I have a terrible headache.
Walking home I see Cis right outside Brixton Town Hall doing an exotic dance with a bowl of fruit in front of a TV camera but I don’t stop to watch because it is starting to rain and water is running into my eyes and making it hard to see.
Despite the rain the woman is still sitting lonely on her balcony so I wave to her and she waves back.
‘What day is it?’ says Ruby.
‘I don’t know. Should I go and get a paper?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Don’t bother.’
Cynthia howls
Cynthia lies in the cellar, bound with unbreakable chains of iron and silver. In the morning she will stand trial. As Cynthia is too much of an embarrassment to werewolves in general to be let loose again, Lupus will most probably have her quietly killed.
Cynthia, however, is not concerned about this. She is not even thinking about it. She is thinking about Paris. She is picturing him in bed with someone else.
She lets out a mighty howl and rolls around in misery. Her heart feels like it has been pierced with a stake. Her soul is leaking out in a small silver stream.
The guards outside the door tell her to be quiet, but Cynthia ignores them and keeps on howling.
My first contact is called Steve. He is forty and interested in films. We meet in a wine bar in Camden and he takes me back to his flat where he tells me his theories about discipline. On Ruby’s instructions I try and remember all the details and everything he says. He ties me onto his bed and whips me with a leather thong a friend brought him back as a present from Surinam, and then he puts a gag in my mouth and fucks me.
‘Would you like to go and see a film next time?’ he asks as I leave.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Is The Wild One showing anywhere locally?’
Ruby is fascinated by my tale of the night’s events and goes so far as to leave the house to bring back some antiseptic cream from the chemist’s. When she rubs it into my wounds she says she is surprised that such a violent person would advertise in a left-wing magazine like City Limits, but it just goes to show, you never can tell.
‘Nigel phoned. He has found a good drummer and wants you to go and meet him tonight. Tomorrow I am going to see my first contact. Some man who wants to be dominated.’
I tell her about waking up in bed with Maz and also about how I had apparently drunk too much to be able to have sex.
‘That happened to Domino last night,’ says Ruby.
‘Maybe we could form a club.’
Eventually me and the robot become bored hanging round the valley and we strike out boldly for the next continent.
On the whole planet there are no animals.
The robot converts into a boat and we sail across a dead sea.
The next continent is much the same, dead plains, small groups of shambling humanoids.
Unexpectedly, one village gives us a warm welcome.
‘The great Rain-Singing God,’ they say, and bring us some food.
I eat the food and sit around for a few days. Everyone treats me well. I seem to be some sort of star. They are friendly to the robot as well and I can tell it is happy.
After a few days, however, I notice they seem to be expecting something.
The headman approaches me respectfully with a bowl of fruit.
‘Thank you.’
‘When can we expect the rain?’ he asks.
‘What rain?’
‘The rain to end our terrible drought. The rain that follows the Rain-Singing God.’
I admit frankly that I have no idea.
‘But you are the Rain-Singing God?’
‘No, I am a lost spaceman.’
He grabs the bowl of fruit off me and I am ejected from the village.
‘You can’t sing for rain,’ I protest. ‘Rain is the scientific result of certain meteorological conditions.’
Cis appears in a tattered spacesuit, singing happily. It starts to rain. Immediately she is bombarded with presents of fruit.
In her tattered spacesuit she looks immensely stylish.
I trudge away with the robot.
‘Oh, fuck it,’ it says, the only time I ever hear it speak.
The robot is becoming less and less inclined to synthesise food for me and I am becoming increasingly hungry.
Ruby has promised to cook me a meal because I have done all the cooking for the past month.
‘What is that awful smell?’
‘I have burned all the food you bought at Sainsbury’s,’ she says, ‘and thrown it in the bin because it is all so unhealthy. From now on we are going to go on a Stone Age diet.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we only eat the sort of healthy things our Stone Age ancestors would have eaten. Raw grains and fruit and stuff like that. That’s what our bodies are made for.’
‘OK, what healthy grains and fruits are we eating tonight?’
‘None.’
‘Why not?’
‘We don’t have any.’
‘But I’m hungry.’
‘Fasting is good for you.’
Right.
It is time to tend to our cacti. Now that it is July I am sure there should be some sign of a flower but there is not. Looking at my cactus, I start to feel some dislike for it. I suspect it is deliberately refusing to flower. It is unwilling to mend my rift with Cis.
‘I am beginning to think this is all your fault,’ I say, quite harshly. Ruby is watching television.
‘I’m hungry,’ she says.
I look in the fridge. I have never seen an emptier fridge. I think Ruby is only happy when all she has in the world is her dress and her sunglasses.
‘You know, when I was being whipped with that leather thong I forgot all about Cis.’
‘That’s good. Something positive came out of the occasion. Also, I will be able to work it into a terrific magazine article. If Domino calls, tell him to go away. We had an argument and I never want to see him again.’
‘What happened?’
‘I took him some flowers and he spat on them. He threw my book of myths and fables down the stairs.’
She strokes her book protectively.
‘He is upset because he drank too much to fuck. Did you know the Spirit of Evil Zoroastrism is called Ahriman?’
‘No. But I’m pleased you told me.’
It seems that it is Clio, the Muse of History, who looks after museums. I tell her how much I enjoyed visiting the British Museum and I compliment her on her earrings, which are silver and gold with rubies and opals dancing at the ends. She tells me they are made by her brother Andryion who, as well as making jewelry, builds houses and always tries to help people who have no proper place to live. But often he is busy with his boyfriend Marsatz who is a painter. They are very happy together, always bringing each other little presents, but it sometimes means that housing does not get as much attention as it should.
Ruby hustles me out the house. It is time for the art class.
Today all the students have to do a series of fast drawings so that every few minutes the teacher shifts me into a different position. This is better than the normal two hours of motionless cramp. As some sort of prop the teacher puts a cactus next to me and she makes another little joke about hoping the cactus will not sting my naked skin.
Clio also looks after painters so she is interested in the art class. I tell her that all the exhibits in the British Museum were fine and also they serve good tea although it is quite expensive, and I confide that I am a little worried because I have heard that there is no money to keep museums open and they might have to introduce an admission charge.
‘My friend Jane who sells communist newspapers tells me that the government hates giving money for things like art.’
Clio frowns.
‘A strange accusation,’ she says. ‘I would have thought they were doing their best.’
‘Well, she’s not really my friend. I just run into her now and then.’
>
My feet are dirty. I hope no one at the class notices. I do not want them to talk about me afterwards and say to each other that I had dirty feet.
Back home with my six pounds I am very bored. Ruby wanders through.
‘I’m bored,’ she says. ‘Let’s buy a new can-opener.’
‘A new can-opener?’ I say, a little surprised.
‘Yes, I saw a brilliant new kind of can-opener on television, the advert had hundreds of them all dancing round doing the can-can. We have to get one, it will be wonderful.’
We spend a while getting properly dressed and wondering whether it will rain, then we hunt the shops for the radical new can-opener. I am dubious of course that it is really going to improve my life but I trust Ruby’s judgement.
We find the new can-opener in Tesco. I am interested to be in Tesco. I have not been here since Cis and I were thrown out for shoplifting.
Seconds after slipping some bright yellow electric plugs and a packet of coleslaw into our pockets we were surrounded by security guards. We were surprised how quickly they came. We were also surprised to be merely thrown out and not arrested.
But I was not surprised to be caught. Tesco is full of bad demons and evil spirits.
It was no fun at the time but now it seems like quite a good memory. Except it reminds me of Cis.
Depressed by the memory of Cis I am unable to move.
‘Come on,’ says Ruby. ‘I don’t like it out here, I want to get home.’
‘This new can-opener, please,’ she says at the check-out. She does not want to steal it. I am relieved. Barefoot with sunglasses, Ruby is not inconspicuous.
‘And twenty tins of beans and a loaf of bread.’
‘Why did you get a loaf? Does the new can-opener slice bread as well? It must be a wonderful machine.’
Ruby says no, it doesn’t slice bread, but as we are going to be opening lots of beans we can make toast and eat them. Sometimes I am lost in admiration for Ruby. I cannot think ahead like she can.
Walking home there is a man taking photographs in the street so we have to sneak past him because we do not want our souls to be stolen. Ruby has told me that when a stranger takes your picture the camera sucks up your soul and gives it to bad spirits like the ones in Tesco. I am anxious that this should not happen.
‘Look at that boy’s hair,’ says Ruby. ‘Isn’t it nice?’
Tied up with plaits and white dreadlocks it is indeed very impressive.
‘Get him to be your drummer.’
‘But he might not play the drums.’
‘Of course he does,’ says Ruby, ‘I can feel it in my feet.’
He says he will be pleased to audition.
Cynthia faces trial, and loses her guitar
Ruby tells me she is stuck. She is not sure how to rescue Cynthia from prison.
I think about it while I’m helping her with her hair.
‘Can’t you just have her eat all the guards in a savage fury and burst out through a window?’
‘I was hoping for something more subtle.’
She ponders it for a while.
In the morning Cynthia is dragged upstairs to face the werewolf court. Armed guards are everywhere.
Lupus is sitting on his jewelled throne.
‘To my certain knowledge,’ he says commandingly, ‘you have eaten two hundred people. Despite my express desire that we should not harm anyone in these civilised days, you have become the bloodiest werewolf in the history of our race. Have you anything to say for yourself?’
Cynthia is hard put to find a good answer. She has undeniably eaten a lot of people.
‘I had a hard and loveless childhood in a lonely croft. As soon as I left I became tangled up in a series of tragic love affairs. I am not responsible for my actions.’
‘Pathetic,’sneers Lupus. ‘Is that the best you can do? Look at you. No shoes, purple hair, and fourteen cheap earrings. You are a disgrace.’
Cynthia is not pleased at this personal criticism. Her natural good taste has returned, and she has been taking a lot of trouble with her image.
Lupus picks up her guitar and brandishes it in her face. Whilst raging against her many crimes, he smashes it. Cynthia is appalled. She loves her guitar. Roused by an incredibly savage fury she attacks the guards. The room dissolves into a volcano of blood before Cynthia makes her escape by chewing through the bars and plunging out of a window.
‘You were right,’ says Ruby. ‘A savage fury and an escape through the window was the best thing to do. Do we have any brandy left?’
‘No. But I could get some. Is Cynthia still suffering the psychic appetite?’
Ruby shakes her head.
‘No, I’m bored with that now. She can eat who she likes and it doesn’t affect her.’
Halfway across another desolate plain we come across a ruined building. The robot forces in the door but there is nothing inside.
‘Back on Earth I once had to force a door so I could get into bed with a young woman I met at a bus stop.’
I wait for some sign that the robot would like to hear the rest of the story but it does not give me one.
The robot does not think that I am a good storyteller. When I tried to interest it in a tale of some hippopotamuses it just looked at me with contempt.
Also it is busy compiling the encyclopaedia of machine myths and occasionally worshipping the Motorcycle God.
Everywhere on the planet it is raining. As a Rain God, Cis has been a spectacular success. I have given up hope of ever finding a home here and am resigned to trudging round for ever with a mad machine.
My only comforts are some ruby earrings that the robot synthesised for me to keep me quiet. Unfettered by any stylistic conventions I am wearing seven earrings in each ear. If there is room to pierce any more holes, I might put in some more.
I know that I will never have any fun again, and I wish that I was back on Earth.
*
Sure enough the new design can-opener is immense fun. It takes the whole tops off cans, and Ruby and I take it in turns to take the tops off and stare admiringly at the results because neither of us has ever had a good can-opener before, only the very cheapest one that you buy from a stall in a market and you have to wrestle with it for twenty minutes to open your beans and even then you still get your fingers ripped to shreds on the tin.
After all the tins are opened we pour all the beans into the sink and start on the other ends of the cans. By this time we are becoming hysterical and when there aren’t any cans left we try it on the loaf and cover the room with crumbs and then we ask the people next door if they’d like any cans opened and when they say no, not right now, we ask them to be sure to bear us in mind when they do.
I have a few minutes’ sadness when I think how much fun I could have had if Cis was here to see the new can-opener, but when Ruby gathers up all the tops from the cans and starts frisbeeing them down the hall I cheer up again and join in and all in all the new can-opener is probably the most fun I have had all year.
Afterwards, when the entire house is a slithering swamp of beans, breadcrumbs and mangled aluminium cans, I think that possibly life is not so appalling after all. Ruby gets me to massage her shoulders and she says I am easily among the best shoulder-massagers she has ever come across. I am pleased at this compliment.
I am not pleased to learn that she is back with Domino and he is coming round this evening to borrow a little money.
Out my window I can see the old woman on her balcony. She is looking lonely so I try and communicate with her telepathically, but she does not seem to be very adept at it and her replies are too weak for me to make out properly. I do get the strong impression, however, that her son is in prison for repeated chequebook fraud and that she disapproves of the Pope for being inconsiderate to the needs of women.
Cynthia finds that loneliness is good for your guitar technique
Without her guitar, Cynthia is unable to busk. Hopeful of remaining inconspicuous, she do
es not want to return to her life of crime. With Lupus still hot on her trail, really it would be best for her to leave town, but she cannot bear to be so far away from Paris.
There is only one thing to do. She finds a temporary job in a factory, making components for robots. Unfortunately, on her second day at the factory she is forced to chew the foreman’s head off after he bores her for twenty minutes with a funny story about how he was thrown out of a nightclub at the weekend for starting a fight.
This brings Cynthia’s industrial career to an end. She decides that she had better not work in any more factories because in her day and a half making robots she came close to eating almost everyone she met.
So she moves into a disused warehouse and lives on stray cats and dogs. She eats down the door of a music shop one night and steals another guitar, which she practises and practises on till she becomes a master of the instrument, and when the moon shines through the cracked windows above her head she exercises her voice by howling out sad country songs.
She thinks that maybe she will just stay in the warehouse for the rest of her life. Paris has no doubt forgotten all about her and she will never see him again.
My next job is as Assistant Head Storeman in a large hotel in Knightsbridge. There are two porters there who know the job already, but the hotel does not want to make either of them Assistant Head because they are both Indian.
I am embarrassed to be put in charge of them. I never once tell them to do anything.
‘I think that story is worse than the last one,’ says Ruby, who is dyeing a leather wristband.
‘What story?’
‘The one about Cis being a Rain God.’
‘I don’t have any story about her being a Rain God.’
‘Yes you do.’
I don’t have any story about Cis being a Rain God. Ruby is getting crazier and crazier. It is probably Domino’s fault, he is an awful boyfriend. I have known thousands of nice girls with terrible boyfriends.
Domino knocks on the door and when Ruby eagerly shows him her newly dyed wristband he says it is a mess.