“What happens to me?”
“Get Out of Jail Free, lucky boy. You were everything we hoped you’d be.”
Jem woke leaning against a tree in the dusty main street of Cook, legs thrust out in front. Someone was talking to him, a tall weathered brunette who kept glancing at her watch, clearly had things to do.
“Train’s in tomorrow,” she said, then indicated the old man standing next to her. “Pete says you can sleep on his verandah tonight. You’ll be fine.”
Jem fought to get his bearings, remember everything, anything, watched the woman walk over to a Jeep Cherokee, climb in, and start the engine.
“Heat stroke’ll get ya, young fella,” the old man said. “Like the lady says, you’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Jem managed to stand. “Say, Pete, did you see a sign on that Jeep’s door? Name of a property or something?”
“Never did. Mally’s pretty much a loner. You see somethin’?”
“Not sure. For a moment I thought I saw that old name from the Bible. Lazarus.”
“Wasn’t he the fella that rose from the dead?”
Jem watched the Jeep driving off amid the dust. “At the very least.”
LAST OF THE FAIR
by Joel Lane
Coming home on the number 11 bus, Mark noticed there was a fair in Fox Hollies Park. It wasn’t the usual scrawny local thing with two electric roundabouts and half a ghost train. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any rides: just a scattering of tents in a hazy orange light that somehow didn’t reach the centre. There was no sign on the gates. A thin October rain scratched at the canvas walls. Odd time of year for a fair. Blurred images pulled at the corner of his eye: a tangle of snakes, a flying eagle, a woman with an angelic face. He thought of Carmel. Their date that afternoon, in a rough Kings Heath pub, was the first time they’d kissed. Next time, he supposed, they might go to bed. It worried him. Some music was playing in the park, but he couldn’t make it out. The bus passed a shop whose upper windows were broken.
The angel stayed in his mind that night. Her neck was bent back; her expression was ecstatic but not peaceful. Mark thought it was an imitation of a painting he’d seen in the Birmingham art gallery, a Rossetti portrait of a woman experiencing some kind of sacred vision. Again he thought of Carmel — her straight dark hair falling over her pale face, her eyes closed as their tongues met in a silent argument. His hand strayed to the smooth ridge of bone above his left nipple, rising to a crest and then falling back into his side. He’d been wearing a loose shirt, she probably hadn’t seen. And she hadn’t gone to his school, so she wouldn’t know about the names. She’d gone to a better school, was at college now. But she didn’t talk to him like he was an idiot. There was a blend of loneliness and fear in her eyes that made him desperate to touch her.
Mark bit his lip as his hand slipped down to his warm belly, his crotch. The rain tore at the windows, like a dog with a bone that no longer had any flesh to lose. The word “bone” stuck in his head and he couldn’t hold onto himself. Frustrated, he rolled over and thought of a house full of broken glass.
The next evening, he went back. The old man at the entrance charged him a pound for admission. It was warmer than the previous night; the ground was still wet. Music was playing from somewhere: “Fairground Attraction,” that song with the annoying stop-start rhythm. The tents were lit up, but there hardly seemed to be anyone around. The smell of mustard and fried onions hung in the air. Mark paced from tent to tent, looking for the angel. What kind of fair was this? The signs didn’t give much away. One showed a man enfolded in his own silver wings, the next a mass of worms feasting on a small creature. Then he glimpsed the ecstatic face on the side of a pale tent. The sign was a pair of hands: one curled up, the fingers scarred and distorted by fire or birth; the other normal, the fingers elegant and smooth. And a single word in red: HEALING. There was a rank smell in the doorway, but he pushed through the fringe of canvas strips.
A middle-aged woman at a desk looked at him as if he’d come to sign in. “Twenty pounds, love.” That was all the money he had. It was meant to last him the week, but he handed it over. “Just go in and sit down,” she said. The space beyond the desk was dark, but he could make out a wooden chair in front of a murky glass screen. Was this just a video? Feeling they had set up the whole thing just to mock him, Mark sat down. The smell was worse here, a mix of something chemical and something animal. No doubt these tents had rats. He shivered. Some music was playing inside, but he had to strain to hear it. The sound was dreamy but repetitive, like rave music slowed down. The speakers were behind him. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out what was behind the screen. It was dancing.
A human figure, more or less. Apparently naked. Had to be a woman, though her body was so deformed he couldn’t be sure. Her hands were knotted into swollen fists. Her back, even allowing for the clumsy dance movements, was twisted out of shape. She had three shrivelled breasts. No area of her skin was free of scars and blemishes. Her sleek hair partly obscured her face, but he could see the eyes and mouth were too small and completely dark. What was between her legs didn’t even look human. The music was making him feel drowsy, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the terrible dance. And then whatever light there was faded. He reached out to touch the screen, to reassure himself there was glass between him and the dancer, and felt nothing.
A hand gripped his shoulder. “Wake up, it’s over.” The woman from the desk. She’d got the wrong person, it wasn’t over, he had business here. For a moment Mark wondered who he was. “Time to go.” There was nothing behind the screen. When he stood up, his erection made it difficult to walk. He was grateful for the poor light. Had they drugged him? The smell was worse now, or maybe he’d added to it. Nauseated and angry, he stumbled through the canvas strips and out into the park, which wasn’t different enough from the tent to reassure him. His excitement faded fast as he walked, then ran, to the exit and home through the orange-lit streets, heaps of black bags almost blocking his way, the stink of days-old rubbish, the ammonia reek of seagulls and rats from the city dump a quarter-mile away, darkness clotted in broken windows and narrow passages to the trading estates behind the houses. Tears blurred his vision, though he had no idea what he was crying about.
When he got home, his father was watching TV. The living- room smelled of Special Brew. Mark grunted hello and rushed through to the bathroom, which was part of a ground-floor extension. He stripped off clumsily, his hands frozen though it wasn’t cold, and switched on the shower — but before he could get into it, he was on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, rocking back and forth. His mouth filled with sour bile, but he didn’t vomit. At least it gave him an excuse for crying. For bitter reassurance, his left hand crept to the ridge of bone between the shoulder-blade and the ribs. It wasn’t there. He felt with his other hand, then looked in the grimy mirror. It had gone. He didn’t know what to feel. The shower was so hot it stung him all over, left him itching. He went straight to bed and curled up as small as he could, hands on shoulders, face digging into the pillow.
Thoughts of her woke him up. The screen dissolving, her abnormal breath in his face. Three nipples pressing against him. A wet ruin down below. He bit his lip as he came, then reached for a tissue, cleaned himself, then crushed the damp paper in his fist. Waste to be crushed and burned. He could do that, they couldn’t stop him. Now he was whole, he could do what he fucking well liked. She had it coming. The other bitch too, the procurer. He’d go back and end it. No one would blame him. He reached for his lighter, a cheap plastic job from a garage, flicked it on, and stared at the orange flame with its dull blue heart. Then he lit a cigarette and sat in the dark, breathing smoke. Marlboro. Carmel smoked the same brand. It was a sign. Finally he dropped the stub in the ashtray, lay back down, and felt peace creep over him like a blanket.