Section Twenty Eight

There was no more. She stopped the tape. Her skin was cold; filled with pins and needles.
She took a deep breath. Removed the cassette. It felt warm and slightly softened. She let it drop into her bag. She reached into her pocket. Put one of the St. Matthew Passion tapes into the machine. Stood up. Walked off accompanied by a choir quietly singing to an Old German chorale tune.
She scraped her feet down the steps, and set off down the now-strangely-quiet street. She delved deep into the German words, and as she walked, she heard half-remembered scraps of English float up:
...be near me when dying
...do not leave me
...set me free
...release me from my anguish
The volume of the chorus shrank from piano to pianissimo and the harsh semi-spoken voice of the evangelist broke in, telling of temples rent in twain, of earthquakes, of rocks broken. She closed her eyes and saw the bodies of saints escaping from their graves.
As she passed by, everyone in the street seemed to have their lips stuck together.
The single sound of an engine separated out from the unreal silence: it whined gently closer - a thin hum like a hornet vibrated the sponge-rubber of the headphones.
She paused the machine.
A scooter skidded by...
...her sleeve flapped again...
-mind where you're going, moron!
...the brakes screeched and he turned the handlebars away as if to say sorry, revved up...
...a second head of hair...
...an olive arm reaching out...
...a sharp tug snatch on her head her shoulder her neck wire round neck abrade abrade abrade try to pull her down...
...the headphones torn from her ears...
...her shoulder tugged around...tugged to a dislocated space on the street...drag-pulled around her knees pumping smacking her eye...her nose bloodied...treading on her own toes...
But she held on and kept on her feet. -No, you little bastard, no, you little shit, you won't have it. -You won't take it. -It's mine.
...her ears singing again...
The driver tried to accelerate; the youth tried to wriggle clear. The strap was tied to her rucksack strap and it was all wound together and wrapped around her arm and wrapped around his arm and she was pulling him from the scooter and he was pulling her along the ground and they were intertwined they were interlocked they were interwoven tug-of-war combatants in a street of cribs.
She was pulled off her feet. She tugged yanked heaved. He reared up, brought up short like a guard-dog at the end of its tether. He fell sprawled to the ground. Winded.
The driver fled, the footstand of the scooter wobbling loose and scouring an inch of dirt from the ground.
She got to her feet. She dragged him vengefully along the ground. He was a twist of arm-muscle and strap. She swung a kick at his teeth. This time the Catholic shoes and the proddy-dog feet stayed together.
He rolled away, tightening the tension on the strap. He got to his feet. Drew a knife.
Their eyes collided, two feet away. He did not blink. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.
They out-faced each other, duellists wrapped arm-to-arm. But one of them unarmed. He smelt of sweat and fear and cheap cologne. She could feel his leg against hers. Her skin tingled hot and cold. Her eyes started to water. -Not now, you silly cow, not now!
A commotion started on the street. People started to arrive. He stared her full in the face. Smiled a blood-stained smile. Flicked the knife in one lazy arc past her throat. Cut the strap.
He sprinted away to his waiting accomplice, the twist of strap falling from his arm, and they were off, leaving her with her possessions, broken but entire.
People started to throng around her, clamouring and gesticulating. She waved them back then stooped, picked up the discarded piece of strap, and limped away, over his head-wound bloodstains and down an alleyway.

"life is an unforgiving beast just like me"

...down an alleyway...
...sounds washing around...voices jagging in and out out each other...no connection...no narrative...a random juxtaposition...voices swathing in and out of each other...a rattling catalogue of baritone, counter-tenor, mezzo- and not so mezzo-soprano re-enacting a historical series of scenes that had been re-enacted an almost infinite number of times, a re-enacting irrespective of sex, age and vocal prowess.
Blocks of people flowed around her.
She felt pressure Pressure PRESSURE on the back of her head.
The sun flashed and clicked and it all went mauve. The people gorged and merged until she was walking between spiked-out streams of human lava, spun into radioactive reversal, glowing in pinks and lilacs.
She edged past misted faces and stopped in front of some gates - the wrought-iron focusing back into black, yellow penumbras flashing from each spar...debris on the roadside...a rat curled up peaceful...a blackened banana skin...the two like a discarded conjuring trick...dead rat...banana-skin...banana-skin...dead rat - like the rat had shed its skin before dying.
A yellow notice, warning - what? Fading out and out of focus, out and out of focus.
An echoey trail across a courtyard - face of a priest - the priest glancing at her then a glance to the offertory box - a hand outstretched to the offertory box - gnarled, a conductor's hands - her smooth hand on coins - cold coins - no good - too little - crumpled banknote - here it is - please let me pass - a grim smile - a black-eyed twinkle - pass by through an interplay of light, a shuffle of dark and shade, then outside to the cloisters.
Santa Chiara.
Peace.
Majolica tiles. Sweet, non-echoing outdoor spaces.
The traffic noise finally muted.
Frescoes.
Chiding notices fading into focus and staying clear, bidding respect of silence - no picnicking.
No graffiti.
The tile a bit battered: chipped? Worn?
The stone bench cool to the touch as she sat down.
She took a deep breath; checked her bloody nose. Turned around.
The frescoes faded and reappeared.
Chickens in runs: like an urban farm.
Youths parking out on the benches.
A sudden downpour of non-rain-water on a corrugated iron roof.
A black cat brushed against her leg. Was it the same one? She tried to get settled down, let the adrenaline cocktail unstir itself.
Looked around - wildly, illogically - to see if she'd been pursued.
No. Clean calm quiet. -Are you real?

...the youths on the scooter erupted from within the pillar, plaster and tiles silently shattering and showering, and silently screeched towards her blistered right over and through her and trailed into silent invisibility...

huhh
huhh
huhh
huhh

Deep strong breaths.
Taken in through the mouth.

She closed her eyes. scrunched them up tight and opened them again. All gone. All quiet. All peace. All calm. She put a finger in the trailing ivy, twirled it around and around. Instinctively, she reached for her bag. Still there. -Oh, Mother, what am I getting into here? -Why did I come? -Why did I allow myself to be duped into this? -Why did I dupe myself into this?
-YOU NEED YOUR HEAD EXAMINING!
-I do now.
Sweet scent from the wisteria affronted her nostrils. She still felt woozy. She reached into her bag. Found a sewing kit. Found the cassette. Saw it was almost at an end. Put it in the machine. She started to mend her strap as she listened.

"Do you feel better now?"
"A little."
"I suppose you are wondering how we found you."
"It isn't hard, I guess."
"I suppose you are wondering why we want you."
"I thought you didn't want me. I thought you wanted me out of here."
"We did. But you did not go, did you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't know what I had done."
"You did not need to be told what you had done. You were told that you had done it."
"Yes, but I didn't understand why, so I didn't go."
"You did not need to understand. You will never understand. You are too young and too foreign. You will always be too young and too foreign, even if you stay here a hundred years. Which you will not."
"No. That would be remarkable, especially in a city not exactly noted for the longevity of its citizens."
"Do not jest with me, Mr. Morris. You are a very lucky man who does not realise his good fortune. You are to be given a second chance."
"To do what?"
"To redeem yourself. You have been remarkably foolish. You could have been picked off or picked up at any time. You have been living quite a hand-to-mouth existence. You have a unique - shall we say, addiction? - so you are vulnerable."
"Charming of you to put it in those terms."
"Let me put it in stronger terms. You were forbidden to stay. Now you are forbidden to go. We have work for you."

PAUSE. Silence. She heard the wheels grind round.

"And what's in it for me?"
"Oh, board and lodging. Water. Food. Insulin. Lots of clean, bright, shiny needles. The necessities of life."
"You certainly are a scummy, manipulative torrent of bilge-water, Signore. But you are no different to any of your sort. I've met them all the way from Calcutta to Kings Cross and you don't change. You could all be cloned."
"I could, of course, get my friend here to slap you around your face a little. Believe it or not, he genuinely does not enjoy the process. But he is dedicated to the cause. And he does what is necessary."
"In my chosen field, we recognise and applaud that degree of dedication."
"Good, then we all speak the same language. At last. And as posterity will apparently testify. Is that a recorder in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see us? Think about it, Mr. Morris. But not for long. Message ends."

There was a click. The message had ended.
She had pricked her finger. The repair to the strap was complete, but specked with her blood. The tape hissed nothingness. -End of the line. -No more messages for you. She took out the sealed envelope and turned it over but didn't open it.
She screwed her eyes up tight. Opened them. Saw the motes flying again: rococo swirls of menace. -Oh, God, is there no end to these horrors?
Her head was clear; there was no more hissing in her ears. -OK. -OK. -Time's up. -Time to go. She stood up. Her knee was hurting.

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