Bone Idol

by David Louden

  Back inside my room I fired up the typer and popped a couple of painkillers as my arm began to throb but any focus was killed off by Lee who had taken himself to the fire escape to sing Rastafarian hymns at the top of his lungs and wouldn’t stop until late into the night when the police were called to quiet him down.

  “You don’t have to worry officer,” I said “I’ll keep him under control.”

  “I get a call to come out to him again and I’m locking that nutcase up.”

  “Awfully kind of you.” I shut the door before he could respond.

  Lee took a pint of whiskey before I got him settled down but it wouldn’t last long. He was up before sunrise singing at the top of his lungs.

  “Shut him the fuck up!” screamed an upstairs neighbour.

  “Hey! This is for your own protection!” Lee called back.

  I’d go to shut him up but when I got out into the hall the girl started coming again and I noticed that Lee had covered both our doors and now the wall separating them in the same scribbles I had spent an hour stripping off. The moan fought the song and did a good job in sending me crazy. After an hour I didn’t know whether to cry or knock one out so I grabbed my typer, dumped it into my backpack and headed to Bookfinders for some peace and quiet.

  9

  LEE WAS getting worse by the minute and the weed was rotting his brain like sugar on a child’s milk teeth. He sang morning, noon and night. The same God-forsaken Rasta protection hymn; he drew over everything you left sitting still for ten minutes, the same gobbly-gook constantly on every surface. Every door in the building was covered in the protective seal that would keep them at bay and the innocent residents of the Georgian building safe. He had even gotten some of his nonsense tattooed on his chest.

  “Come inside Doug, come inside you’ll be safe I’m able to protect you.”

  “I’m busted Lee, another time perhaps. You should get some sleep.”

  “There isn’t the luxury of sleep for me anymore.” he replied popping a handful of uppers.

  “Well, whatever you do be safe buddy ok?”

  He nodded, checked left and right and then slammed the door. I heard locks and bolts go; he had improved security on his pad since the last time I was inside.

  I got to work on cleaning down the doors working my way from the ground floor up. I damped the sponge and went to apply it to the door of the moaner when it swung open. She cocked her head over her left shoulder to see what had caused the sudden disturbance of air in her darkened den. An easel sat before her, brush in hand. I fucking knew it.

  “Hello.” she said.

  “I’m here to clean the insane ramblings from your front door.”

  “Don’t, I kind of like them.”

  “It’s my ass if they’re still here when Hegarty comes round for rent.”

  “Well we wouldn’t want Hegarty to do anything to your ass.”

  “That’s harder to live down than you’d think.”

  “You speaking from experience?”

  “I know a guy.”

  “Like that is it?”

  “So you’re a painter.” I said, getting to my feet and inviting myself in.

  My eyes went first to the bed, four-poster princess-like, I was surprised it was little more than a sweat-soaked pile of twisted rubble the amount of action it got.

  “What’s this then?”

  “It’s a work in progress.” she replied.

  “It got a name?” I asked looked at it, trying to figure out what it was meant to be.

  “That’s a secret.”

  I was intrigued “Secret huh, how so?”

  “You’ve never had a secret before have you?”

  “Not one worth keeping, I’m Doug.”

  “Cara,” she said before continuing “I don’t mean to sound…”

  “Gotcha, nice to meet you Cara.”

  “I mean it, I don’t mean to sound rude I’ve got to finish this while it’s in me to do so, but drop by some time we can have a drink, you do drink don’t you?”

  “I’ll bring a bottle.”

  I pulled the door shut and cleaned the rest of the building with ease but that night the coming started like clockwork and I didn’t know what to make of her. It also brought a full moon and Lee began blood letting on the fire escape and singing until his voice cracked and I thought his throat would bleed out.

  As the neighbourhood came alive in united hatred of my blonde friend I climbed out after him and dragged him back into his room. It took every last breath in me to wrestle the determined little sod back into his abode and ruined more clothes I couldn’t afford to replace. He stared at me frantically shaking his head and demanding to be released before the spell was broken. I poured him a glass of whiskey but he refused it point blank.

  “I won’t have it dull me, it’s too important tonight!”

  He talked in circles. I figured my head would boil or explode trying to get to the bottom of what he was chittering on about; he was a hard nut inside a hard nut inside a concrete shell but eventually I cracked him.

  “You don’t understand Doug,” he wept “I don’t want to be the person who knows all this. I never asked for any of this but I know it now so I’m marked for death and you’re in danger, and this entire building is in danger just for knowing me. I’m sorry Doug, I never meant to do any of this to you. Forgive me, you have to forgive me!”

  “There’s nothing to forgive Lee, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You don’t understand, you’re a target now. I have to protect you, there’s no choice anymore.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “From the Rastafarian’s!” he finally said shaking on the last word.

  “And what are they going to do?”

  His conviction had begun to make me feel worried though I was far from scribbling bollocks on everyone’s door. Lee was convinced the Rastafarian’s were out to get him because he had a list of all the homosexual Rastafarians in Northern Ireland.

  “You don’t understand Doug, their religion strictly forbids it. Nobody should have ever made that list and now I have it.” he tapped the side of his head.

  “And they’re going to kill you for it?”

  “No, they’ll torture me, if they kill me I’d be dead. No, they’ll most likely kill you. Oh Christ Doug I’m sorry buddy I never meant for any of this shit to happen to you.”

  Oh dear god fuck me, yeah!

  “Don’t worry about it mate, accidents happen.”

  That’s it, oh fuck yeah that’s it! Harder! Harder!

  “What’s that noise?”

  “That’s Cara, don’t worry about her she’ll keep the Rastas busier than both of us could.”

  Harder! Harder! Oh God that’s it!

  “Hey Lee, do you want to hear a joke?” I asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Ok, then can I use your phone for a minute?”

  I took his phone and stepped out into the hallway and dialed the number under Mum Mobile. She answered after a few rings, it wasn’t that late but I could tell I had woke her up.

  “Hi, no it’s not Lee, it’s his friend Doug.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Has Lee ever mentioned Rastafarians to you?”

  “Keep him there, I’m getting into the car now.” she said before hanging up.

  10

  THERE IS A TIME to stop reading, there is a time to stop trying to write. There is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of art out on its whore-ass, I read this and felt aggrieved that it was about me, yet relieved that I could stop trying and start to settle and it was ok because I had read it somewhere. I was working at Centra pretty solidly by this point, drinking slightly less and was doing quite well at putting away what the inter-city movers and shakers called a nest egg. Every day at lunch time I was confronted with a sea of like-minded souls who had sold their dreams out for the power of the green paper and had somehow managed to come to terms with it or at least
could fake happiness. Nobody grows up wanting to work in a call centre, be a cashier in a department store, stack shelves, be responsible for the discount stickers going on white goods. We are brought into the world on a wave of endless possibility like unopened toys or unread books on a shelf, collected for their exciting possibilities rather than their realities. We all want to be astronauts, or cowboys, or Disney princesses, or cops and then somewhere along the way we see the kid who dropped out barely able to read driving an Audi and realize that you get more when you settle. It’s a sick old bastard of a lesson to learn and it’s ultimately responsible for every raised voice, broken marriage and smacked down spouse there ever has been. Lee seemed to have it sussed; he was out to play the game, trading off a portion of his life towards a vocation in order to reach the gold ring and get what he wanted and look how life turned him out.

  Who’s next there please!

  Next customer please!

  Locked away in a loony bin being served up enough coated personality suppressors to erode him for a decade and if he makes it out the other side what chance does he stand? How much of his life will be about settling in order to not upset the apple cart. “Time to knock art out on her whole-ass” I told myself as I swiped across a pre-packed sandwich, a bottle or Coca-Cola and a Snickers before bagging them and handing them over to a greasy kid in his dad’s shirt with an acne battlefield on his puss.

  “Three-forty broheim.” I said.

  He’d hand me the exact change and slink off and I’d get it. I understood, he wasn’t any happier than the rest of them, he wasn’t any happier than me, than Lee, than my old man or Dani or Jason or Mum. He was just as beaten down and finger-fucked by life as the rest of us servants; he had just learned to hide it from himself. It struck me like a lightning bolt. I wasn’t going to let it beat me, it might not fucking work out but that didn’t mean I didn’t owe it the proper try. I had nothing or nobody depending on me, nothing that I needed to do or pay for, nothing stopping me from giving it a proper shot other than the fear that might come with the sudden stumble forward and the realization that the ground is about to leap up at you and knock your front fucking teeth in. I was fine with that; let it come and take its best god-damn shot. I’d stand before it blooded and bruised and proclaim Is that all you fucking got?

  The next morning I had another 4AM start, there are harder jobs in life but when you’ve had forty-five minutes sleep and are counting out newspapers in the infancy of the day with the store owner looking over your shoulder making sure you can mark up as far as thirty-two I’d defy you to show me one I’d hate more. Breakfast time came at 5:30AM when Joel took his break from the deli counter and knocked us both up a bacon, sausage and egg soda bread sandwich with brown sauce splashed across it. I’d sit by the back door between the extractor fan and the industrial bins and tell myself the job was for the greater good. It was affording me somewhere to live, food on my plate and a couple of pints of whiskey at the foot of my bed. True to form five minutes into break Morris would come looking us.

  “You nearly done Doug?”

  “Fuck Mo I’ve just sat down, thirty minutes…thirty of them. I’ve had maybe five!”

  “Right, well the morning rush is probably ten minutes out so I’ll see you back there.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “How’s the Sci-Fi novel coming along?”

  “Aces! Just fucking aces!” I said devouring half my sandwich. I could take the thirty minutes but the poker nosed fuck wouldn’t let me enjoy a minute of it so I’d eat fast, smoke immediately after swallowing and get back on the shop floor before he came conversation raping again.

  Quitting time for me was 2PM, which was the only good thing about the early shift with Morris. I’d walk out of town and catch my 2:30PM lecture before falling through the door of the huge creaking building just before 4PM where I’d nap for an hour or two before going about the rest of my evening. Since Lee had been sectioned the whole place had gone to shit. My social life wasn’t quite dead but it didn’t look too healthy; the ceiling in the hallway had all but fallen through on the top floor meaning everyone had to get dressed in extra layers of clothing for going to bed. A Moroccan couple moved into Lee’s old room after his mum had paid for the place to be cleaned up and I could hear them wish each other goodnight as though it could be their last before going to bed. The taps on my sink frost stiff but Cara screwed harder than ever.

  I came home one day to find Hegarty coming down the stairs looking pleased with himself, his tool belt dangling from his hip. He smiled his denture clad smile and patted me on the shoulder.

  “I took care of that hole in the ceiling for you.” he said, implying I had been slacking.

  “That’s more than a super.”

  “No, no you’re welcome.”

  I climbed the two extra flights to inspect his handy work. An industrial sized box of Pamper’s Diapers (like the box that would be delivered to a shop before they were packed out on to the shelf in their individual packaging) sat duct-taped in the hole. It rattled in the wind and made the kind of noise you’d get when you stuck a playing card in the spokes of your bike.

  “Cheap old bastard.” I touretted aloud to myself.

  “I was wondering what the noise was.” she said.

  I’d turn around and there was Cara, her messy wave of light brown hair wrangled together under a skull cap but otherwise in her regular uniform of tee and painted denim.

  “Can you believe that shit? Two hundred a month off how many of us and this is fixing the ceiling!”

  “His son’s worse, so pray the old guy stays in good health until you move out.” she said turning to walk away.

  “Hey!” I called out “How’s the painting coming along?”

  “It’s good, you’d know if you ever took a girl up on her invitation.”

  “You always seemed busy.” I replied diplomatically

  She seemed to weigh-up the response, selecting her sentence in parts.

  “Well…I’m not…not tonight anyhow. I got two steaks defrosting in the sink so if you promise to bring a bottle and actually turn up this time you can have one of them.”

  “Sure,” I bit “I’ll see you later then, say…”

  “Eight. Eight is the acceptable dining time, right?”

  “Eight it is. I’ll bring wine, you want me to pick any potatoes from the bathroom? We could have roasties too.”

  She laughed crinkling her nose. “Let me handle the main course.”

  Cara disappeared down the stairs and I waited until her door closed before I descended as I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good interaction with stair talk or an awkward moment by her door. I grabbed some money from the roll I kept inside a cleaned out Baked Bean can that sat at the back of my wardrobe and walked out on to the Malone Road and up to the off-license for a few bottles of red. Winter was coming and the street danced with leaf and litter alike in the brisk coastal air.

  I knocked twice on Cara’s door at 8:05PM not wanting to seem too eager, it swayed open but I waited for her to officially answer it. The room had been stripped of its crazy wallpaper and painted brilliant white. I wasn’t able to see it before with the curtains drawn but it was obvious that she had created a studio for herself to live in. The easel was pushed to the corner of the room and a soft leather briefcase sat under the sink.

  “You’re five minutes late.” she stated.

  “I was attempting to appear not too eager.” I replied, somewhat liberated by her frankness.

  “It’s certainly worked, come on in.”

  “I brought vino…the finest that Marcel’s Discount Wine-porium stocks.”

  “Glasses are up by the books there, crack one of them open and let it breathe,” she instructed “I’m just going down to check on dinner.”

  Cara disappeared from the room. I uncorked a bottle and sat it on the shelf below the mirror over the sink. When I had looked at the painting before I had been too close or she hadn’t been further
along, either way I couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be but from the back wall I could see a face. It looked like Cara but fragmented and multi-coloured like it was a patch job of her aura, I liked it. I looked around the room, she had as few things as I did and seemed to be fine with the trade off between art and commerce but then again she was of the class that Jack reckoned it should all be left to. She had a fold-out table which she had erected and propped against her wardrobe mirror meaning that when we sat down it looked like we were eating dinner with another deadbeat couple. She came back with two hands sizzling, sliding my plate on to the mat with ease before setting hers down and gracefully sliding into her chair which I just about managed to pull out for her.

  “Gentleman too.”

  “Oh my mama raised me right.” I said, taking my seat.

  I cut into my steak, it was still bloody, still beautiful, my mouth watered at the prospect of it and I fought against devouring it and hers.

  “So tell me about your friend.”

  “Which one?” I asked

  “The crazy one from next door, where’s he at?”

  “He’s a good guy really, shame what happened to him.”

  “What happened to him?” she asked biting into her steak.

  “Stopped taking his pills, went a little crazy. Got himself convinced a Rastafarian hit squad was coming for him.”

  “Why would a Rastafarian hit squad come for him? Is there even such a thing?”

  “Well the narrative goes that they’d come for him because he had a list of all the gay Rastas in Northern Ireland and apparently yes there is such a thing…dreadlocked ninjas I believe is their trademarked name.” I cut off a piece, stabbed it and one of my potatoes with the fork and shoveled them both into my mouth.

  “I don’t get it, why would Rasta Force care about a gay list?”