Songs From Spider Street (15 page)

As he grabbed
her hips, she hooked her legs behind his thighs, pulling him to her. Eber
pressed the head of his penis against her, ready to push it home. They both
growled with lust as he sank into the liquid core of her.

Eber tried to
ignore the grains of sand that chafed uncomfortably, trapped between their hot
bodies, as Eleann began pumping against him urgently. He sank his teeth into
her shoulder, desperate to gain any extra purchase he could, desperate to be
further inside her.

They seemed
to couple for hours yet neither of them felt any nearer to climax. Eber’s penis
began to feel sore from Eleann’s fierce activity. She even refused to stop when
blood began to trickle from her.

Sweat mingled
with the sand, caking Eber in a thin layer of mud as he pumped himself into
her. He felt a tingling across the backs of his thighs and his buttocks.
Exhaustion setting in, he thought, before realising the feeling was spreading
up his back.

He glanced
backwards, panting hard, as hundreds of tiny black objects ran across his skin,
joining where they met to form a thin shell over him.

Streams of
the things began to run off him and across Eleann’s writhing body. Too lost in
her urgent ride towards elusive orgasm, she failed to respond.

Eber’s
passion was overtaken by panic. What was happening? Where were these things
coming from and what were they?

He tried to
pull away but Eleann’s nails dug into his flesh, clawing him further into her
in her intense need of him, panting swiftly like a running beast, unable to
stop despite her exhaustion and pain.

Looking
around desperately, Eber saw the tiny moving black objects pouring out of
slitted openings near the base of the machine. As he realised they were part of
the device, he suddenly knew they had to get away.

He tried to
speak, tried to make his lips form her name, but was too exhausted for anything
but sex. He could feel himself failing, slipping away.

Only now, in
these last moments, did he realise why parts of the machine looked like limbs
as he realised the bulk of the machine was covered with the forms of dozens of
alien couplings. Across on the far side of the vile alien creation he saw a
human hand, frozen and dead, clawing desperately round the thigh of a
solidified quadruped. There were faces too. Awful faces.

A hundred
alien memories of ecstasy and death rolled towards him over a plain of burning
ice. His scream froze as dozens of the tiny objects poured into his mouth,
silencing his voice forever. The last thing he saw, before the things covered his
eyes, was his lover panting in fear and exhaustion as the objects swarmed
across her breasts and up her neck, sealing her in as they went.

He felt
Eleann try to struggle beneath him as the shell now covering them hardened like
steel, turning the same dull black as the rest of the machine. Somewhere,
somehow, he heard her screaming.

Having no master now, the machine sighed its own satisfaction – energy
without end, power without purpose.

Eber and
Eleann’s forms, drained of matter and meaning, joined the dozens of others who
had come to couple her. And, after coming, stayed forever.

And before
their minds finally faded they were filled with a sound like a gigantic heart,
beating in a huge chamber, a million miles or more away.

They stood staring down at the tracks, the sleepers blobbed here and
there with filth-stained toilet paper.

“When the
train is at the station, we encourage constipation,” chanted Steve in a comic
deep bass.

“Trouble is ‘alf
the fuckers ‘round here can’t read,” said Owen, “and even if they could, they’d
ignore the sign.” Steve stamped his feet on the September platform. “Where’s
this bloody train, then? I’m freezing.”

The single
platform and its inadequate shelter stood on an embankment that gave a
depressing view over the town and the road out of it. The cramped streets
looked like an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle, intersecting one another at
uncomfortable angles before climbing the valley sides.

The last of
the day’s light was tucking itself behind the hills and the street lights took
over, casting a miserable yellow gloom over everything. Owen hated this time of
the year and always felt like he was hanging on desperately for the summer to
arrive again.

“Well, I
always wait until the train has pulled out of the station before flushing,”
said Owen.

“You’re a
fine, upstanding citizen, Mr Thomas.”

“Even if it’s
only gone as far as Cwm,” he added.

“Aye, well,
better than they deserve, anyway,” said Steve with sincerity.

From where
they stood the pair also had an open view over where the old Co-op creamery had
stood. Flattened by the council, it had now been dignified with the name of ‘car
park’. Few motorists were brave enough to leave their vehicles there at this
time of day and the sole occupant was a battered old Land Rover in one corner.

It was parked
near the stretch of uncleared rubble that led up to the old station building,
sitting further up the tracks. It had been closed up long before the coal
trains stopped but nobody had bothered to knock it flat. Owen had always supposed
it was on railway land and had just been forgotten about. The cellar was now
used by teenagers to drink, take drugs and fuck. Lucky bastards, thought Owen
in a moment of jealousy.

Growing
impatient, he wandered over to the timetable next to the shelter, hoping for a
little reassurance. He got none. “Oh, bollocks! The timetable changed on
Wednesday. The last train’s bloody gone, hasn’t it? They’ve moved it so it’s 10
minutes earlier now!”

“Fuckin’
typical. They don’t let anyone know, do they?!”

Owen wandered
back to the platform edge. “Oh well, the walk will warm us up, anyway.”

“Walk? Sod
that! We’ll go and have another couple in ‘The Butch’, then we’ll get a taxi.”

“A taxi?
Feeling flush are you?” They never took a taxi.

Steve
grinned. “Well, it may be my last chance. Once the baby’s born I won’t have
anything to spare, will I?”

“How’s Suze
doing, anyway?”

“She’s great.
She’s at her mum’s tonight ‘cause her sister’s home from London.”

Owen perked
up noticeably. “Liz? Oh aye, what’s she up to now, then?”

“She’s
playing bass with Sadistic Syringe. She joined them last month after that other
bloke pissed off to America.”

“Is she?”
Owen was obviously impressed. “I like them, they’re OK.”

“They’re
shite! They sound like a cat being strangled inside a busted accordion.” Steve
put the lid on any further discussion.

As they were
about to start down the steps leading to the street, Owen peered out into the
gloom and tugged at Steve’s jacket. “Hey, look at that.” He pointed across the
tracks at a man who was loitering at the entrance to the car park below the
station. The man looked around for a moment before heading across the car park
towards the old station building.

“What’s he up
to then?” asked Owen.

“Why don’t
you mind your own business for a change?” his friend answered, continuing to
follow the man’s progress closely.

“Maybe he’s
the owner of that old shed,” said Owen, nodding towards the Land Rover.

“Nah. That’s
old Hywel Griffiths’ charabanc, innit? He’s probably in ‘The Cambrian’.”

The man
walked curiously. A lope here, a lurch there. Even the unevenness of the ground
and the remaining rubble couldn’t explain his strange way of moving. His face
was hidden by the hood on his top, pulled far forward. He carried a sports bag
that seemed to have something heavy in it, or maybe something he didn’t want to
damage.

The man had
passed the rusty old vehicle and was by the wall of the abandoned station
building. He crouched down and unzipped the sports bag. Looking around him
carefully, his long face became visible for a moment in the poisonous yellow
light cast from the top of the distant lampposts.

Even though
he didn’t raise his eyes high enough to take in the station platform, Owen and
Steve cautiously ducked back into the shadows.

The man
pulled a black bin liner from the sports bag and started to cover it with bits
of rubble. Once he was satisfied that his task was finished, he zipped up the
bag and made his way towards the main road.

His route
took him past the station steps. Steve and Owen waited until he’d passed before
descending.

Owen looked
at Steve quizzically.

“What?”

Owen grinned.
“Well, what was that all about, then?”

“I don’t
know. I don’t care.”

“You must
want to know what was in that bag he dumped. Might be something dodgy.”

“Aye, and
might just be a load of dirty laundry that’s he’s too lazy to do, and all.”

“No, go on. I’m
busting to know, innit?”

Steve looked
at him wryly out of the corner of one eye. “What’s that old bollocks about
curiosity and cats again?”

As the patch
of ground was more-or-less on the way to their next venue, Steve headed off
towards the old creamery site. His uncle had worked there when Steve was a kid
and, once or twice, he’d ridden on the milk float back to the yard. Whenever he
looked at it now, Steve always superimposed the picture in his mind of how it
had looked then over the stretch of open ground and rubble that was there now.

“P’raps it’s
drugs,” offered Owen, interrupting the flow of memories.

“You don’t
throw drugs away, you sell them.”

“Well, maybe
he’s tried and he can’t.”

“Why? Past
their ‘best by’ date, are they?”

Pausing only
to admire the time-warp graffiti – ‘Alice Cooper’ and ‘NF’ – on the back of the
old creamery wall, they made their way across the rubble. The writing had been
there as long as Steve could remember.

Looking
around, he could see pieces of black plastic poking up through the sections of
toppled, broken bricks, mortar still tenaciously holding them together. “There
you are then, nosey. Help yourself.”

Owen knelt
and cleared away the few pieces of rubble that covered the bag, then picked at
the knot in the top of the bag. “Phew! It smells.” His fingers finished their work
and he pulled open the top to peer inside; his eyes had to work hard in the dim
light. He let out a sudden cry and jumped back.

“What is it?”

Owen
staggered off into the gloom, unable to answer. Steve could hear him being sick
behind a nearby bush. Gingerly he approached the open bin bag, trying to ignore
the warning being given by the smell.

He peered in
cautiously. A small face, eyes closed, turned away from the world, seeking the
safety of the darkness inside the bag. It was covered in smears of red and
black. Feeling oddly dizzy, Steve stepped quickly away.

Owen emerged
from behind the bush and stood off to one side, wiping his mouth. “How old is
it, d’you think?”

“It hasn’t
been born, has it? It’s been got rid of.”

“How do you
know?”

“Well … just look
at the size of it!”

Owen backed
away quickly. “No. No, I can’t … not again.”

“Well, you
were the one who wanted to see what was in there.” Steve’s voice had an edge of
regret as he looked at his friend’s sad expression.

“I thought it
was an animal at first,” muttered Owen.

“No. It’s not
an animal.”

“Christ!”

Steve looked
around him nervously; a few cars passed by on the main road a couple of hundred
yards away. “C’mon, let’s get away from it.”

“Hadn’t we …
you better close the bag again?”

Steve grabbed
Owen’s arm. “C’mon, for fuck’s sake. Let’s get going.” Breathing out heavily
through his nose, he headed back to the safety of the lamp-lit street.

“So … what do
we do now?”

“What now? We
stick to our original plan, chief, that’s what. I could do with a pint, I know
that much,” said Steve.

In silent
agreement, Owen fell into place beside his friend.

A thin
drizzle began to fall as they made their way to the pub. Settling on the
shoulders of Steve’s jacket, it began to shine dimly in the yellow of the
streetlights, as if his clothes were covered with glitter. Owen thought it made
him look like some Glam Rock throwback.

They crossed
the main road and found their way up the dog-legged side street, overlooked by
the disused stretch of track. The pavement crunched grittily under their feet.

The Butcher’s
Arms was underlit as usual. In one corner of the bar a group of surly boys and
loud girls crowded around the fag machine, coveting their prize of nicotine.
Besides them, the bar was empty. A sad song from several years ago struggled to
be heard above the squawk of the small group.

“Stella?”
asked Steve. Owen nodded, staring at a hunting print that he thought distinctly
out of place. His moment of art appreciation was spoiled when Steve added: “I’ll
bring ‘em over.”

He found a
place away from the cackling gaggle and moved the heaped ashtray to the next
table. When his pint arrived he picked it up and stared at the ring of grime
around the top of the glass. “Look at that!”

Steve made a
face and said: “I’d take it back, if I were you. On second thoughts, I wouldn’t
bother – you’ll only get the same … or worse.” He chuckled to himself, noticing
at the same time how pale his friend looked.

Owen gazed up
at the smoke-stained ceiling for a second before asking: “Well, what are we
going to do?”

His friend
looked at him warily. “You mean about what we just found?” Owen nodded.

“Nothing.
Nothing we can do, is there?”

Owen looked
suddenly very serious. “Report it to the police.”

“Why? What
good would that do?”

“It was dead.
That’s murder,” said Owen quietly.

“Murd … look,
you don’t know that! You’re just jumping to conclusions. Don’t get involved,
that’s best.” Steve jabbed his finger annoyingly at Owen, who tried to frown it
down.

“But you said
you thought it’d been ‘got rid of’ or something, didn’t you?”

Steve sighed.
“Yes, well, I just meant it hadn’t been born properly.” He looked around him
nervously. “I’m not a fuckin’ mind-reader. I don’t know what happened to it …
but it may have been an accident, don’t you see?”

“Aye. But
just dumpin’ it there like old rubbish. That’s never right. We ought to report
it. We did.”

Steve shook
his head in frustration and stuck his face into his pint of S.A.

The next few
minutes passed in silence until Owen kicked Steve under the table. “Ow! Watch
what …” Steve began before being silenced by Owen’s hand signal.

Steve looked
puzzled. “That’s ‘im,” said Owen. “That’s the bloke we saw.” He nodded and
added, significantly: “And there’s a woman with him.”

Distrusting
Owen’s over-active imagination, Steve rose to go to the toilet. Owen nodded,
fathoming his intention to get a closer look at the pair as he passed them.

Steve was
quick. He sat back down and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It’s
not like we got a good look at him.”

“But he’s got
the same jacket on; same logo and everything. And he’s walking funny, too,”
protested Owen.

Steve
grimaced. “There are loads of jackets around like that. That’s no proof.”

The man at
the bar turned to look around the room and Owen was sure he recognised the same
long face and slightly anxious manner. The man’s skin was sallow and covered in
blemishes.

The girl
looked pale and puffy. She was carrying too much weight, attempting to hide it
under black clothes. She pulled her jacket around her tightly as she searched
for a table, eventually pushing herself into a corner by the door. When she
glanced around the room, Steve and Owen made sure they were interested in their
pints.

The jukebox
was getting excited now and the group by the fag machine were obviously
enjoying it, singing along to the few words they could recall.

When her
companion joined her at the table, he handed the girl a colourful bottle before
sitting down opposite her with his pint. She brushed her greasy brown hair from
her face and tipped the bottle to her lips before saying something to him. Owen
could only see half of the man’s face from where he sat, and the music was too
loud to hear the girl, but her words had obviously angered him. He pulled out a
packet of fags and waved them at her. She shook her head, looking down in
resignation.

The man’s
shoulders hunched forward suddenly. He waved his hand above the surface of the
table as he spoke to the girl.

Owen leaned
across to Steve. “I’m sure it’s them. Positive.”

“Whaddaya
mean ‘them’? A minute ago it was just the bloke you recognised. You’re putting
two-and-two together and coming up with nine … making up stories about them. It
might not even be the same bloke. You want to be careful. Just drink your
Stella and wise up!”

Owen glanced
over at the couple again. The man was hunched over, looking defeated. The girl
was talking slowly. Her face wore a miserable expression.

“I’m sure
they’re talking about it, see,” said Owen.