Section Thirty Eight
so now it's coming to a head and it's still working the magic's holding out i've tracked her i've pulled her into my web my little santa's elf has carried out my orders and dragged her into me she'll never get to him so what i know her sort she hasn't got a hope yeah i know her sort i seen em picked em up and screwed em brave little souls heading all alone for pastures new to flaunt their brave little independence my sweet little brave little victim suck her in and blow her out again just like lava from vesuvius so what open season ransack time i need her tonight so what i'll have her i'll have her back here showing herself to me i'll take her fuck her fuck her what's she to me screw her screw her throw her into the street let her squeal let her whimper if she moans fuck her what's she to me nothing she's just a little whore who's the king here i am i'm the lord of the manor i'm the monarch of all i survey who's going to stop me nobody not her do-gooding nobody little friend let him float out across the bay with his kneecaps lapping behind him so what screw them these do-good self-righteous hypocrites screw em all throw em in the back street put em in the front line they know nothing one quick gesture one small stroke of the face finger him to the bad boys send him down the sewer at midnight see him shafted up on the beach at dawn she hasn't got a chance
She closed the bible gently, with a slight snap. A moth, disturbed by the noise, shuddered by. She crept over to the corner by the bookshelf, still holding the bible, and picked up the book of testimonies. She dusted the ant-powder off it, flattening its bent edges.
She opened the door of the minibar and checked out its contents. It was empty: mockingly empty.
The wind-chimes, silent now, cast their elongated shadows across the beams, breaking and healing, breaking and healing.
She crept to the bedside, dressed, put on her watch. Retrieved her shoes and bag. Her shoes still pinched her. She placed the bible next to his head on the pillow. She put her hands around his neck, her thumbs nestling into the hollow at the base of his throat. She squeezed gently. He gurgled in his sleep. She released. -No, you little scumbag. -You'd probably wake up, and I'd come off second best. -I need help to sort you out. -But I shall return. -And I'll fix you. -I will have your balls!
She moved to the doorway. She remembered the creak before. She ducked her head to avoid the lintel. She closed the door gently, with a slight click, and stepped up into the street.
"You're on your own, now. Your back is unburdened."
She stood still and breathed the sour-taste morning. Even at this early hour, the scooters still buzzed and the fumes still hung heavy, suffusing her like hail in the mountains. Single elements of car-noise escaped and fingered into her ears. Steam rose from gratings. Three-wheeled trucks gurgled and hummed past her.
-What am I going to do now? -What's he done to me? -What's inside me? -Why did I let it happen? -Why the hell did I go off the pill? -No chance of getting anything like a morning-after pill around here.
The incessant noise seeped into her and strung her out. She felt awful. Her fanny smelt. She felt as if the bags under her eyes were tripping her up. Her head boinged and banged, stiff-necked in the breeze like a daisy on a lawn.
She had no idea where she was going.
She heard a familiar squawk. Raced around the corner. Saw him again. The big hat bobbed. The black cloak rippled. The cock crowed. Chained to its pole in dementia, it skittered about on its no-width territory, pecking at scabs of sawdust of its own making.
She set off in pursuit.
No matter how fast she ran, he always stayed ahead, sauntering behind and re-appearing from blocks of stone, like an old actor entering from the wings, his cloak billowing in curlicues.
She gasped and panted and tried to keep up. She floundered. Perspective miniaturised him to invisibility. She lost him.
-Now what?
A peel-paint bar beckoned. She pushed on the displaced door.
A creak in from the outside.
Inside, an owner polishing cups. Hairy arms. Greying moustache. "Desìdera?"
"Un cappuccino. Ed un cornetto. Ed un po' d' acqua."
"Acqua minerale?" Indicating a bottle.
"No, acqua di rubinetto va bene." -Yeah, tap-water. -Sod the hygiene. She felt like ordering a brandy, but thought better of it. There was no-one else there but men, lounging at the bar.
"Certo." He polished the cups with a tea-towel attached to his waist. He emptied and filled the various limb-like attachments of the coffee machine, banging all the while, his head rivalling the gleaming chrome in shininess.
She sat on a stool at the bar counter and waited until her drink was ready. The steam wafted and hissed. The café owner poured the frothing milk into her cup with his hairy hands and handed it over with the pastry and glass of water.
She paid, then took her acquisitions over to a table, away from the interrogating eyes. Her hands shook, but she managed not to spill anything.
She sat down and took out the little book. Turned it over in her hands. They were still shaking. The book fell open naturally at the Testimony. Her eyes followed it down. There was another section at the bottom of the page. She quickly gave up on the Italian. Her eyes focused on the right hand side of the text, at the neatly-typed translation.
My Threat
Everyone forgets me and my kind
You will forget us too
We will fade as easy as the sun goes down
We will fade like paint on a basso door
We will fade like pimps fade into doorways
We shall not live to old age to see old age
(Old age greets us in our teens)
But when you have gone
Fled from this desert and deserted us
We shall remember you.
She held on to the book and let her arm drop. She felt cold. She looked around paranoiacally. She was a bundle of goose-pimples. They had reached out like hives across her skin, even tickling into her ears. She started to flick through the rest of the book. She glanced at the men anchored at the bar. Their eyes had not left her.
She stopped at a page. Interspersed between the various testimonies, there was a patch of dialogue, obviously an interview.
"I'm here with Walter J. Freedman, though he prefers to be called Jim. Jim's a U.S. citizen whom I met around the area of Kings Cross in London. Jim was doing some work to help the poor and dispossessed around that area - the homeless, the prostitutes - and we've met again in Naples - and we intend to something similar here."
"Something similar, yes, John, but I feel I should emphasise that it's all done in an unofficial capacity. I'm not part of any organisation."
"You regard yourself as a bit of a lone wolf, then."
"Yes, you could say that. In fact, you could say I'm a bit of a bum, really - turning up here, turning up there. There's a phrase they use around here: 'Arrangiarsi'. It means 'getting-by'. I seem to have been 'getting-by' all my life."
"So you feel a certain amount of empathy with the people here."
"Yes, my pulse beats the same way as this city 'cos it goes about its daily chores the way I do; you get up with nothing to eat and no money, so you have to do something about it. But whatever I do, wherever I am, I like to do something to help."
"How, precisely?"
"Well, John, there are lots of things you can do without resources and a massive infrastructure to back you up."
"Like?"
"Like helping the kids with educational programs - teaching them the pitfalls to avoid."
"Like drugs?"
"Like drugs, certainly, and steering clear of petty crime and getting a proper education to stay away from bad company in the first place."
"And how do you do this, Jim, on your own?"
"Well, you're not on your own for long, John. It's surprising in this sort of underground environment just how many like-minded spirits there are. As you found out at King's Cross. There are people who care, and they often form themselves into collectives, quite outside official social-work channels, just to try to do some good. A lot of these people have known what it's like to endure these conditions, have probably been within a whisker of getting in trouble themselves, and they just want to put something back into the lives of other people to make sure they can be rescued themselves."
"And is it dangerous, this sort of life, operating outside official channels, dealing with the victims of drug-dealers?"
"It certainly can be, John, and it's not just the physical danger. There are a number of instances of - let's call them welfare workers - getting sucked into organised crime themselves. The trick is to stay one step at least ahead of the game."
"Thank, you. Jim. I'll talk to you again later."
"My pleasure, John."
She closed the bible gently, with a slight snap. A moth, disturbed by the noise, shuddered by. She crept over to the corner by the bookshelf, still holding the bible, and picked up the book of testimonies. She dusted the ant-powder off it, flattening its bent edges.
She opened the door of the minibar and checked out its contents. It was empty: mockingly empty.
The wind-chimes, silent now, cast their elongated shadows across the beams, breaking and healing, breaking and healing.
She crept to the bedside, dressed, put on her watch. Retrieved her shoes and bag. Her shoes still pinched her. She placed the bible next to his head on the pillow. She put her hands around his neck, her thumbs nestling into the hollow at the base of his throat. She squeezed gently. He gurgled in his sleep. She released. -No, you little scumbag. -You'd probably wake up, and I'd come off second best. -I need help to sort you out. -But I shall return. -And I'll fix you. -I will have your balls!
She moved to the doorway. She remembered the creak before. She ducked her head to avoid the lintel. She closed the door gently, with a slight click, and stepped up into the street.
"You're on your own, now. Your back is unburdened."
She stood still and breathed the sour-taste morning. Even at this early hour, the scooters still buzzed and the fumes still hung heavy, suffusing her like hail in the mountains. Single elements of car-noise escaped and fingered into her ears. Steam rose from gratings. Three-wheeled trucks gurgled and hummed past her.
-What am I going to do now? -What's he done to me? -What's inside me? -Why did I let it happen? -Why the hell did I go off the pill? -No chance of getting anything like a morning-after pill around here.
The incessant noise seeped into her and strung her out. She felt awful. Her fanny smelt. She felt as if the bags under her eyes were tripping her up. Her head boinged and banged, stiff-necked in the breeze like a daisy on a lawn.
She had no idea where she was going.
She heard a familiar squawk. Raced around the corner. Saw him again. The big hat bobbed. The black cloak rippled. The cock crowed. Chained to its pole in dementia, it skittered about on its no-width territory, pecking at scabs of sawdust of its own making.
She set off in pursuit.
No matter how fast she ran, he always stayed ahead, sauntering behind and re-appearing from blocks of stone, like an old actor entering from the wings, his cloak billowing in curlicues.
She gasped and panted and tried to keep up. She floundered. Perspective miniaturised him to invisibility. She lost him.
-Now what?
A peel-paint bar beckoned. She pushed on the displaced door.
A creak in from the outside.
Inside, an owner polishing cups. Hairy arms. Greying moustache. "Desìdera?"
"Un cappuccino. Ed un cornetto. Ed un po' d' acqua."
"Acqua minerale?" Indicating a bottle.
"No, acqua di rubinetto va bene." -Yeah, tap-water. -Sod the hygiene. She felt like ordering a brandy, but thought better of it. There was no-one else there but men, lounging at the bar.
"Certo." He polished the cups with a tea-towel attached to his waist. He emptied and filled the various limb-like attachments of the coffee machine, banging all the while, his head rivalling the gleaming chrome in shininess.
She sat on a stool at the bar counter and waited until her drink was ready. The steam wafted and hissed. The café owner poured the frothing milk into her cup with his hairy hands and handed it over with the pastry and glass of water.
She paid, then took her acquisitions over to a table, away from the interrogating eyes. Her hands shook, but she managed not to spill anything.
She sat down and took out the little book. Turned it over in her hands. They were still shaking. The book fell open naturally at the Testimony. Her eyes followed it down. There was another section at the bottom of the page. She quickly gave up on the Italian. Her eyes focused on the right hand side of the text, at the neatly-typed translation.
My Threat
Everyone forgets me and my kind
You will forget us too
We will fade as easy as the sun goes down
We will fade like paint on a basso door
We will fade like pimps fade into doorways
We shall not live to old age to see old age
(Old age greets us in our teens)
But when you have gone
Fled from this desert and deserted us
We shall remember you.
She held on to the book and let her arm drop. She felt cold. She looked around paranoiacally. She was a bundle of goose-pimples. They had reached out like hives across her skin, even tickling into her ears. She started to flick through the rest of the book. She glanced at the men anchored at the bar. Their eyes had not left her.
She stopped at a page. Interspersed between the various testimonies, there was a patch of dialogue, obviously an interview.
"I'm here with Walter J. Freedman, though he prefers to be called Jim. Jim's a U.S. citizen whom I met around the area of Kings Cross in London. Jim was doing some work to help the poor and dispossessed around that area - the homeless, the prostitutes - and we've met again in Naples - and we intend to something similar here."
"Something similar, yes, John, but I feel I should emphasise that it's all done in an unofficial capacity. I'm not part of any organisation."
"You regard yourself as a bit of a lone wolf, then."
"Yes, you could say that. In fact, you could say I'm a bit of a bum, really - turning up here, turning up there. There's a phrase they use around here: 'Arrangiarsi'. It means 'getting-by'. I seem to have been 'getting-by' all my life."
"So you feel a certain amount of empathy with the people here."
"Yes, my pulse beats the same way as this city 'cos it goes about its daily chores the way I do; you get up with nothing to eat and no money, so you have to do something about it. But whatever I do, wherever I am, I like to do something to help."
"How, precisely?"
"Well, John, there are lots of things you can do without resources and a massive infrastructure to back you up."
"Like?"
"Like helping the kids with educational programs - teaching them the pitfalls to avoid."
"Like drugs?"
"Like drugs, certainly, and steering clear of petty crime and getting a proper education to stay away from bad company in the first place."
"And how do you do this, Jim, on your own?"
"Well, you're not on your own for long, John. It's surprising in this sort of underground environment just how many like-minded spirits there are. As you found out at King's Cross. There are people who care, and they often form themselves into collectives, quite outside official social-work channels, just to try to do some good. A lot of these people have known what it's like to endure these conditions, have probably been within a whisker of getting in trouble themselves, and they just want to put something back into the lives of other people to make sure they can be rescued themselves."
"And is it dangerous, this sort of life, operating outside official channels, dealing with the victims of drug-dealers?"
"It certainly can be, John, and it's not just the physical danger. There are a number of instances of - let's call them welfare workers - getting sucked into organised crime themselves. The trick is to stay one step at least ahead of the game."
"Thank, you. Jim. I'll talk to you again later."
"My pleasure, John."
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
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