Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

Alex’s anger stretched like an elastic band about to break — then snapped back with a pull of sanity.

This is… wrong.

His thoughts cleared. He wanted no part of this… brutality. He felt sick with fear as Staff picked up the Bacardi bottle.

“Staff, don’t—”

“Hold her!”

Unable to see, alerted by their exchange, Alison struggled with new strength. Staff leaned over her, clamping a hand to her mouth, stifling her cries.

“Staff, no, this is—”

“What?”

“Wrong.”

Staff paused. “You turning into a faggot?”

“No! It’s — it’s not right!”

“Fuck you.”

Staff dropped the bottle, grasping Alison’s hips, ready to penetrate her.

The fear became a new creature. Alex couldn’t — wouldn’t — help his friend. The creature was defiance, and he let go of her hands. She thrashed around, and Staff lost his balance. When he raised his arm to hit her, Alex leapt forward.

“Don’t!”

He caught Staff’s arm, pushing his friend back. They struggled for a brief moment, then Staff shrugged him off.

“Okay. Okay.”

Alex reached for his arm.

“I said okay, damn you!”

Alison lay crumpled by the chair, sobbing hoarse, deep sobs, pulling her skirt around her legs.

Alex looked at Staff, the taller youth glaring at him, the meagre light from the windows illuminating lines of tension around his mouth.

“Okay,” he said with unexpected softness, his arm going limp. “You’re right.”

Alex let go, unconvinced by the mood swing. Then Staff’s face cracked like crazy paving, his mouth widening into a broad smile.

“You’re right.” He pulled up his jeans, pushing his erection inside with difficulty, the cock pointing like an accusatory finger.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Alison sobbed loudly.

Jamie was at the bottom of West Lea Road when the nausea hit him.

He staggered to a low wall for support as the sensation rushed up from the pit of his stomach to double him over. Nothing came up — there wasn’t anything to come up.

(Alex… don’t)

The sensation stopped as suddenly as it had started, but he waited until he was sure he could walk straight.

He had to find Alex.

Alex was in danger.

(Where?)

(…wrong…)

Jamie didn’t have a clue. All he’d known was he had to get out of the house.

With the slow gait of a somnambulist, he continued walking, heading for Newbridge Hill as if gravitational forces were pulling him toward the river. It was irrational to be walking away from the road that would take him to Rivers’s house, the only place he thought he might find Alex, but nothing seemed rational. Instinct took his hand and he quickened his pace.

Elfman placed his hand on Bledsoe’s arm.

“Thanks for waiting, Harry.”

“Sure.” Bledsoe took the invoice from the warehouse foreman.

It was 11:07, and somewhere nearby a police siren cut through the Bristol night. He wanted to be at home, a beer in hand, his feet warming in front of the gas fire, not standing around sixteen miles from Bath. But at least the work was done. Home beckoned.

“See you next week,” Elfman said.

He smelled beer on the foreman’s breath and thought, at least you got one in tonight. Still, there was a bottle of Pils waiting in the fridge, and Kath always had a plate of sandwiches ready for his return.

Bledsoe swung himself up into the cab, starting the engine as Elfman waved.

Broad Street was deserted as they headed for the Paragon, calm now after their confrontation. Staff hadn’t spoken for half an hour, seemingly ashamed of his behaviour. Alex had made sure Alison was coherent enough to understand his threat before they left The Circle.

If you say anything I’ll make sure your father gets the photos. Fucking as many guys as she could get her hands on was not enough for Alison. She had to keep a visual record, photographing them post-orgasm with a Polaroid. But even this hadn’t satisfied her. Tired of her organ gallery, she’d started using the self-timer to record liaisons with herself as the star of the show. But like a secret journal, written with the perverse hope that someone will read it, such a confessional only became valid when shared with another. She’d made a mistake when she showed Alex her works of art, though. It had been the nail scratch that drew blood; he stopped going out with her the following week, though not before he’d stolen several prize pictures to show around at school — including one clandestine shot of Mr. Dixon, the church warden, masturbating on the couch in the vicarage.

Satisfied she’d say nothing, they left, an uneasy silence between the three of them. When they exited the hall, Staff started off in the direction of the abbey and city center, attempting to walk off his rage, frustration, and guilt, coming to his senses as the haze of dope and alcohol dissolved.

Alex knew him well enough to realize that Staff was no rapist. He felt sympathy for his amigo, walking with his head down, shoulders rounded as if under a tremendous weight. They were bonded by a hopeless boredom and the unspoken knowledge that the future held little in store for them. Especially Staff. An alcoholic mother, a distant father. Worthless qualifications. Now he had no job, little money, and no girlfriend. Although Alex was studying for his “A” Levels so he could go to university, he had no desire to go to another small town to study for another three years. Then what? A career? As what — an accountant? A civil servant? Yeah, with a three-bedroom house, a heavy mortgage, a wife and three kids. Great. He’d wake up one morning to find he was fifty, an overweight businessman like all the rest. Staff would be living in a council house with his wife, kids, and a criminal record. That’s if you live that long, he thought. Staff made him think of “My Generation” — hope I die before I get old. Prison, death, or a council house. Was there any difference between them?

When they reached the top of Broad Street, Staff turned.

“Thanks. I was out of order.”

“Forget it.” Alex lit a cigarette.

They came to the alleyway that cut through The Paragon, its steep steps reminding him of the ones in The Exorcist on which the priest dies struggling with the demon and his crisis of faith.

Alex had no faith in anything. His life was one long, straight road, neither yellow brick nor paved with gold, just a brainnumbing expanse of flat black tarmac measured out in birth, school, work, death. Bath was ancient, would stand for hundreds of years. But he would be long gone, either dead in his fifties of a heart attack or dead of boredom long before then. Thackeray may have written “As for Bath, all history went and bathed and drank there,” but Alex felt he was drowning under its cultural weight, a culture in which he had no place. Defoe was right when he described the city as a place conducive to committing the worst of all murders — killing time.

There is no God, no point, Alex thought as they descended the steps. He frowned as Staff stopped on the pavement.

“What’s—”

Staff gave him a terse wave. “Catch this.”

Five hundred yards away, almost hidden by the shadows cast by the abandoned bakery, two figures scuffled in and out of the light from the street lamps like drunken dancers.

“This could be interesting,” Staff said.

He moved along, watching closely.

Alex held his ground. The two opponents were mismatched — one tall, broad, powerful, the other around five-three, of light build, and paying for it. The tall bloke was pushing the smaller, toying with him, keeping him at bay with his longer reach. The small guy tried to kick out, provoking a punch in return, which slammed him against the bakery.