So I was faffing around last night going through old stuff I’ve written and I came across some bits and pieces of a book I was working on nigh on five years ago now. I got so far through it and then stopped writing it as I was severely blocked, but having re-read it I think that maybe it might be a good place to start. Or at least start over and hopefully this time figure out where it’s going. Here’s a couple of excerpts from my notes:
#1
I was close enough now to the Drag’s to see that they–thankfully–weren’t the two goons from the previous night.
‘Sorry, is there a problem?’
‘Yeah, there’s a problem alright. This is a restricted zone, no access, can’t ya read?’ he sneered pointing to an ancient ‘Slow Children Crossing’ sign. I stammered an apology and backed off. No point in annoying the gorillas–or the slow children for that matter. I still hadn’t decided what I was doing here, or why I’d bothered to come back. Part of me wanted to see the crime scene in daylight, another part wanted to run away as fast as fuck.
‘Where’s your ID?’ The goon held out a hand the size of a young cow.
‘ID?’
‘Smart arse eh? We’ll soon kick that out of you.’ The Drag reached a hand around behind him and pulled a billy club from out of the ether–although he might also have pulled it straight out of his arse, I couldn’t be sure with the size of him.
‘OK, OK, lads, no need for that, here’s my ID, see?’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, moving slowly lest the animals mistake my actions for a possible threat to their habitat. The goon pawed my wallet, flipping it open and glaring at the card inside the plastic sleeve.
‘J. Quinn,’ he tripped over the pronunciation. Those one-syllable words will get you every time.
‘Alright Quinn, why don’t you just continue on walking back to wherever you came from?’
His goon friend cracked a rictus that would have given the grim reaper a severe case of the shits, and didn’t do much for me either. It split his head in half and I expected that if he opened his mouth the top of his head would simply tumble off.
#2
I was half-way through my meal, scooping up the last of my asparagus beans which tasted like they had been seared in the fires of hell, when Mann arrived.
I pushed up a bit and the waitress silently arrived with another carpet-covered seat.
‘Quinn.’
‘Doctor.’ Mann sat and ordered quickly in Mandarin. Although it could have been fucking telly-tubby for all I knew. Bastarding showoff. I continued scooping up nuggets of chilli pork and chased a peanut around my plate. I’ve never been good with chopsticks. The waitress disappeared behind the beaded curtains and Mann leaned back in his chair.
‘A friend of yours?’
‘The cabbie?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Never seen him before today.’
‘He’s a man of impeccable tastes.’
‘So I noticed, my wallet is still recovering.’ He laughed lightly.
‘That was my best Clooney.’
‘Oh aye, Rosemary or George?’
He ignored my quip.
‘How long has it been Jude?’
‘Not long enough.’
‘No, I suppose not. You are-‘
‘I’m doing fine, yes.’ I stopped stuffing my mouth long enough to look at him. His eyes were cool and grey; waiting for me to expand. I didn’t say anything more. He, the first to look away.
‘What was that all about? You aren’t the type to take in strays.’
‘Nothing… nothing that matters.’ I didn’t want to dwell too long on the morning’s escapades. Changed the topic.
‘How’s the cutting business?’
‘I have a certain amount of pride in my work. I do not cut Jude, you are very cruel to say such things.’
I smiled. I was probably the only person who could call Mann a cutter and get away with it. He and I went way back, right back to the beginning and I was still sore about his implied insult earlier.
#3
‘How long have you got?’
I heard a quick intake of breath. She didn’t answer but I could sense a slight tremble in her.
‘I could smell you all the way up the stairs. So what is it? A couple of months? Couple of weeks? You must be going through a couple of bricks of G a week.’
I was pushing it now. Closing in then backing off. Any other time I wouldn’t have dared say these things, but from the stench I figured she wouldn’t have the strength to make a lunge for me.
I was going to have to retune my intuition.
She threw herself from the chair, legs too emaciated to stand. In my confidence I’d gotten a little too close and now she was hanging onto me, snarling and spitting. We waltzed around the room, a demented Fred and Ginger. Her legs might be rotting from under her, but her nails were still sharp. She scratched my face, slicing just above my eyebrow. Immediately my vision slicked to red. Blinded, I grabbed her waist and pushed. She fell over and landed on her back, but not before her left knee joint buckled and wrenched her leg into a shape so right-angled it was wrong. The bone cut through the ‘tex and immediately the room filled with the smell of death. Sweet posies and rancid milk. I backed off, retching.
I’m not one usually given to depression over birthdays, but this week I’ve had a couple of wobbly moments. Another thing is the idea other people have that having a birthday on Halloween must be the coolest thing ever. It was when I was a kid, I loved dressing up and going trick or treating, perfect way to end a birthday. What kid wouldn’t want a pillow-case full of free candy to top off the day?