The Onion Eaters (25 page)

Veronica wore her love bites like gems. When she wasn’t wearing anything else. Standing as I watched her scratch under her breasts and snuff out the candle as we went early to bed. Climbing in under the covers. On one more chill rainy evening. After she tried to level out the notches and gaps across my scalp.

‘I mean that’s simply outrageous to let a barber do that to your hair.’

‘He was upset.’

‘I don’t care what he was. You look institutionalised.’

It was true the maestro had lopped here there and
everywhere
as his symphony went to pieces. And Gloria arose after her orgasm. Cutting loose with a stream of remarks. Passed to both barbers one just back from coffee. I winced At the words. You mannerless charmless fuckers. Then she slammed the door. The plate glass splintered on the floor. She said she felt the barber’s hand up between her thighs. While she was otherwise engaged.

I stood paying the bill. A round estimation for a nice big broken pane. And for the performance of trembling scissors and hands. Giving the latest and last word in a rough cut. Ten yards away I walked into the snug of a public house. To take stock. Of again being nearly penniless. Over a creamy topped pint of porter. And slab of red cheese. Quaffing a throatful of restoration. As a hand comes quietly down on my shoulder. And the liquid starts into and gets blasted out of. My lungs. In a fine spray of cheese and stout. All over the bar.

‘My God Bloodmourn, it’s you.’

‘I’ve been looking for you all over town. Now you must
not get upset. At what I am going to tell you. There’s been a little fire.’

‘O God.’

‘There’s still a great deal standing.’

‘Standing.’

‘O yes. Remarkable walls. Although a bit charred still as sound as ever. Plenty of roof left.’

Bloodmourn walked close by my shoulder as I made for the quays. Drawing my attention to comforting bits of architecture. Till we reached the river. Crossed over the bridge. And pounded quickly up the stairs of this dark damp shadowy building. To enter this room once more. Stacked a little higher with papers. The stuffed owl still wide eyed at the window.

‘Ah do come in Mr Clementine, Clayton Cleaver Claw, is it not.’

‘Claw Cleaver.’

‘Ah forgive me. But of course. And your friend. I do not believe I have had the honour.’

‘Mr Bloodmourn.’

‘I am Mr Thorn. Now. Please. Be seated. Just push the briefs to one side. Now can I be of assistance.’

‘The castle has burned down.’

‘Good grief.’

‘And I want to know if I’m insured.’

‘Ah. But of course you would like to know if you are
insured.
I quite understand. Well let me see now. Insured. That would be a policy wouldn’t it. I mean you would be paying premiums and that kind of thing. Monthly,
quarterly
, biannually. Let me see now. Here in the file. Ah. It’s lapsed. You’re ruined.’

‘Thank you.’

Bloodmourn said the lead melted on a turret top and fell down like rain. Percival and Tim emptied bottles of wine over the conflagration. Confining it to the northwest and holding it back from the great hall where the excavation was still intact. And minerals might yet be found.
Bloodmourn
was sorry to see me take it the way I did. Because it brought the guests closer together. Running for their lives
into each other’s arms. And there was much in the way of bravery. Bligh bare chested heaved smouldering mattresses down from the battlements. L K L tippling constantly peed endlessly upon the flames. Helped by Elmer. And Putlog made music with a song.

And I put a hand up to feel my shorn scalp as I lie here safely under Veronica. After a nomadic day. Battered and shattered with tears in the eyes. A house no matter how monstrous barren and insane. Is better unburnt. And
Bloodmourn
steered me by the elbow. From one dark cave of
refreshment
to another. Down twisting narrow back steets. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Pint to pint. Looking into the future. Somewhere behind the bottles the other side of the bar. Bloodmourn said he wished people would leave him to his prejudices and stop interfering with his hatreds. That folk were divided into classes. Of cunts, shits, fuckers and dirty bastards. Only the fuckers had any saving graces. And that brotherly understanding was ruining the sense of
purpose
in the world. Which my hand was nudging up under Veronica’s cool breast. Press a nipple against the eye. Wind blows shaking the window. Wait for tomorrow. Head west. On foot. Bloodmourn says a little walk would do us both good. Tramping along beside the road. Looking out over the fields. The weather getting warmer the grass greener. Arrive and see a hillside of smoking remains. Sticking up. As I am into Veronica. While she puts her tongue deeply squirming in my ear. Practising for some little part time
proclivity
. She later performs. Asked me to wear an apron. So I could make a little tent. Before we went to bed. And she
could lift it up and step in. I said another time because some of my castle had burned down.

‘You poor boy. How tiresome for you. Just lie there and let me do the work on top.’

Veronica makes strange faces. Rears up backwards with grimaces and grins. Thought any moment she would get out the castanets. Until she did. Clicking them while breasts were wagging. Winding round and round showing a nice bit of rib cage in her more extraordinary gyrations. Trying to frighten me. Into some strange submission. Leaning down again close to my ear. And shouting.

‘Glorious.’

‘Wow, my ear drums.’

‘Sorry dear boy.’

Collapsing sweatily Veronica snoring. Her head on my shoulder as one listens to a sleeping city. Voices below. From the back windows of the gambling den. And floor boards creaking. Somewhere in the next room. Heard a door open and shut. Just after the shout of Veronica’s glorious. Concussion made my ears ring. Like the blast at the Charnel. Stayed pounding in my head for days. Veronica gave me a buttered crust before bed. I chewed as she undressed. Food tastes better when two people have an appetite for each other. Just count my balls. Make sure one didn’t get bounced up between my lungs. Envy
rubbery
people who can twist and squirm. Her tongue stuck out as she snorted and sported. Crouching smothering with an abundant tuft of pubic hair. Authority has always been out to stop ecstasy. In case it spreads around. If people get a taste. Then everyone wants it. I hear a sound. A grunt. Another. And the smell of an unholy stink.

‘Veronica wake up.’

‘What is it.’

‘I don’t know. But there’s a noise. And a terrible smell.’

Veronica crawling over the twinging springs gathering her kimono. Sticking her feet into slippers. Stands sweeping back her hair. Stepping to the door and slowly pulling it open. Switching on the light. To a deep groan and
straining
grunt.

‘O no. Horrid.’

‘Will you turn off that fucking light.’

‘O horrid.’

‘That’s only half but it will do you now for decoration.’

‘You are abominable. Get out. How did you get in. Get out. You would dare to do such a thing again.’

‘The call of nature is periodic madam.’

‘Right where you did it before.’

‘I am a creature of habit if not comfort.’

‘Clayton come and strike him.’

Both hands go down. To pull up the sheets. In this land of ice cold sun. Called upon for courage. When all I want is calm. Back at the Charnel could summon my aide de camp to crust him one on the snout. While Percival delivers an upward shaft to the rear and Elmer takes a taste of his dangling testes.

‘Clean that dastardly mess up.’

‘Fuck off.’

Veronica must have lunged. On that last note of umbrage. Grunts now between the growls screams and shouts. Toppling items trembling the floor. And one monstrous turbulence shaking the entire house. Her muscles all over her. Sleek and lean. Streaks of grey in her hair. Feet coming up the stairs. Pounding on the door. Now heaving open.

Clementine staring from the bedcovers. As a gentleman wrapped in a thick red dressing gown peers in.
Consternation
convulsed on his face. Wiping eye glasses in his sleeve. Plaster down over his hair and ears. His finger pointing at me.

‘Who are you.’

‘Who are you.’

‘I’m the owner of this house. That’s who I am. And the ceiling underneath has just come down on top of me and my wife in bed. Where is she.’

Clementine shifting a fraction lower in the sheets. Best not to volunteer information. Already being broadcast in cataclysms. Have him come down to my castle for a few days. If you think an avalanche of plaster is tough. And get
knocked out by lead raindrops. Smashing on your head in a cauldron of flame.

Landlord trembling in his tracks. Just behind his head is a portrait of an army officer in full regalia. Matching the colour of this enraged gent’s garb. Who wonders what to do next. Which better be in a hurry. As he steps through into the adjoining room. Just in time for another floor quivering crash.

Clementine leaping from the bed. Grabbing clothes and sticking limbs into the openings. Pulling on the socks. At the dressing table mirror. Slip on tie. The last of the candle light guttering away. Plunge into shoes. As the shouting commences. Voices raised and raging.

‘Get out of my house you filth.’

‘Shut up. In a second you won’t have a house.’

Peek in before I go. Cruising out into the night. With arse without sleep. In there all gone quiet. Just grunting and groans. Push back the door. Hold my nose. There my God. The three of them. Veronica her hands dug in the landlord’s plaster flecked hair. Giving him a woolling as they rolled. Closer to the man of the belt across the belly. Crouched. Taking his shit. With a face so wreathed in concentration.

Bloodmourn waiting. Without crutches. In the early
afternoon.
At the mahogany bar. In this high ceilinged public house. Named Cosmos after the universe.

Last night I stumbled down the stairs. Tugging my gladstone bag out the front door. Through a gate in
railings.
And down some more. Mini Monk or Monk Minor bowed me into his gambling den. Join the skill and repartee he said. Among the famed figures wandering to and fro. And a ballet dancer came on with his big pudenda for the floor show. Each flying leap sending out billows of choking dust. While I plonked down my last chips. Bought with my last cheque. And lost them all.

A curly haired gentleman in a raincoat smiled. Standing near me in sympathy. I nodded and he bowed. He was naked from the knees down. Pawned all his clothes the previous morning for a sure win on a horse. Which beat everything in sight but ran the wrong way on the track. And left him incarcerated in his flat. Till three a.m. when he could get out barefoot without being seen for a walk around town. He asked me if I had a dark pair of shoes I could lend him for a funeral. Where he was certain of a loan.

The smoke thick. Dust swirling. Mini Monk urging guests not to give up. That the odds got better towards dawn. I departed hearing a voice pleading behind a closed door. Give me your body before someone else spoils it.

Climbing up into daylight. Wandering the quays past the moored ships. Arriving after a cup of coffee bleary eyed at the bank. To borrow the fare to get home. Mr Oboe said it was unfortunate my castle burned down. And loans to rebuild or travel were difficult at the moment since yesterday
But perhaps when I’d supplied further and better particulars of the amazing thickness of the walls or the distance to be travelled he would see what he could do. I stood taking my departure backwards.

Now Bloodmourn smiles. He said although no one knew it, it was a holiday the whole world over. He felt it in the bones. And with just a little rummage in his sports jacket he’d find some spare spondulicks. Now in the abyss was the time to spend. Run up credit with abandon. The increased turnover made everyone feel secure. And he rapped on the floor with a cane. And tapped on the bar with a coin.

A grey covering the sky. Between these commercial buildings and banks to walk a haunted road. As it goes West. Bloodmourn a few hurried paces ahead. Tickling himself with his fingers. Skipping in little steps. Waiting at the bottom of a hill. Over which we must climb. Hoping to find on the other side white tables spread with
condiments.
To go skating over. Carving off slabs of beef sublime.

‘Bloodmourn I’m hungry.’

‘Clementine. Soon there will be time for that. Give me your blind demeanour and stop all that dementia and doubt.’

Over a cobbled road. A detour down hill past a park, prison and hospital. A railway station. Where the castle goodies from abundant emporiums were loaded on the train. And where Bloodmourn insisted for the sake of light travelling that my gladstone bag go by freight. He is very flat on the back of the head. A big brow. Keeps mumbling pop off into top hole. Everytime he stops in his tracks, to coax me onwards west.

‘Come Clementine. It’s not far.’

Each public house entered to study the architecture of the bar. And the facial qualities of the inmates. Bloodmourn patiently awaiting my hesitation under the sign, licensed to sell spirits and tobacco to the public. Grinning out a little smile.

‘Come Clementine. Once through and back out again fast.’

Three hours to cover one hundred and thirty two yards. Bloodmourn said that’s the speed it takes to cut a social swath. And make conviviality with the natives. Get to know their quaint customs. Delight to their carefree buffooneries. Never slouch. Always spin twist and twirl. Laugh at a laugh. Smile at a smile. Accumulate a fact. Show shock at a fiction. In short take a moment to keep calm for a while. And pop. Off. Into top hole. With the utmost devastating rapidity. And stay there. In that lofty glad position.

The last of a bleak red sun sinking. Below pink faint strands of cloud. All strung across the sky. The great gates of a park. Up along a curving road through plantations of trees. A lonely monument sticking high. The darknesses creep. The afternoon dies. Cattle grazing. The two figures following one another along the road. Bloodmourn said the latter day chaps had taught him a lot. Which added to some of the things he already knew. Borrow big lend small. And beat it later. If you have to.

‘Clementine I will tell you something. I have a wife and three little children. She is a nice wife. They are good little children. To say I did not regard them fondly would be heresy. Someday I will come to them with an armful of presents. Heaped all over. It may not make them like me. But for a moment at least they’ll think I’m big time. I know the pitfalls. I can tell you. You are just starting out. Listen to me. Then you will know.’

Bloodmourn with hands quietly folded across his stomach. Moving along the byway. Tiny lightening steps. Clementine lagging behind. Breaking into a trot. Catching up. Walking briefly at the heels of Bloodmourn. Till he slowly pulled away again. A nervous hurrying figure into the distance.

Ahead low hills. A village and row of houses. Another ochre coloured licensed premises by the side of the road. To catch up Bloodmourn as he waits smiling at the
entrance.
A pint of plain in his hand.

‘You are doing much better Clementine. I see great
improvements.
Note only the top half of my porter is
consumed. Previously I have managed to down a whole pint. Ah you are tired. Are you not.’

‘Yes.’

‘It will be worth it. There is a lot you have to face on the other side of this land. And you must not be lacking in fortitude. By pressing on. We build up that commodity. Till we have a lot. To waltz through a whole new avalanche of calamities.’

‘What do you do for blisters.’

‘Change socks. Right to left. Left to right. We are
seafaring
blokes. But we will make it. Now. Just stand here. Look. See. The highway straight all the way to the horizon.’

Ahead two distant houses. Facing each other across the road. Pass between them in a crossfire of eyes. A figure lurches out. A little dot staggering and weaving.

‘It’s haunted out there Bloodmourn.’

‘That is because there are not enough humans to fill the silence. Just follow me. We go.’

The last glimmer of light. A donkey and a cart outside a thatched roofed pub nestled low between two hills.
Unseen
till Bloodmourn smiled. And awaited my sore footed limping arrival. Pointing a finger downwards into the dell.

‘There now Clementine. A cosy refuge. Come.’

Under a low smoky ceiling. Damp dark interior. A tinted picture of a purple mountain rearing behind a lake. An oil lamp flickering on a mantelpiece. A turf fire
smouldering
. Man standing at the bar his hand gripped around a dark pint. Battered hat with the rim down over his ears and eyes. I sit on a barrel. Dangle the feet. Wait. A half hour. A woman comes. Pulls the pump, fills the glasses and departs. Bloodmourn giving toast to the gentleman at the bar.

‘Good luck.’

‘Good luck.’

The dark coated figure draining half his glass. Putting it slowly back on the oak planking. Raising his chin and staring over a right shoulder at a corner of the ceiling. His strange calm chanting voice rising.

‘O the captain said to me in great confidence. He said to
me in great awe. I do be hearing the sound of waves he said. Are we still far from shore.’

Bloodmourn staring down upon his entwining fingers. A wind blows smoke down the chimney. A beast moos out on the land. Bloodmourn bowing. Glasses raised and emptied once more. The woman comes in. Pulls the pints and is gone again. I feel my blisters and see blackness out the tiny window. Bloodmourn whispers.

‘Clementine this man knows something. It would be madness to go further on the road. And leave wisdom behind.’

‘For god’s sake hurry up and ask him so we can go.’

Bloodmourn advancing to the bar. Outside a bicycle goes whirring by. A silent toast. Glasses up. The creamy liquid goes down. Man tilting his hat back on his head.
Bloodmourn
making a greeting.

‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening sir.’

‘It’s a nice evening.’

‘Tis that sir.’

‘It’s a fine pint.’

‘Tis that sir too. Tis the only thing. I’ve tried everything else. I took my time over the years. I had a farm there not half a mile away. I was out on a hot day with a scythe in the fields. I went to the hedge and looked down the road. I sold the hay. And came in here to this. Till I’d drunk all the money away. I’d go back then. Be there digging a ditch. And it wouldn’t be long till I’d be taking a look down the road. And I sold me field. And came back to this. I took a wife. Tried being a married man. It wasn’t a month till I looked down the road again and got rid of her. And came back to this. I sold me stock one by one, bullocks, cows, pigs and sheep. Sold me every field. And came back to this. Right here on this spot I’ve sailed the seas. Travelled where there have been lights and people. Seen all the
wonders
happening up there in the corner of the ceiling. With no need for any other creature save me donkey and cart. Only thing I have left after my horse died. I loved him every bit as much as I love meself. Rode him at night across
the fields. As hard as he would go. Mile beyond mile. Under the moon. I rode him and rode him. Till the poor powerful animal fell down dead. And I wept. And I came back to this. A pint of plain is your only man.’

Midnight bells tolling. Bloodmourn buying bottles of stout from the silent woman. Stuffing them in pockets and under armpits. Making ready for the road. While your man of the many pints of plain stepped out and fell lying in a heap on the back of his little cart. And the donkey trotted away up the hill in the dark.

Headlights of a car sweeping across the night.
Bloodmourn
raising his hand. An automobile stopping. Door opening. Gentleman said step in. I sat in the back.
Bloodmour
n
in the front. Where he could conduct the passing of little pleasantries. As we rolled along. And every mile or so one heard a pop. Might be Bloodmourn going off into top hole. As he twitches nervously in his seat. And the car owner turns to look at him.

At village signposts Bloodmourn said yes we should be pleased to go that way too. The driver talking about the labouring classes. Who were doing better than they deserved these days. He was a salesman of gent’s high class
undergarments
. Happy to be of assistance in aiding two
respect
able
stranded travellers. Another pop. Each louder and getting closer to an explosion. A quiver, the vehicle wavering and wobbling as the gent gets a grip on himself to steer a steady course again. To hopefully find a light somewhere. To see what was going on.

A crossroads. Man waiting asking Bloodmourn cautiously which way did he want to go. Because he wasn’t going that way too. Bloodmourn’s efforts to look good, fading. His door opening. We pile out along with the flooding liquid. And a cascade of corks. Popped from foaming bottles.

The two vagrant figures by the side of the trail. Gent leaning wide eyed from his automobile in approaching car lights. To grab his door. And slam it shut. Shattering the window. To roar off down the road. Followed by a quiet Bloodmourn murmur.

‘You ubiquitous fuckpig.’