by Mike Hodges
Mark stops to listen. Whatever that sound was, it’s stopped.
Alice impatiently interrupts the silence. ‘Then what?’
‘They castrated him.’
‘They WHAT?’
Mark smiles to himself. He hasn’t forgotten his own emasculation in her bedroom.
‘They cut off his giant cock.’
‘Oh, my god.’
‘And his big balls.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Old Nick rent the air with a volcanic bellow and died. The goblins, with the help of winches and cranes, stood his penis, still miraculously erect, on its severed end as a memorial to their great victory. Over hundreds of years it has calcified, and it stands erect to this day.’
With that he whips off the blindfold.
‘Meet Old Nick!’
An ancient standing stone towers above Alice. Her jaw drops as her head tilts back to take in its size. She gasps then screams with delight.
‘Oh, my god! Phallic… so phallic.’
She embraces the stone, running her arms up and down the soft yellow lichen. It seems to grow more fulsome the further she looks up towards its cap-shaped peak. With the clouds speeding above, it even appears to be steaming.
Mark points towards a pair of huge round stones on the horizon.
‘And those are said to be Old Nick’s testicles.’
He can hardly believe their tryst is progressing so smoothly and so rapidly towards a conjunction he hadn’t anticipated even in his most lustful dreams. Even so, he proceeds with caution.
‘As one might expect, Old Nick is still worshipped as a god of fertility. The fecundity of the local crops and animals is supposed to depend on the preservation of this standing stone.’
He pauses, choosing his words with even greater care.
‘Maidens still come here after dark, strip naked and offer themselves to him. Several reliable sources have told me that by dawn’s rising they always feel replenished, both physically and spiritually. One source described it as virtual intercourse.’
Alice is so involved with hugging Old Nick’s calcified cock that he fears she didn’t hear him. He holds his breath and chews his lip, curious to know just how naive she can be.
Very is the answer.
‘Why don’t we stay the night?’
Mark doesn’t want to appear too enthusiastic. ‘Are you sure? We don’t want you catching a cold, do we?’
‘I never catch colds.’
Mark’s smile is like the moon rising.
‘So be it. Old Nick will be pleased.’
* * *
The tiny spot on Mother Earth, now occupied by Mark and Alice, spins into darkness and a full moon appears to climb in the sky. Owls sound territorial hoots. Rabbits graze the grass, running in and out of their burrows. Determined badgers pass along their well-defined tracks.
Alice sits with her back resting against the stone phallus. Mark has positioned himself some way off, anxious not to cause her fear or fright or even the remotest suspicion of his hopes and desires. He looks across at her and tries to remember how he used to access Ursula in her leather jumpsuit. Was there a zip up the front or at the side? His problem is about to be resolved.
‘Mark.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Old Nick won’t approach until you strip naked.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. The maiden must be naked and stretched out in supplication.’
‘You said it was virtual sex?’
‘It is. But Old Nick’s spirit still has to be encouraged.’
‘If you’re putting me on I’ll beat the shit out of you.’
He sees her stand up.
Unfortunately a bank of cloud, until then scudding unnoticed across the sky, finally reaches the moon and plunges them into darkness. Mark muffles his curses. He can see nothing, but he can hear plenty. Alice is hurriedly removing the leather jumpsuit.
Above him the infuriating cloud seems to become stuck. Then suddenly the moon reappears in a small gap and he can see her laid out on the ground, white as a lily flower on its pad. It’s a magical moment but sadly a fleeting one. Another cloud quickly skids into place like a blackout curtain.
Mark curses when, out of the ensuing dark silence, he hears the sound that’s been haunting them ever since they arrived. Now it’s right up close and while its primal nature is even more clearly evident, it stops before he can actually locate it.
Silence follows.
This quiet interlude is abruptly breached by Alice moaning, softly at first but speedily gathering momentum in both volume and pace. Mark can see nothing but darkness. His confusion grows as quickly as Alice’s apparent and unexpected ecstasy. Her culminating mixture of alternating groans and screams sound to him very like she’s having an orgasm.
At last the cloud moves away, and moonlight settles like a diaphanous sheet over the writhing Alice. Mark’s attention is grabbed, not by this sensual sight, but by the dark shape hovering so close to her. He can just make out four cloven hooves glinting in the harsh light. From the curvature of its head Mark deduces that the creature, whatever it is, is quietly grazing the grass. Only when he sees Alice stroke its bowed head is this illusion brutally shattered.
It’s not grass it’s grazing.
He hears Alice whisper in its ear. ‘Oh… ooh… oooh, Old Nick, yes…. yes… the earth sure did move, baby.’
Mark leaps to his feet, stamping his grinder boots on the rocky surface like an angry bull, unsure what further course to take. His rage is a weird and incomprehensible mixture of blind fury and perverse sexual jealousy. He tries to focus his thoughts.
Being cuckolded by a fucking donkey is bad enough, but the idea of the stupid bitch thinking it was Old Nick going down on her is a near mortal blow. It is he, Mark Miles, who is meant to be standing in for Old Nick. The fucking giant is his invention, and now she’s nicked it for her own gratification.
Worse is soon to follow when she strokes its temple and murmurs, ‘What beautiful eyebrows you have.’
Not surprisingly, the donkey, too, is now wantonly aroused. It lifts its great beastly head, emitting a mournful bray that is, indeed, a fair impersonation of a foghorn, before dropping on to its haunches and clearly revealing an erection comparable to a road worker’s pneumatic drill. Mark’s eyes bulge to the size of gobstoppers when Alice takes it into her hands and attempts a feat that can only be described as spatially impossible.
By now it’s not only the donkey that has a pressing need for sexual satisfaction. As might be expected, Mark is also in a state of extreme carnal excitement, and when it comes to sex he’s certainly not a proud man. Taking off like a ballistic missile, he propels himself in the direction of the standing stone, at the base of which all the action is taking place. His grinder boots carry reflections of the moon in their steel caps as they pound across the rocky terrain.
When it hears Mark’s approaching grunts, and sees the flinty sparks coming from the impact of boots on stones, the donkey tries to raise itself. Unfortunately for him, Alice won’t let go of his penis. This allows Mark enough time to take a flying leap, landing both boots on the poor creature’s testicles.
A howling, hee-hawing bray of agony rends the heavens, as the donkey tears itself away from Alice’s grasp. As her outstretched hands unwittingly travel down the great penis, the hapless animal has no alternative but to ejaculate. Spasms of semen spurt over her bare torso as the creature whinnies with pleasure. The donkey literally doesn’t know if it’s coming or going. It is, without realising it, doing both. It’s cloven hooves then kick up a cloud of dust as it races away.
If the donkey was confused, now it’s Alice’s turn. A shadow slides ominously across her now glistening body. She looks up to find, standing above her, a great black blob of beastliness etched by an iridescent white light as it is silhouetted against the moon.
She whimpers with bewilderment. If her previous debaucher was Old Nick who the hell is this? Or was the first beast an impostor and the new arrival the real Old Nick? The noise of a heav-yduty zip fastener focuses her mind.
The blob momentarily hovers there like a magic carpet, before dropping clumsily upon her. Any planned strategy of his for conducting a smooth and confident approach is abandoned for a crash landing. Mark pins her arms to the ground and tries to clamp his mouth about her cupid lips. She wrenches her mouth away from his and plunges her gleaming-white and perfectly ordered teeth into his nose. At the same time she drives her delightfully dimpled kneecap hard into his scrotum. Mark yelps in a strangled falsetto, arms flailing aimlessly, not knowing which to attend to first, his cock or his conk. He staggers to his feet, whereupon Alice resolves his indecision. She punches him on the nose, turning on a gusher of blood. For Mark the moon is switched off and the stars come out, dancing in his eyes. All he remembers is Alice now screaming at him.
‘You spoilt everything, you shit.’
She spots the wilting erection protruding from his leather suit.
‘Look at it that pathetic thing, that little worm. If you think you can ever take the place of Old Nick, forget it.’
Mark falls to his haunches, groans and rolls over. The bloody knife embossed on his jacket shimmers in the milky light, taking on a reality of its very own. In fact, the knife appears to have just been plunged straight into his back.
But Alice is too crazed to notice this. She, too, has taken on another reality. With donkey semen sliding down her bare torso, she appears to be melting. Just then a dark cloud, darker than all the others, draws a final curtain on this Last Act. As Alice faints, she lands softly on Mark’s motionless body, forming a tableau worthy of Romeo and Juliet.
fifteen
His nose is still bleeding when he lets himself into his office. A short, rotund shape is silhouetted against the street lights outside. It’s lying on top of his desk like a body waiting for a post-mortem. Mark moves cautiously across the room to get a closer look.
It’s Snazell.
He’s sound asleep, his every contented breath accompanied by a light whistle. Mark barks into his ear, hoping to make him jump. ‘How’d you get in here, you bastard?’
Snazell moves not a muscle; his breathing misses not a beat. He slowly opens one bleary eye. ‘I’m a private eye, remember?’ The eye focuses on Mark’s bloody nose. ‘And, from the state of your hooter, I can deduce that you didn’t stick to cream teas.’ He winces in fake sympathy: ‘Teeth marks, oh dear. Looks like you bit off more than you could chew.’ He sits up and swings his short legs off the desk. ‘After dark it’s a jungle out there.’
‘That bitch is a cock teaser!’ Mark whimpers. ‘She gave me the come-on – so I came on and she got upset.’
When it comes to reading other people, Mr Miles, you are obviously dyslexic.’
It is as if Snazell has lit his touchpaper. Mark suddenly explodes. He stomps to the door and nearly yanks it off its hinges.
‘Fuck off, Snazell. Get the fuck out of my office and out of my life. You’ve brought me nothing but trouble.’
‘Don’t be like that, Mark,’ says Snazell soothingly. ‘I bring you good news.’ He produces a fat envelope from his raincoat pocket.
‘You’ve won second prize in a tango contest.’ The package flies across the room and Mark catches it. ‘Collect £2000 and advance to Herman Temple’s Personal Improvement Institute.’
Money in the hand invariably acts as a calming agent. Mark opens the envelope, removing a stack of notes.
‘It takes two to tango, Snazell.’
‘You lead, I’ll follow. I need to know exactly what happens on that course. Every detail.’
Mark counts the notes as Snazell makes to leave.
‘That’s five hundred for the enrolment fee, the rest is yours. And there’ll be another two grand when you’re done. That’s four big ones.’
He pauses at the door.
‘Plus a free course in Leadership Dynamics. Come top of the class and you, too, could soon be the proud owner of an onyx and marble mantel clock with a batter-yoperated pendulum. Not a bad deal, eh?’
And he’s gone.
Mark hesitates. His fingers dance a jig on the lucre.
But the temptation to keep it evaporates abruptly when the wounded membrane in his nose haemorrhages yet again. Great globules of blood land directly on the wad of money. This bad omen freaks him out. He rushes to the window, struggling to open it. By the time he has prised it up, Snazell is emerging on to the street below.
‘You forgot this, Snazell.’
The envelope floats down along with a galaxy of blood droplets. It lands at Snazell’s feet. He looks up, as the blood peppers his face like measles spots.
Mark yells: ‘I don’t want your blood money.’
He notices a plastic red rose stuck in a dusty jar on the windowsill. It was a promotional gimmick for some long-forgotten amateur production of Carmen. He grabs it up, reappearing through window with it clamped in his teeth. Snazell watches in stunned astonishment. Wiping his blood-spattered face with a crumpled handkerchief, he backs away nervously.
‘Go find yourself another tango partner, Snazell.’
The rose flies out into the night as Mark slams the window shut. Snazell and the money are already gone by the time it lands.
sixteen
Next morning Mark sits for two hours in his doctor’s reception area, waiting for his name to be called. The remaining patients, snivelling and shivering from a flu epidemic that has gripped the town for over a month, are grateful to see him eventually depart, along with those blood-saturated bits of Kleenex protruding from both nostrils.
The doctor looks up impatiently when he enters his surgery, wasting not a moment on social niceties.
‘You seem to have been bitten.’
‘It was a dog.’
‘A dog? In that case we’d better give you a rabies jab.’
Mark didn’t like the sound of that. ‘It was a toy dog.’
‘A toy dog, poodle or otherwise, is still a dog.’
‘No, I was playing with my nephew’s toy. A dog. A toy dog. It barks as well.’
The doctor examines the wound and looks puzzled. ‘A toy gave you these teeth marks?’
‘Toys are very realistic nowadays. The brand name for this one is Bad Dog.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘It was made in China.’
‘So? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Nothing. It was just an observation. A lot of Chinese toys had to be recalled from the shops. Can we get back to my nose? If I blow it or just touch it, it bleeds. And then I can’t stop it.’
‘Do you pick it?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I could cauterise it, but that’s a bit extreme.’
‘Yes, well, we don’t want to do anything extreme. After all it’s only a nosebleed.’
Mark is beginning to regret coming here.
‘I think we should wait. Meanwhile, don’t pick it. Let it heal. If you get any more bleedings, I suggest you lie down with a ice pack. Hold it against the upper bridge.’
Mark tentatively touches the tip of his nose.
‘Not there. The upper bridge. Here.’
The doctor jabs the spot. Blood immediately drips on to Mark’s iridescent white shirt, recently hand-washed by his mother.
‘Oh, shit!’ says the doctor.
* * *
The Bengal Curry Palace is one of those Indian restaurants that seems always empty. Regular passers-by can’t help but wonder how it survives, especially with the four motionless waiters permanently staring out the window. They conclude, rightly or wrongly, that it has a late-night clientele who are always so drunk they no longer know nor care what they are eating.
This lunchtime, passing locals note with surprise and some sympathy that it has two customers: Snazell and Hare. Both have food-stained white napk
ins tied around their necks. Their table is covered with numerous different dishes that mysteriously all look the same, each brought by one of the four waiters in strict rotation. Hare shovels onion bhajis into his mouth like they were peas, before starting on a murderous-looking, extra-hot Madras curry.
‘You paying for this?’
‘Certainly not,’ says Snazell. ‘We’ll go dutch.’
‘You said “fee and fodder” on the phone.’
‘I was referring to breakfast.’
‘You didn’t phone until after breakfast.’
‘Didn’t I? I must have meant breakfast if you had to stay overnight. Although I hope that won’t be necessary.’
Hare shakes his head, puzzled.
‘I’ve never known “fear of God” needing a top-up so soon.’
‘Well, it does. Mr Miles gave me a lot of lip last night. Very uppity he was. You obviously didn’t do the job properly last time.’ He then adds, as an aside: ‘That’s another reason for us going dutch.’
Hare glares at Snazell, eyes and breath both blazing. It’s rare for him to ever pause while eating, so it must be a serious response.
‘Was that a complaint I heard?’
‘Certainly not.’
Snazell finds it hard not to turn away in the face of such hellish fumes. ‘God himself couldn’t be more fearful than you.’
‘It sounded like a complaint to me.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be.’
‘So what was it, then?’
‘An observation, that’s all.’
‘But an observation that was a complaint?’
‘Look, to show you it wasn’t a complaint, I’ll pay for this. Okay?’
Hare carries on eating for a moment before Snazell’s offer sinks in. When it does, he summons one of the waiters.
‘Hey, Gandhi, I’ll have another Madras. And a nan. Oh, and a couple of stuffed chapattis.’
‘Would you like some of mine?’ Snazell tries to stem the tide of dishes. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘What is it?’
‘Prawn biriani.’
‘Don’t like prawns, poor little blighters.’