Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

(ded things)

Just a hallway

(rotting things)

just the hallway, and at the end father would be sitting in bed waiting for the lights to come on.

“father?” Almost a whisper.

Seven steps. Eight steps. Nine steps.

He had to see. He had to reach father.

Twelve steps. Thirteen steps.

“I am a FREE MAN. Crocodile, you cannot touch me.” He stepped into the doorway.

Lightning flashed, blinding him.

When his eyes adjusted, he screamed. A long, hysterical screeching painful scream as he turned to run for his bedroom.

The Crocodile’s shape was halfway through the window, its massive head and shoulders on the bed, on father , as it ate him up.

He ran, knocking against the bookshelves, crashing into the opposite wall as he raced for the door, hitting it so hard with his full weight he nearly threw it off its hinges. He slammed it behind him, skidding on the magazines under foot, his breath coming in frantic huffing-puffing-blow-your-house-down gasps as he pulled the chest of drawers away from the wall with his good hand, dragging it against the door, sliding down to the floor with his back against the hard knobs.

The darkness was DARK.

Light. He must have light!

(torch)

His torch! Where was it?

He turned, pulling out the bottom drawer, pulling screwed-up shirts, twisted pairs of trousers.

The torch. His hand touched it, his thumb rubbing the button like a magic spot.

Light.

He sighed. Light was GOOD.

And —

And he couldn’t hear the Crocodile. But it was out there. It knew where he was, and once it had finished with father, it would come for him. He felt safer now he had the light. Maybe he could blind it and escape. No, no, that was no good. The Crocodile would get him. What could he do?

(watch)

He sneezed.

(??thewatch??)

The watch!

(SECRET)

Yes, his SECRET. The watch he had found on one of his seek-and-ye-shall-find walks around the neighbourhood. The little old watch with the cracked glass, a watch called TIMEX lying among the folds of a torn dress in the bins outside number 213. He’d kept it, brought it home, although clocks/watches were forbidden in the house.

(?why the watch?)

The watch. It was his SECRET. A secret like the other secret things he’d found: the magazine filled with pictures of men and women with no clothes on, the broken radio called HITACHI, the empty chocolate tin, the playing cards with naked ladies on them….

Blood pounded in his ears, and his nose was running steadily now, but he ignored the snot flowing over his lips as he rummaged in the drawer for the chocolate tin. He found it but couldn’t open the lid because his fingers were slippery with sweat.

Open! Open!

The lid popped off.

There were the naked lady playing cards — and there was TIMEX. It was cold in his hand, yet reassuring in its simple, dangerous form. He put the torch down so he could wind it, wind it so the Crocodile would hear it. The stiff fingers of his left hand held TIMEX carefully as he fumbled with the tiny knob sticking from its side. His sweaty fingers turned the knob, slipped, turned harder. Once, twice, three time, four time.

Nothing.

TIMEX was ded.

He shook it.

Shook it again.

Then —

Tick, tick, tick…

The house was silent. It was out there though, oh yes, it was out there.

“I am a FREE MAN.”

He opened his mouth, placing TIMEX on his tongue.

Why the watch?

Because… because if you wanted to gain the power of your enemy you ate its heart to make you invincible and the Crocodile’s heart was the clock that ticked ticked ticked inside it.

(nationalgeographic)

The tribe called CA-NNIBALS ate the hearts of their enemies to take their strength. He knew. He’d read it in that magazine with the naked black women — National Geographic — yes, that was it.

CA-NNIBALS ate their enemies and became as strong as them. CA-NNIBALS didn’t eat CA-NNIBALS.

TIMEX was cold and didn’t taste very nice. He hesitated, then swallowed.

And gagged.

TIMEX was in his throat. He tried to swallow again. It wouldn’t move! He tried again.

Tick, tick, tick…

And started coughing.

Tick, tick, tick…

He couldn’t breathe!

Tick, tick, tick…

He clawed at his throat. It felt like he had swallowed a rock. He gasped, fingernails gouging his skin. Gasping, gasping.

Tick, tick, tick…

No! No! It had tricked him. The Crocodile knew about TIMEX, had fooled him.

He felt faint as he tried to stand, still grasping his throat, retching, gasping. He stepped back putting his foot on the slick pages of a magazine, and fell over.

Tick, tick, tick…

He could hear it, hear the Crocodile coming.

Tick, tick, tick…

It was outside the door. He wheezed, trying desperately to breathe, fingers digging into his skin now. He had to —

Tick, tick, tick…

hehadto —

The Crocodile.

Tick, tick, tick…

The Crocodile.

Tick, tick, tick…

The Crocodi —

Tick, tick, ti —

Meredith shivered in his brown leather jacket as he stood before the porno cinema. The wind was rising, the streets devoid of life, yet his body shook not from the chill factor but from a deep, sudden sense of dread. After hours walking the Eternal City’s empty thoroughfares in search of a fellow soul with whom he could share a moment of sexual warmth, his journey ended here.

It was once said all roads lead to Rome; all the Roman roads he had traveled in his nocturnal hunt for release seemed to lead here. And as he stood before the building, profound desperation pulsed through his tired, alcohol-soaked body. Just looking at the place made him feel sick.

The facade of the Passion Pussycat cinema was an affront to good taste. Green and purple neon mixed to create an emetic spill of light which washed over the marquee to luridly shower the sidewalk. Its curved front was segmented by electric signs depicting nubile Sixties-style go-go dancers with cat ears and tiny tails. There was no indication of what was screening inside.

A newspaper scuttled against his legs, making him jump, then performed a dervish dance to the gutter. He ran his hands over the week’s growth of stubble coating his face to massage his tired eyes. He guessed the program would consist of typical Scandinavian, German, and American hetero hardcore — par for the course and boring. But whatever was playing there, perhaps at least there might be some buggery to keep him entertained, although he hoped if there were German movies unspooling, the footage would not be as extreme as one he’d caught in a Parisian theatre.

The loop had started mundanely with a domestic scenario involving a couple, the man going to take a bath. The scene soon turned into a laughable water sports sequence when the woman rinsed his hair with her urine after he shampooed it, but this was succeeded by an anal scene with a surgical device that had been clinical in its presentation, almost abstract in its relentless close-up and, even to Meredith’s jaded sensibilities, offensive.

He stood hesitantly like a schoolboy on a first date, the promise of a sexual encounter almost unreal after the endless hours he had obsessed over the subject. Yet it was more than nervousness; a primal instinct made his balls contract painfully to the point of almost groaning. But there was no turning back. Not now. Not after the day’s hollow promises had faded as breath to the wind. All Rome had to offer were vague hopes of financial gain and a cold, dirty room at the pensione. With that thought in mind, he walked up the steps to the door and opened it.