The Unblemished, page 16
A few seconds after he sent the message, his inbox indicated a new arrival.
From: chewingman@yahoo.co.uk
To: saycheese@mac.com
Sent: Friday, November 28, 2008 12:07
Subject: Re: Re: progress
dnt mtr wh i am. jst knw this. we wl bry u in pces if u dnt flfl yr role in our rsrectn. lt th mp thru. lt yr veins b r roads. lt yr skn b th rf ovr r hds. lt ths hapn. b th mp or die
Bo slid back sharply on his chair, creating a shriek on the linoleum floor that brought hisses and shouts of rebuke from his fellow browsers.
This isn’t a fucking library, he wanted to yell at them, but he was too afraid of how hysterical his voice might sound. That first sentence
dnt mtr wh i am.
It was not so obvious, once you read it a couple of times, that the wh meant who. It appalled Bo to be thinking more that perhaps it meant what. And rsrectn. What did that mean? He knew it was the skeletonised remains of resurrection – he had taken his NCTJ course in Teeline shorthand and, though he never used it any more, he remembered the basic idea of reducing any word mostly to its consonants – but whose resurrection? How could he have a hand in it if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do?
Almost immediately, he felt a strong, molten pain run through the centre of his head. He closed his eyes and put out a hand to steady himself. His hand slid over the surface of the table, skidding off the edge, almost spilling him from his chair as his fulcrum was suddenly, severely shifted. A woman’s voice said: Oh Jesus. Oh my God.
He snapped his eyes open and saw a long bloody smear running half the length of his desk. The woman was sitting next to him, leaning away, her face white. A man had shot out of his seat and was screaming for the management, pointing a wavering forefinger at Bo and his mess, his face etched with naked aggression suggesting that bleeding wounds, along with chewing gum and dogs, ought to be left out on the street.
Bo tried to say something, to explain it away as an accident with scissors, but by then pandemonium was close to breaking out, and his attention was being drawn away by the strange thing he had seen when he closed his eyes.
A woman was shouting don’t touch him, don’t touch him, you don’t know what he’s got. Two men came out of an office at the back of the cyber café, and Bo decided it was time to make himself scarce.
He had the sense to quickly sign out of his Internet account, and then he marched straight out of the café, his damaged left hand tucked into his right armpit.
The traffic on Victoria Street was a slap to the face. It roused him more effectively than any number of the coffees he’d been downing. The strange grid that had overlaid the iridescent mud of his interior vision flashed back, as if it had been trapped there, like a neon sign that remains for some time after it has disappeared from view. It resembled some poorly rendered street map, all uneven lines, grunge patterns, something created by a child with a crayon. He closed his eyes again to improve its definition, and pondered the section that was – he struggled for a word to describe it – bruised. It was less bright that the other sections, and some of its lines were incomplete.
Bo heard a car horn and swung his head towards the sound, his eyes still closed. The grid turned on an invisible axis. Sudden excitement leaped inside him. It was a map. And now he saw how to decipher its codes. The leading edge, that part at the bottom of his vision, was where he was standing. All that was missing was a large red arrow and the words YOU ARE HERE.
The spoilt part of the map was away to the right, high up. If he opened his eyes while looking at it, he would resemble somebody trying to recall an important fact, or delving for an answer to a tricky question. All he had to do to reach that section was keep his own position locked to the base and follow the lines that angled their way to it. The novelty of the task almost inured him to its bizarreness, its inherent threat. Part of him again wondered, almost disconnectedly, if this was some symptom of cancer, a tumour inoperably deep within his brain.
Before he knew it, he had carved a route deep into Pimlico, following a vaguely southeast direction. He bypassed many people and tried to keep his mind on the task so that the brilliant, fiery suggestion of their organs, embedded in the darker flesh of bodies being exposed to him, would be quelled. He tried to ignore the pangs in his belly when these little knots of tissue were made known. He swallowed the saliva that suddenly seemed too copious for his mouth. The way his teeth felt larger than normal, clenching together as if of their own accord they had developed a need to bite something, was a factor he ought not to dwell upon, for now.
Other people were unreadable, to him, as if their clothes were made from lead to defeat his X-ray capabilities. All of these, without exception, assessed him with a passion he noticed peripherally. As on the tube train, whenever he returned their gaze, their focus was elsewhere. The heat in their eyes remained disguised; he was no clearer as to whether it was born of hostility or admiration. At least in daylight, he felt able to withstand that concentration of curiosity. At night-time, the fear of it was crippling.
He turned and strode, strode and turned, moving through streets and alleyways as if on the end of a cable that was being wound in. The grid behind his eyelids shifted liquidly as he changed direction, as though on a gyroscope. That strange, bruised area drew nearer.
He faltered when he began to consider what that decayed chunk of the map might represent. It occurred to him that it might be a trap or, less grand but no less worrying, a wild goose chase, and that the object of his search would be nothing he could relate to this violated, organic reference point. He had to go on in order to prove his sanity was intact.
He opened his eyes and saw someone staring straight at him, unashamed, unaffected by the niceties the other Bo-watchers were affording him. This man locked eyes with his own in an unspoken challenge. Here it is, Bo thought, here’s where things come to a head. But the man remained still, eyeing Bo as if waiting for him to make the first move. He was Bo’s height, with longish hair, straggly and unwashed, plastered against his scalp like something painted on. His clothes were besmirched, hanging off his frame. When Bo opened his mouth to ask what the fuck the other guy’s problem was, the other guy opened his mouth too.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Bo said, and the guy mouthed the same words. He stepped back and realised he was standing before his reflected image in a shop window. He couldn’t get over the bug-out weirdness of his eyeballs. It was as if they were on the verge of prolapse.
It’s because my vision is deteriorating … it’s because I’m becoming like them …
He broke into a trot, forcing himself to close his Mussolini eyes, his Rasputin eyes, and read the map, get back to what it was he needed to do. A sinuous voice rose up, like something trapped for too long in stagnant water: What will it mean to be like them?
Nothing good. Nothing good.
His feet were hurting. He was mildly astonished that he had not yet bumped into another pedestrian, or a lamp post, or walked out in front of traffic, even though he was spending more than half the time with his eyes shut. The corroded part of the grid suddenly meshed with the point at which he was standing. He opened his eyes.
Battersea Dogs’ Home.
Okay.
He had been expecting something more … dynamic, more apocalyptic. What, exactly, he didn’t know, but a look to his left, where the iconic, disused power station stood, like a giant table that has been upended, gave him some measure.
He waited at the entrance, listening to the yelps and whines of the inhabitants, wondering when exactly the treasure he had been tracking would yield itself. Nervously, he licked his lips. A defining moment lay ahead, he felt. Something that would seal his involvement with the London that was dissolving around him. Either that, or abject disappointment, a return to square one.
There was nobody sitting in the reception area behind the entrance, and no signs of human life deeper into the building, as he passed through doors marked STAFF ONLY. The smell of dog food, dog shit, and dog was everywhere. He turned a corner and found a corridor that looked to have been partially painted with blood, before its decorator got bored, or distracted, or the thing that was providing the colour ran out of product.
More streaks meandered across the floor further along, leading to a pair of swing doors. Bo marched grimly up to them and forced them open, trying to avoid the soft impact marks where whatever it was had been unceremoniously dragged through into the next room. What greeted him seemed suddenly so commonplace as to confuse him regarding its nature. It was like walking in on a bunch of staff performing stock-taking duties; it was a scene so pathetic, so repellent, that it inspired only pity in him, rather than shock or fright.
The middle-aged man on the floor was naked from the chest up, his body spattered and slathered with blood from the six or seven dog corpses lying around him. All of their bellies had been rent apart, their ribcages gleaming jaggedly. The man was still plucking at fragments of meat poking from the torn hides, jabbing them absently between his teeth while he gazed at the far wall, in the same way a compulsive eater will burrow into a bag of chocolates or chipsticks. Bo watched the man occasionally dabble his fingers into the wounds he had created, or press a faded eyeball, his expression frozen into childish wonder at death’s accommodating nature; no indignity was too great. Even when he realised Bo was in the room with him, his lassitude was too pronounced to impinge on his meal. He looked like a glutton who had reached bursting point.
Bo squatted next to him and tried to understand what it was he had to do.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
The other man blinked at him, docilely, bovinely, and said: ‘Shand. I think.’
‘Shand. What are you doing?’
Shand surveyed the carnage around him as if it were the aftermath of a child’s session with a stack of building blocks.
‘I was hungry,’ he said. ‘I wanted to eat, but I wasn’t … I’m not strong enough to take what I’m really hungry for.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s been so long. I forgot how. I’m weak. We’re all weak. We’re all grubbing. Surviving. Sleeping … it’s made us so weak.’
Bo spread his hands. The dog nearest to him, a German Shepherd puppy that had been scooped clean as though ready for the taxidermist’s magic, moved its leg suddenly, violently, and was still. Bo tried not to flinch, was in fact trying supremely not to flee the corridor, screaming, begging for help.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked. ‘Where are all the staff?’
Shand seemed unable to comprehend.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ Bo asked.
Shand blinked at him, suddenly resembling a lost little boy. His skin, those parts of it that weren’t painted with canine blood, was almost lambently clean and tight, free of wrinkles. His eyes were clear, no hint of shadows or blood. When Shand talked, the glint of brilliant, even teeth drew Bo’s attention to his mouth. There was something else about him that gave Bo the creeps, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
‘What are you supposed to do?’ Shand asked. ‘What are WE supposed to do? You tell us. YOU TELL US!’
Bo tried to step back from the sudden tirade, flashing his hands up to ward off the flecks of dog and saliva being scattered his way. He skidded on blood, or piss, or faeces, and went down hard on his backside. He scuttled back, alarmed by Shand’s electrifying change of mood, abruptly afraid that his hunger might not yet be sated and he’d take a swipe for the soft parts of his own body.
‘I don’t know,’ Bo said, finally. ‘I’ve not been … taught how to.’ As he said the words, Shand seemed to withdraw all his spikes. He studied Bo’s face as if it had suddenly changed into something new, something that commanded attention and respect. He wiped away the blood bracketing his lips, and pushed away the remains of all the lost puppies who had found a warm home in his gut. He stood up, his cheap slip-on shoes struggling to gain purchase in the slick of mongrel effluvia. He nodded, though Bo was no longer saying anything. He regarded his right hand, which he clenched and relaxed a few times, as if surprised by the dexterity he could see there. And then he left, quickly, facing Bo as he backed towards the doors, bowing slightly, his eyes reverentially averted.
Bo left soon after, eager not to be discovered standing in the middle of a pack of obliterated animals, but could not see where the man had gone. A flurry of movement up ahead suggested that someone was hurrying away on the overland rail tracks, but Bo was not up for a pursuit. He didn’t know what he might say if he caught up with Shand. He decided that he didn’t want to know where he was going, especially if he was still hungry.
As the sun touched the rooftops, darkening to the colour of melted butter, Bo made his way back to his bolthole on foot – too wary to take any form of public transport that might have somebody else’s face inches away from his – and locked himself away with the forgotten paperbacks, reading until he was distracted enough to be able to fall asleep. He had heard of books saving lives before, but never in such fraught circumstances.
In the shimmering seconds before actual sleep received him, he heard noises on the street that suggested the onset of a dream, or a nightmare. Awful, carnal, carnivorous sounds. Death in full cry. Terror’s song. Out of those black notes, another map composed itself, red and unruly, just behind his eyelids. His body clenched involuntarily as it struck him that somehow he was playing a part, a crucial part, in that discordant opus.
17. SPECIAL DENTISTRY
DR EDWARD HOUGHTON had watched a new brass plaque being fixed to the wall that afternoon, in a rare break between patients. He still referred to them as patients, though he knew other private dentists who described them as customers or even cash cows. His relationship with many of his patients had been eroded by their suspicion – unfounded, though perfectly understandable – that he was pulling them in for treatment they didn’t need, or providing fillings that contained a built-in obsolescence, to ensure they would return. Still, he was busy and doing well.
Now the small waiting room was empty and Lorraine, his assistant, had gone home. Houghton had spent the last hour disposing of sharps, cleaning his equipment and updating files on his work computer. He was looking forward to getting upstairs to a glass of Talisker malt, a lamb curry, and an hour or two of Grand Theft Auto before logging on to the discussion boards at the BDA website. The game was a guilty pleasure of his, a habit he had developed after stillborn experiences of trying to initiate some sort of relationship with members of the opposite sex. He accepted that he was not the most attractive man in the world, that his hangdog expression, his boxer’s nose, and his small piggy eyes had had their last chance of landing a mate. A balding head, expanding waistline, and wrinkles were only going to work against him. Good teeth were no aphrodisiac on their own.
He had been favoured with a few pitying stares whenever he brought up his interest in the game with Lorraine or the patients he liked enough to have a chat with before or after their check-ups. One man of around forty had barely been able to suppress a snort of derision before suggesting he read a book. And yet this very same man had met his fiancée on the Internet at a chat site. If there were levels of sadness with regard to computer activity, surely he merited a rosette, too.
Houghton didn’t care. He liked the game, liked how involved he could get. He could roam the streets freely, off mission, play little sub-plot games, drive around, go to the gym, buy a new wardrobe, beat someone to a pulp, be involved in thrilling police car chases, shoot the Christ out of things. It was enormous fun.
Frantic knocking at the door gave him pause as he was about to climb up to the living quarters above his surgery. He went to the window and looked out into the street. Lauderdale Road was busy with cars, as was the case every evening at around 6 p.m. London’s rush hour was more like a rush three hours. He couldn’t see quite enough of the entrance to reveal who was standing there, clouting the door again and again, but the security light cast at least three shadows across the gravel driveway.
He hurried to the door and placed his ear against it. Worry was unfolding itself like the slow spiny leaves of a carnivorous plant. He couldn’t understand his discomfort. He often received unheralded visitors after work, it was a source of pride to him that his was a house where friends felt they could drop in whenever they wanted, rather than have to make extensive arrangements, as most Londoners seemed to do. But something about the anger in these knocks – urgent without any vocal accompaniment – seemed utterly wrong to him.
Another barrage. He steeled himself and called through the letterbox: ‘What is it? Can’t you see the surgery is closed now?’
‘An emergency.’ A man’s voice, young, hurried but smooth. Someone putting it on. But even as he thought this, he saw a long, looping rope of bloody saliva drop down into sight.
‘Please help.’ Spoken as if recited from a script.
‘All right,’ he said, and unlocked the door, pulling it open as far as the security chain allowed. Three men, large men, dressed extravagantly, all with hair dyed fiery red, shorn almost to the skin, crowded his doorstep as if desperate to prove they could all fit within its frame. They wore sunglasses with coloured lenses. Silk handkerchiefs frothed from top pockets. He thought they were clowns at first, and then rock stars.
One of them, the tallest, seemed to be holding his face together with blood-drenched hands.
‘Bloody hell!’ Houghton barked. ‘Get this man to a hospital. My God. I’ll call an ambulance. What were you thinking, bringing him h–’
‘No,’ the injured man said, stepping forward. He raised a hand and slammed it against the door, which sprang open, the chain snapping as if made of spun sugar. The other two men moved swiftly inside and led Houghton to his surgery. The leader calmly closed the front door behind him and followed.
‘Anybody else in the building?’ he asked, the words coming awkwardly slimed with gore, heavily slurred. Houghton could now see that there were few, if any, teeth left in the man’s mouth. For someone who had been violently attacked, he seemed admirably calm about it.
