. The use of opium has declined significantly.” The Doctor sighed heavily. “As long as these murders continue to be in the public eye our operations will suffer, our employees will suffer, and tensions between our two organizations will build. We sit on a powder keg, Inspector Newcomen, and with each murder a new match is lit. We have ordered our men to remain calm, but like two empires who are openly at peace, the actions of our client states may precipitate a war we would rather avoid. We need these murders to cease.”