The Cut Page 10

  Her father cut his losses just in time, and as a result of some shrewd selling, did very well for himself. What it came down to was that a rival effectively put him out of business. There’s a rumour in their family, JJ tells me, that Imelda took revenge for this. With her financial security assured, she went to work for the rival firm about two years after. Over a period of months, she set about applying chaos theory to the company. A misplaced decimal point here and there. A couple of unfortunate computer viruses. Eventually, she did it once too often and was carpeted, then sacked. Imelda cleared her desk with a delighted laugh, and left behind her a company riddled with holes. She had to try not to break into giggles as she picked up her P45. All allegedly, of course.

  ‘Where’s the man himself?’ I’m looking around the pub, but I can’t see him.

  ‘He’s at the Arcade. He sent me out along the promenade to look for you.’ Imelda, still cool and calm, raises her eyebrows and sips her pint.

  So, JJ sent her to look for us. That means he’s out earlier than planned, and he had some idea of where I was going to be.

  That worries me.

  It also makes me realize that we’re going to be stuck with Imelda for the night if we don’t watch out.

  Trying to seem casual, I suck on an extra-strong peppermint as we head outside.

  Chapter Eleven – The Outer Circle

  The wind screams across the sea, shaking and soaking the pier. Giant fountains of spray melt the sea wall as they have done for years. The old sea front quivers and groans, but stays up. Under shimmering orange light, couples scuttle through the spray. Groups of lads in leather jackets patrol the pavements, calling out to groups of girls shivering in skirts as they sail past, looking for somewhere to hang out. Fish-and-chip shops glow like beacons to summon ghost ships from the night mist.

  In the long strand of pubs and arcades, a kind of skeletal life persists. It still has a throbbing heart. The Arcade.

  *

  Ten-thirty. Words can’t quite describe the Arcade on a Saturday night. For one thing, it’s not just a games arcade. It’s warehouse-sized, has offshoots of dance floors and cocktail bars and shadowy corners where the dealers hover in their dreads and purple shell suits. Another strange success story in this failed place.

  It’s the only lively part of town. In fact, I often think that its cartoon-bright screens and its multi-dimensional worlds are reality, encased in a bubble around which there’s a huge, fantastic simulation of a rotting seaside town where even the fish come to die.

  Marcie has attached herself to some people at the bar. I find myself bobbed and butted through the seven circles of hell, looking for JJ.

  The first thing to hit you is the wall of heat, and then it’s the smell – beer, body odour, a hint of piss and sex. I grip the peppermint between my teeth and try to concentrate on the taste of that instead.

  This primal scent, territorial pissing with sweat and lager, is today’s equivalent of lasciate ogni speranza voi ch ’entrate – I can imagine the slack-jawed looks I’d get if I said that here.

  Grey smoke and dancing stubs of ash, like enraged fireflies, bombard me on all sides. Every one of the hot machines is surrounded by the eyes of young, male predators. They’re all earringed, with hair either tucked behind their ears or short enough to reveal their shrivelled, rodenty heads. They leave slimy prints on warm beer glasses as they watch the world reflected in the screens.

  This is a nightmare world of artificial noises, spewed from sound-houses all over the world, each trying to sound different and special, and each being just a variation on the clunks, bleeps and clatters of the rest. Dancing sprites on the screen pirouette with sharp-pixelled grace, dodge through mazes, hop the vast silence between asteroids as if they were stepping-stones, whirl themselves off branches on to bouncing platforms, crunch and grunt in brief bursts of white noise as they kick the living shit out of each other under desert sun. Worlds, worlds whizz past me as I’m carried deeper into the caverns of this place.

  Wetness slops at my feet as two laughing boys push a friend over, with his beer in his hand. I shove him out of the way and barge on, angrily, my hair sticky with sweat against my forehead.

  Girls, staggering in every respect (a point to share with Imelda), block my path. Lustrous blonde hair, silver mini-dresses. Bright, creamy cocktails. Tableau after tableau of tacky, garish life.

  An arm grabs me, and I lash out. ‘Fuck off! Get the fuck off!’

  ‘It’s me! For Christ’s sake, Bel, it’s me!’

  Look at his big, grinning face, floating there in the blue-flickered darkness as if nothing mattered. I don’t know whether to hit him or kiss him, so I do both. He tastes of apple and cinnamon. I feel him straining to pull away from me as I force him up against the nearest machine.

  He pulls away from me, looking exhilarated but puzzled. ‘Bel, are you all right?’

  ‘Never better. I take it you’re having fun in this hole?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ He looks a bit shamefaced. ‘Damien and I have discovered this new game.’

  Beyond him, in the purple shadows of the alcove, Damien is hunched over the console, hypnotized.

  ‘Anything I’d like?’ I ask him wearily. Somehow, I know what kind of thing to expect.

  JJ’s face is bright with pseudo-teenage enthusiasm. ‘It’s called Repulse. You have to get this girl to undress, while picking off your rival voyeurs in the building opposite –’

  ‘I get the idea.’ I forestall him with an upheld palm. ‘I’m out of this place. I’ll see you outside.’

  I turn and storm off, shoving two of the foil-wrapped girls out of the way as I go. They scream obscenities at me, so I gather a big, sugar-swollen gobbet of phlegm and shoot it in their direction. It hits like an exploding fruit.

  Before I reach the bar, something heavy lands, hard and painful, on my right breast. The pain’s indescribable, shooting up, down and across. Through a blur of salt water I see the floppy-haired boy I kicked out of the way before.

  ‘You got in my fuckin’ way,’ he snarls, and I’m aware that there’s his harsh, twisted mouth with its sickly-sweet beer smell on one side, and the metal wall on the other.

  No – it gives way beneath my back.

  It’s not a wall, it’s a door. I only realize which door as I stagger back against gloss-painted walls, realizing it smells stronger than ever of barely disinfected piss. The world wobbles and turns as I crash to the tiles, but standing above the door, legs apart, is that crow-black figure of a matchstick man, the universal gender sign obeyed by all. My peppermint’s flown from my mouth and sits fizzing on the tiles.

  I’ve never actually found myself in one of these before. The squat, teardrop-shaped urinals look far too high up the wall – Christ, what do they do, have competitions to lob it in from five metres? – but now is not the time to admire the scenery.

  I try to get up – too suddenly. My shoulder burns in pain as something cracks against it. The washbasin. I can hear my own breath echoing in my ears.

  Fuck shit fuck shit fuck. Get out of this one, Bel.

  He’s pushing me. Pushing and prodding my tits. The pretty-boy hair and suntan are misleading. He’s got a really ugly face, close up, pocked like old stone under the tan; his eyes are dark slits and his nose a great hook. And the hair’s pretty nasty, too. Blond strips hanging down. Yellowing lard. Like the Pardoner in the Canterbury Tales. Bizarre thought. He smells of recent lager and hours-old aftershave, a layer of sickly-sweet perfume which the sweat’s already eating into.

  ‘Bitch thinks she can push me around,’ Pardoner says quietly, and I realize there’s another boy in here, lounging against the wall of one of the cubicles. He looks a mean bastard too. Slicked-back hair, black, in a pony-tail. A squashed boxer’s nose and two dragons tattooed on his arms.

  Neither of them is particularly well-muscled, but they look full of hyper-energy, fizzing with edginess, ready to explode.

  ‘Prick-tease, if you ask me,’ says
Pony-tail. He’s got a voice from deep in his throat, a tar-clogged, phlegmy, smoker’s voice. His little eyes narrow as his tattooed arms unfurl and he swaggers towards me, trousers bulging. ‘All prick-teases, little girls like her. Only have to look at what she’s wearing to see that.’

  I fold my arms, put my head on one side and glare at him in contempt. But inside, I’m shaking.

  Christ, what a stupid stupid situation to get into. My mind’s going crazy trying to think of ways out. Collision, that’s what it is. Car accident. If the cars hadn’t been together in that place at that time, then no boom. I shouldn’t have been here at ten-forty in this place. It’s all a mistake.

  Bravado isn’t going to work. I smile, spread my hands. I open my mouth to explain.

  Pardoner’s right behind me, with his hand on my bare back. I whirl round, but he’s grabbed my belt, pulling me back. It cuts into my waist, burning, and I scream. I can feel myself losing my balance.

  ‘Get her in here,’ says Pony-tail, jerking a thumb into the cubicle.

  Reality smashes my mind. I look around wildly. My mouth’s dry. I can smell and taste a nauseating mixture of piss and peppermint.

  Pardoner grabs my hair with his other hand. He’s got a grip on me as if I’m some tailor’s dummy that he’s hefting. My scalp burns with pain.

  I hear my own screams echoing off the tiles. I’m pulling against him, now, slipping to the pungent floor, and I hear my stockings rip. There’s nothing to dig my heels into. Pardoner shouts something decisive and throws me at Pony-tail. He’s hard. I bounce off.

  And something ram-raids my mind and kicks adrenalin into the synapses and screams at me to do something.

  The cut the cut the Cut –

  The knife is there, in my pocket –

  I slip.

  The toilet bowl smashes my skull. I feel my body weakening. Arms grab my wrists and bend them back. The arms are frizzed with disgusting hair – Pony-tail’s. I scream. My mouth is smashed against the porcelain – pain – and I feel something smash in my mouth, chips of enamel splintering, and there’s the warm gush of blood. My skirt is ripped down. I feel my flesh chilling. Right behind me, there’s gasping, beery breath, the undoing of a zip.

  Then I hear a crash, a thump and a squeal. My mouth spatters gore on the white lid, as I try to lift myself up and see what the hell is going on there behind me.

  Through a haze, I see Pardoner go flying. He hits the tiles and a boot stamps on his head. The scream he lets out is animal, primal, a hideousness unheard before in this life.

  Damien’s on top of Pardoner, pinning his arms behind him, locking his head to the tiles.

  JJ’s there too. He’s hit Pony-tail, whose greasy bulk smashes the mirror and the condom machine. JJ smacks him again, sending him crawling under the washbasins. Pony-tail’s flies are undone, and his hands are clasped protectively over a wilting erection.

  Shit, I’m gushing blood. It’s wet and warm on my face. I can’t move, I can’t stop it, salty tides across my face as if I’m crying the stuff. Like one of my Christ-shagging dreams when the nails go in.

  JJ is there, pulling me to him. I’m dimly aware that I lose my skirt, and it lies in a wet pool in the cubicle.

  There’s no way I’m going to sob or scream. I wipe the blood away. Again. Again. Again. It streaks my shirt with huge, schlock-fest stripes. I’m coughing as it fills my mouth, warm and rusty. Jesus, this is happening and I have to deal with it.

  Damien does something to his prisoner that makes him cry out with a deep, phlegmy rattle. Pardoner’s suntanned face is contorted with pain, like a medieval woodcut of Agony.

  Right, come on, I’ve got to take control. It’s good. Now that the thumping in my bruised breasts is abating and I’m back on my feet, hands on my hips and taking stock of the situation, I think there’s the distinct potential for some fun here.

  I’m breathing heavily, sweating buckets. I wipe blood from my nose again.

  ‘Who’s outside?’ I gasp to JJ.

  He grins, keeping an eye on Pony-tail, who’s on all fours with his tail between his legs, trying to shake his head clear. ‘Aunt Imelda,’ JJ says. ‘If she can’t hold them off, no-one can.’

  An unbreachable dyke. Well, we might need her.

  ‘Right.’ I’m aware of my naked legs, my best and freshest cream knickers suddenly on display. Damien’s trying to avert his eyes. ‘Keep this place isolated.’

  ‘Bel.’ JJ’s hand is on my arm. ‘We came to make sure you were OK. Let’s get out, leave these tossers.’ He gives me his handkerchief, sloppy with water, and I press it gratefully against my gushing nose.

  ‘When I’m ready,’ I tell him indistinctly.

  You must see this, JJ.

  ‘Hold his face,’ I instruct Damien. It’s hard to sound assertive with a bloodstained handkerchief halfway up your nose, but I do my best.

  Damien grins, and does as he is told.

  I take a cautious look at the handkerchief. The blood seems to have stopped for the moment. I stalk over to the fallen condom machine, hefting it in my hands. It’s a pretty heavy chunk of metal.

  ‘Bel,’ JJ says, again, holding out a hand. ‘Let’s go. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’ His little-boy eyes are bright with panic.

  Luckily, Damien seems happy to hold his prisoner down for whatever punishment I want to administer. His face is red with exertion, and he gives me a crooked grin, his lips drawn back in a leer of pleasure.

  I’ve stopped breathing hard and I’m not quaking with anger the way I was two minutes ago. My name is Belinda Archard and I’m perfectly calm, standing half naked in a Gents in the Arcade, my mouth salty with blood, hefting a cool, hard condom machine in my hands.

  And bringing it down, hard, on Pardoner’s knee. His scream’s gratifying and the impact zings right up my arms, almost numbs my hands.

  ‘Bel.’ JJ’s hand is on my arm.

  ‘No.’ I push him away. ‘Hold him still,’ I order Damien. I hurl the condom machine into the open cubicle. It lands in the toilet with a crash and a splash. There is a loud cracking noise, followed by a gurgle of water as the bowl starts to leak across the floor.

  Ignoring it, I swing back my leg and smack my booted foot right into Pardoner’s groin. It gives like a soft cushion. The noise he makes this time is rather less gratifying, more of a whimper than a scream. Damien laughs and slaps Pardoner about the face a couple of times.

  JJ is going crazy, pushing his hands through his hair. ‘Bel – we wanted – we had to come and help. This is mad – too mad, come on.’

  I place my hands on his face, open my eyes wide and smile at him. I lean forward and gently kiss him. His mouth is warm and wet, but unresponsive. I’ve smeared blood on his lips.

  ‘Shut up, JJ,’ I tell him. I jerk my head towards Pony-tail, who’s trying to lever himself up with the aid of the washbasin. ‘That was quite a whack you gave him,’ I say admiringly. ‘Well done. Get him up.’

  ‘You get him up!’ JJ exclaims.

  ‘All right.’ I grab Pony-tail by his collar and slam him against the mirrors, facing me. His face twists in anger, but before he has a chance to lunge, my knee’s in his groin and he’s doubled up. I smash my fist into his forehead and he slumps.

  Christ, it hurts. I’m wincing, sucking my knuckles. I never realized it hurt the punisher as much as the punished.

  I can feel the urge for the Cut bubbling in my mind, trying to haze everything green and make me. It’s hard and sharp, almost glowing in my pocket.

  Pardoner tries to lift his head to see what’s going on, but Damien bellows in anger and smashes him back down on to the wet floor.

  Pony-tail’s in front of me, still nursing his crotch. His forehead’s bleeding. I grin at him.

  ‘You wanted your oats tonight, didn’t you, Pony-tail?’ I say to him, prodding him with my shoe so that he knows who’s being addressed. ‘Well, we can’t waste any of it. Don’t want you to get prostate cancer.’ I nudge JJ in the ribs. ‘
Watch this, my love. You could learn something.’ I kick Pony-tail. ‘Kneel up and face me.’

  Incredibly, he obeys me. He seems to have become automated, or he would have if it weren’t for the way he’s shaking and sweating. He looks horrifically embarrassed, not daring to meet my eye. Blood trickles down his face and towards his mouth. He reaches up to wipe it away.

  ‘No.’ My voice is soft but commanding, and I slap his hand down. ‘Leave it.’ I put my hands on my hips. Despite the dried blood on my mouth, I allow myself a little smile. ‘I thought you had a big stiffy just now, Pony-tail? What happened to it, hmm?’ I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Bel, what are you doing?’ JJ hisses.

  ‘Humiliating him. Come on, Pony-tail, get some life into the old todger. You’ve got a job to do.’

  Pony-tail, glowing with embarrassment, pulls his member out. Incredibly, it’s still half engorged. The skin stretches as we watch, ironing out the wrinkles.

  ‘Come on, pull it. Finish yourself off.’

  ‘I ain’t –’ ‘He looks up at me, blood dripping into his eyes, blinks. He tries to protest.

  I’ve moved like a huntress. I feel JJ tense behind me. For a moment, Damien looks as if he’s about to release his hold on Pardoner out of sheer shock, but he soon recovers himself.

  My knife snicks open, two centimetres from Pony-tail’s sweaty cock.

  ‘Come on,’ I whisper to him. My voice mingles with the trickling water, like an enticing spirit from the underworld. ‘You were all up for it before. Full of it, weren’t you? Full of spunk. Where’s it all gone?’

  I nudge the edge of the blade against his foreskin. He’s cowering, now, a great, humiliated lump.

  Time seems to stand still in the Gents, and all I can hear is the heavy, anticipatory breathing of Damien and JJ, the gurgling of the water, and the occasional groan from Pardoner.