Iain Sinclair - Dining on Stones

Male face, its inappropriate, undeserved beauty.

Reo’s mouth. Sulking. Gondola lips. Jagger lips. Dry foam at cracked corners, pink-white, reflex sneer. Muttering to himself.

‘Totally out of order.’

Last night, up in Cunard Court, she remembered Marina watching a film on television, in which a police car cruises deserted city streets — near the river? — chasing, following, a bandit, stick-up man, solitary walker. Three beautiful things. The engineering of the car. The images from the film: hunted man ducking behind pillars. The silence of the streets. Static and the moving camera. Livia went out on the balcony, sliding doors open, watched the sea, listened to the soundtrack. Deep American voices. Lurid orchestration.

And Reo. In profile. He was the third thing.

This drama was ridiculous. If she were not involved, it would be hysterical. Track would love it. She would absorb the whole story of Livia’s ‘capture’; Reo’s spittle-flecked fugues, the romance of the road. It would make a great print: the sweep of the bonnet, reflection of setting sun, the red spill of traffic lights. Get Reo out of the car and everything would be perfect.

… not conned she’s clever tricky her talk her books

DRIVE …

SPIN THE WHEELS …

BURN RUBBER …

won’t be taken for a cunt not this time not by her not again doesn’t matter what she says I’m not listening …

Uphill. Let him. Let him shoot every light, straight over every pedestrian crossing. Squash cats, dent women, kill kids. I won’t speak . They’re waiting in little concerned groups outside the schools. Solitary men at the edge of it. Some of the mothers yawning. Tired. I wouldn’t want kids — would I ? Hadn’t thought of it before. So much traffic. Won’t say a word.

… car slides no problem I’m in control under the bridge road’s ridiculous cunts don’t know how to dip their headlights turn off get out of it narrow bridge not slowing slow down cunt back off back off arsehole cunt

lights flashing …

horns …

sun in my eyes trees arching overhead a tunnel that’s better much better her legs she’s got hands digging in her legs kick your shoes off you used to like being driven that’s what I like best you said when you drive me somewhere the chance to talk have a proper conversation

lovely clear road …

Roman …

would you …

fancy being a driver like Chas in the Jagger film Performance not his motor not responsible out in the country at the beginning flash cunt beats a woman with a belt marks her I never shit on the sheets I never …

Won’t speak. He’s been this way before. Don’t know where we are. Slowing down. Might stop at a pub. The Curlew? Not sure. Could do with a drink. If I concentrate. If I will him to do it, he’ll stop. Lights in the window. People. Get away. Ring Marina. Order a cab. Would they come this far out? Can I afford it? Money in my purse?

… never hit a woman before never have never will call it a Jagger film Alby does Kray bollocks Maidstone old days he’s taking the piss it’s Chas at the end when they put him in the motor they’re going to do him out on the marshes last drive brings up the bile shit in your throat senses on alert synesthesia taste sound smell colour might have been Rainham I know they’re fucking upwest Notting Hill shithole studios upwest Johnny Shannon’s from over the water Old Kent Road the one they say wrote it he’s Whitechapel Jewish feller I done paintings of Chas into Jagger like boxers a fight poster yellow and red with lettering ultra bold mug to mug face-off metamorphosis too much charlie should have stuck with her best thing I ever done Jagger and Chas that terrible fucking syrup when Chas comes down the steps at the finish they’re putting him in the motor Mocatta’s boys he’s dead meat he looks out and its Jagger fucking bollocks Jagger down the pan finished from that moment innit smirking bastard wasted had it coming she’s got the look Livy of the French bird the tart the one in the bath what was her name Lucy Livy Livy Lucy same hair no tits mouthy full of it meat she’s dead the French girl must be old now topped herself Bindon he was tasty they say Alby knew Bindon the stories hung like a donkey nutter dead now they’re all dead Bindon stabbed some geezer in a yacht club did a painting of Bindon too in a Jag from another film fat dead hypergolic rocket fuel ignites spontaneously on contact with a complementary substance how I feel how I am on fire open the window wind down the window wind turns to fire oneiric pertaining to dreams Dreamland Margate the beach the sea sand in your shoes makes skin burn I can form a pool of saltwater in my cupped palm holy water my own fucking bodily secretions cunt like a frill of different blue and pink rashers the slippery sac of a squid inside out stinky fingers salt …

Solitary motor, American, in the parking space behind the road-house. Platform carved from the hillside, the escarpment. Overlooking the A21, not far from Riverhead, Sevenoaks. Woodland. Lights of traffic, long beams, heading for the motorway, the M25. A cold, clammy evening. Mist taking the lush from the landscape, the Weald.

Reo slams the door and strides off towards the bright building. She won’t talk, move. He’s mad.

The camera. She’s wants her camera. In a bag. From the boot. Panoramic window of the roadhouse, bluish striplighting, red sign, in the twilight, across the damp car park: it might work. A quiet, meditative print to offset Reo’s stupidity .

His physical anguish is palpable. Lights on but the place is closed, closing up. A big man comes to the door. Reo backs off, swearing. Stands there, at a safe distance, doing silly karate kicks. Come on come on gestures. Bottles it.

Get out, run. Half-dark, trees the other side of the road. He’ll never find you. Wave a car down, get away. Ring Track. Ring Marina. Ring the coast.

Or drive off. Now. Why not? Before he turns round. Leave him. Leave him to it.

Livia slides across the seat, feels for the keys. He’s taken them, locked the door, locked her in. The padded rim of the window. She tries the handles. All of them.

The door opens.

He sees her. He’s coming. She stands waiting. The smell of the fields, the woods, earthy, heavy. And the smell of the road. It’s that blend, the tension she tries to impose on her prints. Unreal nature and natural artifice. He grabs her arms, hurting her. He slaps her, once, twice. Drags her around the car, pushes her in. He starts to cry.

… Racinage the decorative treatment of leather a branchlike effect overhanging branches reflected in the windscreen like it’s smashed with a hammer striking a woman a child’s hand I can’t forgive the feel of your jacket soft baby leather when I touched your shoulder you could have said something now it’s too late I’m like he is Performance fucked flesh sick twins brothers artist and face villains all fucking villains family innit blood thicker Faversham was it definitely Faversham Bob Geldof and Paula Yates pills overdose sick games they brought it on theirselves totally out of order done it in another geezer’s house across the Swale from Sheppey Swaleside the prison six months away I worked through the fucking dictionary big red book nothing to read better than weights the size autodidact lifted weights too wouldn’t touch novels give up painting Jagger was done the minute he gets in that fucking motor Dartford the bridge coming up six miles crawling Bluewater wanted one of the nobs country place fatal transit from document to allegory white roller like the old funeral trains like abos plastered in gypsum Harry Flowers good name for a villain better than Alby Sleeman Mickey O’Driscoll Phil Tock the train robber geezer Buster Edwards he had a flower stall Waterloo hanged hisself in his lockup they’re all dead Flowers in the Attic film about car crash incest Alby’s not so hard see him work on an engine whistling purring along driving itself ’ Allo Chas into the tunnel under the river orange nicotine lights muddy on car windows slippery on polished metal tiled bore drop a coin in the bucket and you can come back to Essex until she speaks until she says it keep driving …