She even asks me if I would like to come through to her cabin and lift some weights together, but I decline the offer. I have no enthusiasm for exercise.
And I am very sad, because I left my girlfriend back on Earth and I know I will never see her again.
I call up the book of myths and legends on the computer screen again. Ascanazl’s mother, it says, was well known for her friendly manners. She lived quietly at the end of the rainbow, but every so often she would go round villages bringing food and medicine to poor peasants.
On one occasion she was bathing naked in the woods when a mortal hunter came across her by chance.
‘It is forbidden for mortals to see the unclothed form of a goddess,’ she said. ‘But never mind. Just go on your way and we’ll forget all about it.’
Ruby sends me out to steal some more magazines. On the way to the shop I pass the flower stall and I stare at the daffodils for a while.
A large jet flies overhead and I stare at it as well, but I am surprised and perturbed to see five small fighters fly over and start attacking it with rockets and lines of tracer fire.
The airliner does its best to fight off the unexpected attack but as its only armament is a small machine-gun that the navigator pokes out the door it has little chance. Soon a rocket blows its tail off and it hurtles to the ground. More pieces break off before it hits, scattering the area with burning debris that starts fires in all the houses.
Luckily the paper shop is unaffected and I quickly pocket a few magazines while the assistant is still stunned by the explosion following the crash.
At Ruby’s suggestion I am wearing my army trousers with big pockets specially for the occasion.
Loaded down with dubious magazines, I hurry home.
Cynthia feels sad about Paris and learns about her psychic appetite
Cynthia watches television in her Uncle’s house. The daytime soap operas are full of difficult romances. This reminds her of Paris, and makes her immensely sad.
She wonders if he is in sleeping with anyone. The thought of Paris fucking someone else makes Cynthia want to plunge a knife into her stomach and twist it round and round. And maybe jump off a cliff as well and take poison and jump under a tube train and slash her wrists with broken glass.
Uncle Bartholomew shambles through in his carpet slippers.
‘I’ve analysed your blood sample,’ he says. ‘And I know what is wrong with you. You’ve eaten too many hippies. Your system is infused with LSD. LSD has a very bad effect on us werewolves. You’ve developed a psychic appetite.’
‘What is that?’
‘It means you can sense who is a good person and who is not. And only the good ones will taste nice to you. In fact, the nicer someone is, the better they’ll taste.’
Cynthia is about to enquire further when the werewolf detectives arrive. She is forced to flee, silver machine-gun bullets bouncing and ricocheting around her.
‘There may be other symptoms,’ calls out her Uncle after her.
After the young girl’s body was found outside my Battersea squat the police asked me some questions. Not very many questions, really. A few days later I saw four men in a car in the street who looked like policemen. That was all.
I got a temporary job helping in a chemical factory somewhere near Chiswick, and carried drums of chemicals around and mixed them in huge metal vats. The person who worked with me was a fifty-year-old Kenyan who read Latin at tea break and classical Greek at lunch. He had studied for a law degree but switched halfway through to mathematics. Then he had some personal problems and was unable to finish his degree. Now he just read Latin and Greek in his breaks at the chemical factory.
The third member of the shift was heavily tattooed with blood-dripping roses crawling down his arms and he told me he never went out with his wife anymore because she had put on too much weight.
Every morning, because of the times of the trains I could catch to work, I was three minutes late arriving and for this I would be docked fifteen minutes’ pay. But as the alternative was arriving twenty-seven minutes early this seemed like the best thing to do.
The foreman thought I was a good worker and encouraged me to take the job permanently, but after a few weeks some chemicals splashed out of a drum and burned my eyes.
My burning eyes were the most painful thing I have ever experienced, by a long way.
There was no doctor in the factory and nothing in the medical supply box but bandages, so I went to the toilet and washed and washed them with water, hoping that I would not lose my sight. Then I went home on the bus with my eyes burning under a bandage, lifted at one corner to let me see, and lay around crying and burning for a while.
I gave up the job. The Social Security suspended my benefit for leaving work without good grounds.
My eyes got better. My next job was the one laying cement, which was horrible as well. I didn’t get my eyes burned but it ruined my boots. After every shift I would shake with exertion and if it rained on the way home my feet would ooze with mud and cement.
*
All the buildings in the street are burning after the fight in the sky, but I make it home safely through the police and fire engines and ambulances screaming this way and that.
Back home Ruby is in her bedroom, listening to music.
‘There were some aeroplanes fighting in the sky,’ I tell her. ‘But I managed to get some magazines.’
Ruby goes and puts the kettle on. She says that she is hungry and wishes we had some food.
She gets her typewriter out and we start copying some stories.
I read out some stories and Ruby types them out, changing them a little. It takes longer than we think it will and after making up a karate story and a doctor-nurse romance I am bored with the whole thing because as far as I can see the stories we are copying already say everything there is to say about karate tournaments and doctor-nurse romances. But Ruby wants to do some more because she is convinced we can earn money and Ruby and me both need money. Sometimes I have jobs but Ruby never works. I think she is becoming more and more disinclined to leave the house. Everything we need, I bring in.
Ruby hunts out another magazine from our bundle. It is called Blow and is composed entirely of photographs of men spanking women or hitting them with canes.
‘One of Danny’s,’ she says. ‘We are bound to get published in it.’
Danny, the person whose door I ripped off in frustration some years ago in Battersea, is now a sex magazine editor. We still know him.
‘But it is total nonsense,’ I protest. ‘And objectionable in every way.’
‘No one will ever know. And these specialist sex magazines are sure to pay well.’
I read out the story and Ruby puts it down, changing it round a little.
There is a knock on the door. When I answer it I find Cis outside, delivering our new telephone directory.
‘Cis has just brought us a new telephone directory, Ruby.’
‘Stop being foolish and get on with the story,’ demands Ruby.
I have no idea why she says this. It is true, I have the telephone directory as proof.
When we have a break for a cup of tea we go and look at the cactuses.
No flowers, and it is the beginning of April. Ruby, however, is getting on well with Domino and does not seem too worried. She sympathises with me.
‘It will flower soon. Probably Cis knew that it was a sacred Aphrodite Cactus and gave it to you deliberately.’
Ruby tells me that we have to move next week.
‘Why?’
‘Pauline is coming back.’
It is Pauline’s flat. We are only living there temporarily. I forgot all about it. We can never find anywhere proper to live.
‘What will we do?’
‘I’ll find us somewhere,’ says Ruby, matter-of-factly.
In the Battersea Squatters’ Association we planned to defend a house against Wandsworth Council after they gave the tenant notice of eviction. Th
e Squatters’ Association was determined to resist this eviction because everywhere there were homeless people and everywhere there were empty houses.
We formed a defence committee and appointed one person in charge of the physical defence and one person in charge of publicity and made ready to resist the eviction. ‘I met Izzy today,’ continues Ruby. ‘She was buying some new weights. Well, actually she was standing on a corner about to burst into tears because she’s pregnant and Dean doesn’t want to see her anymore because he has a new girlfriend. But after that she was going to buy some new weights.’
‘Was she looking any more muscly?’
‘No. Izzy is one of the least muscly people I’ve ever seen. But it keeps her happy.’
We have a break from writing.
‘Relationships are terrible,’ I say, and Ruby agrees. I ask her if she thinks it would be a good idea for me to go and visit Cis but she says probably it wouldn’t be.
‘How about if I phoned?’
‘That might be better.’
‘Will you phone for me?’
‘What good will that do?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m terrible on the phone.’
‘I bought some new earrings when I was out,’ says Ruby. ‘Look, little rainbows. One for you and one for me.’
Cynthia eats a motorbike messenger
Cynthia is in worse trouble than ever. She can only eat people she likes.
The rest of the werewolves scattered throughout Britain hardly ever eat people at all. They live as normal humans. Unfortunately Cynthia has never been able to adapt.
A motorbike messenger stops to ask her directions. New on the job, he has lost his way between Marble Arch and Brixton. He has a nice smile and a friendly manner.
Cynthia eats him while his radio crackles in the background.
A pleasing snack, she thinks, riding off on his motorbike. That’s strange, I never knew how to ride a motorbike before.
Suddenly she realises that she never meant to eat him in the first place.
She would rather have made friends and seen more of his friendly smile. Her appetite has become completely uncontrollable.
Outside it is raining with maybe a few hailstones and I wish the sun would shine so I could see a rainbow because I like rainbows and if I don’t see Cis soon I will go totally mad.
‘I wish I could see Domino,’ says Ruby. ‘And I’m fed up with all this rain. This must be the wettest year in history. I’m going to go and paint some sunshine.’
I make her some tea and she strides through to her room to paint. I am envious of Ruby’s ability to paint. I am envious of all artists. I have a good plan for seeing Cis.
Lamia the Eastern Huntress Goddess used to exercise daily to keep her body perfect. She fell in love with a mortal painter and asked him to paint her. Unfortunately, none of the paintings could capture her perfect beauty. Eventually, dispirited by his failure, he took his own life by drowning himself under a waterfall. Afterwards Lamia cried for her lover for forty days and forty nights and her tears fell like rain, washing away crops and houses in a flood of grief.
Izzy told me she heard that Cis was going to art school. I hope she does well. I would hate it if Cis became discouraged and drowned herself under a waterfall.
‘Ruby, I have a good plan for seeing Cis and also it will probably help you to see Domino, and my zip is stuck, can you help me with it please?’
Ruby kneels down in front of me and tries to loosen my zip. Her room smells of paint and I notice she is losing weight.
The person in charge of the physical defence of the squat in Battersea went slightly overboard and barricaded the bay windows with railway sleepers, filling up the gaps with cement and barbed wire. To fit the railway sleepers in he organised the removal of half the floorboards and part of the ceiling. With the windows barred and barricaded and the doors nailed shut the house was practically invulnerable. The only way in was by ladder into the upstairs window.
We made a yellow banner with ‘Battersea Squatters’ Association’ written on it. On the day of the eviction we would hang it out of the window.
Three people were nominated to stay inside the house when the bailiffs arrived. The rest of the squatters were to stand outside protesting. Nominated as one of the three, I was less than enthusiastic. I knew that when the bailiffs couldn’t get in they would call the police and we would be arrested. But I had not done much for the Squatters’ Association and it was my turn to be useful.
Ruby has to struggle with my zip for a long time but I trust her implicitly to fix it without doing me any damage. And if by chance she did do me some harm then she would call an ambulance right away. She is the sort of person who would have no problem in calling an ambulance and demanding they came right away, no excuses accepted.
Ruby is a wonderful friend and I worry about her losing weight. Ruby is the best friend I’ve ever had. Ruby is the best friend in the history of the world. It enrages me that she will lose weight and maybe harm herself all because of Domino. I hate Domino.
‘There, your zip is free. If Domino saw me in such close proximity to anyone else’s penis he would go crazy. Do you like my sunshine painting?’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful. The lilac sun matches your dress. How is your writing coming along?’
‘Fine. I’ll show you a story soon. When’s your gig?’
‘We had to postpone it again. We still can’t find a drummer. Do you want to hear my plan for seeing Cis?’
‘OK. What’s your plan for seeing Cis?’
‘Well, first you ring up and check if she’s home. If she answers the phone you put it down immediately like it is a wrong number, but if she’s out then there’s a good chance we could accidentally run into her. It is Thursday and Cis will cash her Giro today and probably go for a drink. There are four pubs in Brixton she might go to and we can call in to each one casually as if we were just there for a drink ourselves and if she is there I’ll naturally just have to say hello. She won’t realise I’ve planned it. If she isn’t at any of the pubs she might be at some friend’s house so we can call round her friends on some pretext, and if that fails we could wait at the end of her street and see if she happens by.’
‘What pretext are we going to use for calling round on her friends?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I hoped you could think of one.’
‘And what will you do if you meet her?’
‘I’ll say hello.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t planned that far ahead. But there is a good chance we’ll run into Domino along the way.’
‘Fine,’ says Ruby. ‘It seems like a good plan to me. Let’s do it.’
Cynthia does not accomplish very much
Cynthia werewolf rides around on her motorbike. She loves to take corners dangerously and threaten pedestrians. Unfortunately she cannot stop thinking about Paris. She is tormented by the thought of him sleeping with other women. When she—
There is a sudden silence as Ruby comes to a halt.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I have writer’s block. I don’t know what happens after Cynthia rides away on her motorbike.’
‘Make her eat a few more people,’ I suggest. ‘I like it when she eats people.’
Ruby frowns, and plays with the material of her dress, and she tells me she is feeling bad. She is troubled because Domino has not been around for a few days. He might be sleeping with someone else. Just like Cynthia.
‘Do you think about Cis fucking someone else?’
‘About twenty or thirty times a day.’
‘What do you do to stop thinking about it?’
‘I don’t do anything. Nothing works. I can remember every inch of Cis’s body perfectly. I can picture her fucking someone else like it was happening right next to me. Usually after a while I get to wondering if it hurts very much when you slit your wrists.’
‘It would here,’ says Ruby. ‘We don’t
have any sharp knives. We’d better get drunk instead.’
We hunt out our money. I like whiskey but Ruby likes brandy, so I buy a bottle of brandy at the off-licence. The off-licence is full of Irish women buying Irish whiskey. They have all come over to have abortions in Britain because it is illegal in Ireland. In London they are lonely, separated from their friends and families, forced to travel abroad like fugitives. They buy the Irish whiskey to cheer them up.
I wish them good luck and take home a bottle of brandy. Then Ruby and I drink it as fast as we can till it makes us fall asleep. It is quite a good idea of Ruby’s, because you can’t really think of anything when you are collapsed drunk on the floor, and next morning you have a terrible hangover, and this is good for taking your mind off other things as well.
Come the day of the eviction the publicity person had done his job fairly well and other squatters from south London were there to help us picket. Some pressmen from small local papers arrived with cameras.
All the squatters were cheerful but I was nervous. The week before one of the women in our group had been arrested for causing a fight at the dole office, and she described to me how the police put her in a cell all night and the cell seemed as big as a matchbox. I did not want to be locked up all night in a tiny cell.
Upstairs in the barricaded house we three occupants had a pile of things to throw at the bailiffs. Plastic bags full of paint and piles of rotted fruit and, strangely, cold porridge.
I became more and more nervous and wondered if I could escape over the rooftops when the police arrived. I wondered if it would be normal police or the Special Patrol Group, because the Special Patrol Group was very active in south London at this time.
Sitting in the window I looked up at the sky and wondered if some beings in a spaceship might fly down and rescue me.
‘I like your new earrings,’ says Marilyn, who has called round for a visit and a cup of tea.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Thank you,’ says Ruby.