The Death of A. R. Curtis
Scuffed blue shoes moving along rough red bricks. Cracks and fissures branching off like hairs, the colour of lost games and bad luck. Each careful step contained a whisper of fear, the uncurling fist in the stomach that spoke of black eyes and bloody noses. As he walked he felt a drop of sweat roll down his skinny spine, slipping noiselessly under his waistband. One foot lifted he almost fell, almost slipped right off the planet into that no-man’s land of thin, eyeless nothing. Just in time he managed to regain his balance, arms swivelling frantically. He knew how ridiculous he must look. Panic had tied up each lung and rib, sent ropes up to catch his tongue. Grant and his mates were sucking on cigarettes, watching him silently as though they had handed over good money to watch this, money earned painfully by tall, faceless fathers. A swallow rippled the tight surface of his throat. He imagined the saliva dropping down, sizzling and steaming in the acid of his stomach. Deep breath in, lungs expanding. Soft ‘ssssssssssssss’ of breath on its way out, through lips tasting of salt. By his estimation there were three metres left to go. Easy, he thought, trying to relax. After all he had made it this far, despite the three pairs of pupils fixed on him, not even shifting when the breeze picked up and curled the smoke from their nostrils back into their eyes. He gazed down at his body, thinking of the muscles contracting, the leg moving forward and back down again onto the narrow edge. He could see the sun; see the white second-sun that shone just behind his eyes, in the black of his mind when he looked away. Somewhere, he thought, a woman has just given birth. A musician has laid down his guitar, fingertips warm and calloused. A dog is lolloping along a beach, sand crumbled joyfully into its ears. A man is putting his new car into gear; a family is having the same old fight. Somewhere somebody has just finished crying, and is beginning to enjoy the soreness of their eyes, that pull in their throat. One more metre. About three steps, at the pace he was going. He pressed agonizingly along, eyes set intently on the exact spots where his feet should land. Shoelaces dirty-white, the threads in his jeans slim as veins. Arms stretched wide, long brave wings against the terrifying blue. His heart is drumming out the song of his soul, the first sound he had ever heard the world make. Out of the corner of his eye pollution is rising from chimneys, grey and pleated as brains. The ground is a heartbeat drop into shadow, the streets stinking of rubbish and grief. He is almost there. His cousin’s face, the slick struggling fish at the end of the line. A love letter, written to his mother from his father.
Mark, a builder working nearby, glanced up quickly as something fell from the skies. "What the FUCK!" he cried as he saw what it was. Horror was a sickening kick in the guts. Calling to his workers, Mark ran to where the boy lay broken, blue shadows curving under pale still eyes, astonishing scarlet blooming out like hearts.
CRASH!
Glass flew like gorgeous jewels, like a thousand engagement rings given to a thousand beautiful girls. The shards caught the light as they scattered across the street, falling white silver gold like broken stars. It reminded them of Christmas Eve. One man was astonished to see the soft nature of metal, how little it took for a car to crumple in. It looks like a used tissue, his wife beside him mused. It does! He replied, excited to hear another articulate the words floating flower-like inside the watery bowl of his head. Others in the crowd (and quite a crowd had built up, and quickly too, the ambulance hadn’t even had a chance to arrive) found themselves transfixed by the aesthetic appeal of the scene. Red flowed luxuriously as though in slow-motion, as dark in the middle as melted rubies or ripe strawberries, washed and waiting to be dipped in cream. The edges, where the blood was thinner, were the exact shade of that nail polish that Revlon made...What was the name of it? One girl asked her sister. They couldn’t for the life of them remember, but promised each other they’d have a look at the bottle when they got home. And the lights! Through cracked, splintered glass the car bravely directed a beam, which looked awfully cheerful in the dull, soupy air. It cut straight through the crowd and dazzled a small boy, who stood clutching his dad’s hand and blinking big eyes. The lamppost, bent at the middle as though sick or upset, still fit in with the others along the street. Their faces made paler the ever-deepening black.
Some were turning to leave as the ambulance arrived, and they paused on slippered feet to watch it screech down the road. Its nasal whine reminded them of late night rides home, and the cold thrill of danger, and knowing life was short. The ambulance driver had a handsome face, and the look of a man who would die for his kicks. Blue and red flickered over the faces of the onlookers, rendering them alien and humiliated by turn. Looks like a crash said the ambulance man, letting himself out of the vehicle and rubbing his cheek. His large-knuckled hand scraped against bristling hairs. Three long stretchers were pulled clean from the back, and somewhere nearby sounded barking.
The Umbrella
All he wanted, he kept saying, was an umbrella. He seemed to be envisioning something bigger than that as he strode along the rain-blackened pavement, eyebrows pulled low on his forehead. It was four o’clock and pouring, flecks of water spitting up from the tar and dripping down cold necks. They’d made their way down the length of Main Street, dodging dark oily puddles and slack-mouthed beggars. Cally’s boots were old and falling apart, and water had seeped right through to her socks. Their dense soggy presence made her long to grab something and hurl it hard against a wall. A cord of irritation had wound itself through her belly and was pulling tighter with each step. He turned and grabbed her hand, saying something and laughing. The traffic snatched all sound away; she watched pale lips move. His fingers were clammy and too alive between hers; his watch strap scratched the skin on her wrist. Holding hands had always been his favourite thing. They passed King Pie, and for once the greasy salty smell didn’t make her feel sick. She thought instead of warmth and dinner. They reached the shop and he stepped inside first, pushing back his hood. Hair stuck stick-straight to her wet cheeks, ending in points as if made of something stiff and fake. He leaned against the counter charming the woman at the till, whose laughter showed more in her eyes and cheeks than anywhere else. Cally lingered in the dry air by the doorway and watched him. He seemed almost too confident, she thought, his normally tanned face a little too flushed. He turned to her and held out an umbrella, saying here Cal, it’s your favourite colour, and despite herself she felt her lips curve in response. He turned around to pay. She gazed at the rows and rows of cheap synthetic clothing, a kind of grief ringing tinny and distant in her ears. And then he was thanking the woman at the till and loping towards her, reaching for her waist and swinging her up into the air. The muscles in his arms contracted like elastic, his throat appeared impossibly long and smooth. Cally laughed dutifully, grabbing at his shoulders for balance. His fingers dug painfully into her waist and she imagined them there, each white fingerprint finding a home in her skin. He set her back down and stepped outside, opening the umbrella with a smart click. The smell of plastic would soon fade away. Talking, always talking, he pulled her back out onto the street. Their strides matched left-then-right, left-then-right as they headed back home, distant sticky pools of light glowing yellow through the rain.
The Whale Museum
The room is deathly quiet. She imagines for a moment that she can hear the sounds of water splashing, bubbles popping. But nothing. She has never known such quiet outside of sleep. The shape in front of her is turgid and round, as smooth and pale as an eyeball. Its back is a humped message: Beware. You have no idea what they do to you here. Revulsion squeezing her shoulders, she walks around to the other side of the tank. Two tiny eyes, as light in the irises as winter, gaze at her blankly. She feels a shudder make its way down her back beneath the long plait. Its forehead swells grotesquely above the eyes as if some of the fluid surrounding the vast body has seeped in. It looks like a baby born without limbs, a creature crawled out from underground. She feels a curious sympathy, standing there thoughtful and straight, breathing in the cold, chemical-scented air. The beasts mouth is a sharp toothed pit, pink and bloody looking at the gums and behind the tongue. It doesnt scare her, this show of bravado. It is wasted on thick glass. She walks on, passing through a narrow passage with a damp cement floor. Entering the next room she is greeted by an immense rubbery sheet, spread out like a bat in its glass cage. The winged body is spotted, and its edges resemble the underside of a mushroom. She cant make out any eyes, only two small holes which she guesses to be ears. A tail juts from its back as thick and straight as a rod. The small, functional text at the base of the tank reads Sting Ray. A wind is howling outside, has been all week. Her hair is knotted and greasy and she hasnt worn a skirt for days. It hurts to think of her freedom. It feels empty and as long as a field. The museum is cool inside to keep temperatures optimum. She lays a hand on the sting rays glass wall, leaving warmth in the shape of her palm. In a large plain tank at the end of the room, shadows betray the quiet. The toothy skin looks like velvet, and is slit at the sides for breathing. Light bends over the greyness of the shark and glances flat into his dumb eye. He swims around as if he knows that he is trapped, his tail moving slowly in defeat. He is not alone, accompanied by a tall circular tank filled to bursting with silky stringed bubbles. They are moving, pushing off from the sides like vesicles in a cell. Her heart lifts at these signs of life; she forgets herself for a moment. Then the wall of dead things comes into view. They are pickled and jarred and labelled like food. They are decaying in the water, skin as soft and melting as butter. There are many sets of eyes here and they all stare at her without blinking. She is aware of them as she is aware of a street child at the car window. She is filled with discomfort and hurries for the door. Reaching the exit she shivers with relief and pulls her sleeves down over her hands. People mill around the sunny paths, chatting and holding their hair from their faces. The red and white signs, the ATMs and policemen, they are all ridiculous. She is conscious of herself as never before, as a creature with choices and movement and time.
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