Nymphomation, Page 8

  Daisy knew where she had to go.

  One hour later found her banging on a door in Droylsden, North-west Manchester. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ says her father. ‘What you after?’

  ‘You called me.’

  ‘Did I? You’d better come in, I suppose.’

  A dark-lit house, fuelled by only an anorexic gas fire. No bulbs aglowing, no cheery pictures, no rainbows. Only the single element. A couch in the living room, covered with dusty blankets. Father’s bed. A saucepan beside the couch, filled with urine. His toilet. Vomit stains on the floor, amid the fallen wine bottles, the dregs and the numerous creamy bones.

  Dead bones. Dead father.

  ‘So, you’re still a gambler?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘I want escape, just as much as any old sod.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘You don’t know, Daughter?’

  ‘Late fifties, I suppose. No. I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘That’s funny, so have I.’

  ‘This place stinks!’

  ‘That’s life, Daisy.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘You were brought up here.’

  ‘Brought down, more like. How did you get my number?’

  ‘Through the regular channels, of course.’

  ‘You called the university? They don’t give out personal details.’

  ‘Not even to a lonely father?’

  ‘Now they’ll know you’re not dead.’

  ‘And how that hurts. I couldn’t believe it when the secretary told me I was officially deceased. I told her I was half alive, at the very least. I had to go higher. I had a nice little chat with your Professor Hackle.’

  ‘He wouldn’t talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, we go way back, Maximus and I. We went to school together.’

  This was news to Daisy, and she had no reply to it.

  ‘I want another match,’ her father continued. ‘That’s why I rang. I want you to win. That’s all I live for. Let us play.’ He tipped a set of twenty-eight dominoes onto a dirty table, clattering. ‘Choose your bones.’

  ‘Play to win?’ said Daisy.

  ‘You bet your life. And happy birthday, by the way.’

  So, he’d remembered. But no presents.

  DJ Dopejack worked the crowd down the Snake Lounge into a slow frenzy of cool dancing. Ten o’clock, late Saturday night.

  Watch that DJ. He was using his heavy knowledge on the turntables, travelling the vinyl, turning the crowd into the most perfect equation. Movement and pleasure, making rhythm.

  Joe and Benny were there, reunited to witness the frenzy from the comfort of their upper-level private alcove, fully paid for by Joe’s season ticket. Newly joined together as always, watching the dance on closed-circuit television. Listening to the music over a loudspeaker system with its own volume and tone controls.

  Sweet Benny turned up the volume, revelling in the beat. ‘Dopejack’s good tonight. Listen to that deep, cool bass, Joe.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Jazir Malik was down on the floor, surrounded by the noise and the crowd and the music, shot up to the ears with ultragarlic. It sure gets you hot and colourful! But where’s the juice?

  OK, here comes the juice, like the sky was bursting.

  Frank Scenario comes on stage to a bossa nova fanfare, wearing a powder-blue demob suit, tinted glasses and a sun-coloured trilby hat. He does his famous dance, one two, one two, slide. And even Old Joe Crocus, up in his box, deigns to move his head slightly towards the booth screen, in order to hear better the coolest man still alive…

  I’ve got the numbers in my brain

  That dance like shadow bright.

  Playing my cares along with Lady Luck,

  Wherever she land tonight.

  DJ Dopejack worked the samples behind the song; mixtures of Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, heavy bass stolen from a Curtis Mayfield record. A song about giving yourself up to the circumstances, subsuming them:

  I’m just a pawn in your game, my love,

  Just a simple man of flesh alone.

  And all the games that you play, my love,

  Lead me only to a losing bone.

  Sweet Benny was wide-eyed at the message of the lyrics. Joe Crocus, a carefully measured cool. Whilst Jaz Malik was twisting down in the clutch of dance. He had his favourite suit on, feeling good, complete with trilby hat and matching glasses. Copying Frank alive, just for the occasion, the same dance.

  One two, one two, slide…

  Whilst Daisy Love took it all in from her place on the edges; the singer and the mob and the song, and the DJ who delivered the sexy beats. Yeah, Daisy was there; she’d turned up despite her excuses, fuelled by the bad day, the ache in her forearm, the memories of her father, the losses, and the half-bone in her pocket. She’d taken a chance on Sweet Benny still keeping true about the guest-list promise. Her name had been included. The bouncer had hustled her inside, whispering, ‘Free passage. Good music. Loving touch. Make a wish.’

  Loving touch and a good wish? Well, she could do with some. She’d come here straight from her father’s house, having lost every single game. Sad to see her once irrepressible father now shivering and sunken. She had received no love, no explanations as to why he had called her. Except that he wanted her to win, for once. Something she could never do.

  Lonely girl.

  So Daisy watched the whole shebang from the sidelines. And after Frank had left the stage to loving applause, and after DJ Dopejack had slipped a fevered coupling of ‘Let’s Get it On’ with ‘My Funny Valentine’ on the twin decks, she pushed her way over to the bar, where she ordered an orange juice.

  That’s right, an orange juice. Keeping her cool.

  ‘Daisy, you turned up.’ A voice behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Jaz Malik, smiling his silver moon against twilight. ‘You’re drinking orange juice, love. Can I get you some additives for that? A little vodka maybe? Vodka and orange is what Joe Crocus drinks. So I hear.’

  ‘I’m fine. What’s wrong with you?’ Daisy had to come close up and cheeky in order to be heard over the music.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You keep scratching your hand…’

  ‘Just a tiny wound. No worries.’

  ‘Snap.’ They compared wounds. ‘Well, whatever,’ shouted Jaz in Daisy’s ear. ‘It’s great to see you.’

  ‘I’ve had a terrible day.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Is Benny here?’

  ‘What?’ Closer…

  ‘Is Benny Fenton here tonight?’ Daisy repeated.

  ‘Upstairs. Private booth. You want to meet him?’

  ‘He stole my handkerchief.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It has my blood on it.’

  ‘Big deal. Oh, I see. And he’s threatening to…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t want him to?’

  ‘No. But that’s just the start of it. I got fired today.’

  ‘What?’ Closer, closer…

  ‘I got fired. From the bookshop.’

  ‘Shit, Daisy. Bad news.’

  ‘And I got handed this.’ Daisy pulled the half-bone from her pocket.

  ‘Wow! There’s your rate of exchange then.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I reckon you’re in need of a good dance. And also some of this, maybe?’

  ‘What?’ Daisy had to move so close in order to catch Jaz’s dropped-down voice; so close, it was almost like kissing. Then she saw the powder he was offering to dissolve into her orange juice. ‘Ultragarlic!’

  ‘Keep your fucking voice down, girl!’ This was whispered as he poured the bounty into her drink. ‘I made it special for you. A present. Beginner’s mix.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Most definitely. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’

  ‘I never told you that.’

  ‘Did a little research, didn’t I? On the university’s computer.’

  ‘T
hey have passwords.’

  ‘And Jazir has the key. You really shouldn’t have lied about your father being dead. That was cruel.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Daisy had never taken drugs before, but now here she was, downing her powder cocktail in one. Seeking a release from the day.

  Seeking…

  So, they danced. Jazir and Daisy. They danced the neo-cool step to Dopejack’s mashed-together beats, the music of forgetfulness. The crowd went loopy, dancing like Frank, and Daisy couldn’t help but mellow, especially when the ultragarlic finally kicked in. The world was so full of hazy fire, so spicy and hot, that Daisy Love truly forgot herself for a moment.

  Somewhere in the darkness, Daisy kissed Jaz.

  Outside the club, that very moment, Little Celia was staking out her abandoned shop of a home, knowing all too well that some greedy tramps might be waiting for her inside. A faint light glinted through a gap in the wooden battens covering the window. Somebody was in there.

  Celia could hear the Snake Loungers’ music, muffled by the walls, and over this, surely she heard a noise from within her carefully chosen home. Somebody laughing? Was some vagabond tramp laughing at her, waiting for her return, hoping to steal the prize she no longer had. After finding her naked of the bone, wouldn’t they just kill her?

  You bastard tramps! That’s my secret house you’re messing with! We’re supposed to look after each other.

  She didn’t shout this out loud, she just thought it to herself, but the pain was real, the sense of loss, abandonment. As she walked over the road. This is my house. This is my fucking house! Celia could see that her usual hidden way had been savagely torn aside. The door was splintered, flapping wide like a mouth. Somebody coughed from inside. Celia called out, ‘Who’s there?’ No answer, and the light within wavered and then died. ‘I’m coming in now. You’d best be ready.’ Why was she being so brave? Because it was her home, that’s why. And the homes of the homeless are the deepest homes of all.

  Jazir Malik banged his fist on the door of the private booth, upstairs at the Snake Lounge club. A slatted peephole slitted open, and a voice called out, ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘We’ve come to see Joe Crocus.’

  ‘Joe doesn’t want no visitors. Bye.’

  Jazir recognized the voice. ‘Sweet Benny,’ he replied, quickly. ‘It’s Jazir Malik here. I just want to shoot the breeze.’

  ‘Go fuck the breeze.’

  ‘I’ve got Daisy Love with me. She wants to talk to Joe.’

  ‘No visitors.’

  ‘Sweet Benny, all I’m asking is a little audience. Daisy has something good she wants to show Joe. It’s about the dominoes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Benny, Sweet Benny. Have you forgotten already the favour you owe me?’

  The door was finally, reluctantly, swung open. ‘Come in then, you two. Be quick about it.’

  Jaz and Daisy were super quick about it and, within a second’s breath, the door was shut and locked and bolted behind them.

  The private booth was small, mainly filled with a table, and a TV screen, a music system, both turned to low. Along one side of the table was Old Joe Crocus, his face stony like a blank bone. Benny Fenton muttered something like, ‘Hutch up, Joe. Make room for the girl.’ He got a scowl for his cheek.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m fine just standing.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  Daisy was well out of it, to be honest; the garlic was frying her brain; the drugs, the reported music, the slight delay on the closed-circuit screen, the coldness of the company, the stupidity of that stupid kiss, the stupidity of showing the half-cast bone to Jaz.

  The professor thinks highly of your work, quiet girl.’

  It took Daisy a few seconds to realize that she was being spoken to, and a few more to realize that the speaker was Joe Crocus. ‘Max Hackle has told all about your probabilities.’

  ‘Benny Fenton’s got something of mine,’ Daisy said.

  ‘That’s right, girl,’ answered Joe. ‘Benny’s shown me your handkerchief. He hasn’t put it through the mangle yet, so don’t worry. But how come you’re so worried about your precious DNA? I’ve had the spoonful done. I know exactly when I’m going to die. Of natural diseases. It’s actually kind of peaceful, knowing it. Makes you want to exhaust your little life. So what’s so special about your destiny?’

  ‘I just want it back, that’s all.’

  ‘So then, what can you offer?’

  ‘OK, Daisy,’ said Jaz, smiling. ‘Show them the gift.’

  Daisy Love took the half-winning bone out of her pocket.

  Little Celia pulled aside the last of the wooden battens and then stepped inside. Amidst the shadows of her former comfort, hearing a cough from faraway, over the splinters of dust.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she whispered, fearful of her own voice, echoing.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Her own voice, echoing, whispering…

  Through the motes of dust and the darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ whispering, another echo.

  ‘Is that my little charmer?’

  Daisy placed it full-square on the table. Where it pulsed and flashed. Where the half-winning five-spot winked and seduced. And where Joe and Benny and even Jazir were all drawn to the dance of all dots.

  ‘Cookie Luck!’ squirmed Benny. ‘That’s worth a hundred.’

  ‘Told you so,’ answered Jaz.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Joe.

  ‘A quarter to midnight,’ answered Benny, and then to Daisy, ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes to cash it. We can just make it to Piccadilly, if we run.’

  ‘It’s not my bone,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Whose is it then?’ asked Benny.

  ‘A young kid,’ answered Daisy. ‘She’s called Little Celia. She’s a tramp.’

  ‘We’ve got to find her,’ said Benny. ‘Especially with all these killings of half-casters. What do yer reckon, Joe?’

  Joe said nothing.

  Little Celia was sitting at a battle-scarred workbench. Eddie Irwell was sitting opposite her, drinking a mug of chicken pseudo. They could hear the distant music from the Snake Lounge club. It meant nothing to them; cool music means nothing to the street merchants. Music is the tinkling of puny coins in a cup.

  ‘You’re not captured, then?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Unless I’m a ghost,’ answered Eddie.

  ‘I thought the others had caught you.’

  ‘They let me go, a half-hour ago. I think they gave up on finding yourself and the bone. They’re basically moral.’

  ‘They didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘I said basically, didn’t I? I’m not excusing them. To more important matters; we can still make the winning post, Celia. Let’s see the good bone.’

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I gave it away.’

  ‘Away? Who to?’

  ‘A stranger.’

  ‘What? Why so?’

  ‘I thought you were dead, Eddie. Or something…’

  ‘There is no something other than death. Now where’s the bone? Where the fuck is it? And stop twiddling with that feather!’

  ‘How could I dare to let the others take our winnings?’ Celia said. ‘So I slipped the bone into the pocket of this woman.’

  ‘Woman. What woman? Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where she is.’

  Daisy Love, where she was, only a few yards away. All eyes around the Snake Lounge table were glued to the barely alive dots of the domino. As the clock drained away in seconds towards midnight.

  ‘I told you the Daisy had something to show,’ said Jazir. ‘Didn’t I, Joe?’

  Joe said to Daisy, ‘You said the real winner was a young girl?’

  ‘About eight years old,’ replied Daisy. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Eight years old!’ said Benny. ‘That mean’s she’s…’

  ‘That means she’s too young
to buy the bone herself,’ carried on Joe. ‘Which means that somebody else bought the bone for her. We’re not even looking for the winner. Sweet Benny, what time is it?’

  ‘Five minutes to shutdown.’

  ‘Shit. OK. We lost. Give Daisy what she wants.’

  ‘But Joe? Hackle said…’

  ‘Never mind that. Give it up.’

  Reluctantly, a blood-stained handkerchief was handed over a table.

  At the Piccadilly winner’s enclosure, a gang of hopefuls were gathered. Some of them were of the rightful fifty-nine winners of a half-prize, but most of the tribe were just voyeurs of the prize-giving, hoping to make a mugging. That’s why the burgercops were standing guard, fully loaded, on the pay-out orifice.

  Even as Eddie Irwell berated Celia for giving away the winning bone. ‘How the fuck could you?’ he cried. That was our ticket out of the mess.’

  ‘I was scared, Eddie. Anyway, you’d only spend it on burgers and booze.’

  ‘That is most unfair.’

  ‘We can buy another bone, can’t we?’

  ‘There she blows,’ said Eddie. ‘Game over.’

  The siren sounded all over the city as midnight struck. Daisy’s half-a-bone on the table, faded from a ripe five to a cold and heartless cream for the uncollected.

  ‘Game over,’ said Benny.

  ‘Can I go now, please?’ asked Daisy.

  Benny opened the booth door, Daisy slipped away.

  ‘Fucking bastard dominoes,’ said Joe. ‘One of these days…’

  ‘One of these days, what?’ dared Benny.

  ‘I’m gonna break these bones in two!’

  ‘Will you let me join now, Joe?’ asked Jaz. ‘The Black Math club? Haven’t I earned it yet? Bringing you a half-bone? I can help.’

  ‘Fuck off! OK!’

  ‘Yes, Joe. Right away, Joe. OK, Joe. So you won’t be wanting this, then?’ He was waving a test tube around, inside which some kind of purple, sluggish grease moved slowly.

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ asked Benny.