The Kimota Anthology (30 page)

SIRA

by Derek M. Fox

To Forster the jade statuette was exquisite: a centuries old nude carved by a craftsman. And he had to have it.

Career down the tubes, funds depleted, he thought briefly of Margaret, his fat bitch of a wife. Probably shoving more food into her oversized mouth, while she pets that hairbrush on legs. Damn dog pissing all over the place...

“What’s with you?” he spat at the woman eyeballing him. She hurried on, as Forster grimaced at his sallow complexion in the grimy Georgian panes of the shop. A sad sign read ANTIQUES & CURIOS, nothing more.

He slicked back greying hair and straightened his tie, his shadow overlapping the jade. “I want you, little lady.”

Closer to the window now, he detected a dim light burning and grinned. “A quick barter and I’m away.”

Age, the dull cracked bell, his sneeze at the disturbed dust were all partners of hope. The light issued from a shadeless pendant dangling from a cracked ceiling.

“Hello.” A mountain of house clearance stuff wearing yellowed price tags, absorbed it. A counter of sorts, hemmed in by dusty Georgian tables was stacked with more clutter. A few pieces caught his attention, but Forster had set his heart on one thing.

About as big as the Oscar, she was indescribable. Long suppressed sensations bubbled, as he caressed her form.

He pulled back quickly. Surely the head hadn’t turned. “Trick of the light.” He felt uneasy, her blank eyes full upon him. “Ridiculous.”

Vehicle lights lent an impression of wanton writhing. He wet his lips, daring himself to caress again that, which in reality, was memory. Here was nubile flesh and longing, a strange, discordant melody rippling the edge of silence.

Needing real company, Forster squinted into accumulated shadows. “Anyone back there?”

A car horn was reality, it underscored frustration. But the jade was....Escape? The thought hung. “I need her.”

No cost could be too excessive. Margaret, her expensive tastes, her wine, and whining could go AWOL along with her expansive stomach. “And fuck the dog! Let’s think about me for a change.”

“Her name is Sira.” Cracked tones drew him towards the counter, a tassel shaded lamp almost toppling as he knocked against it. He managed a tired smile. “Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was... You, er, made me jump.”

His skin prickled under her slitted, ancient gaze from eyes buried within the wrinkles of a grey, nodding head.

“I see you like my little figure.” It was a dismissive statement. “I was closing, passing trade is close to nonexistent these days.”

Not surprised, he thought, aware of the stale, old smell she exuded. “The jade-” he said pointing. “-I assume it is for sale?”

Her holed slippers slithered like dead fish on the floorboards. “Sira is ancient, sir. And priceless-”

Forster did not want to hear that.

“-beyond any man’s dreams.”

Her tone sounded like nails dragged down slate. Forster backed off. He was near the door, and closer to Sira. And, crazy thing, her blank stare followed him.

Shadows dried on the shop’s walls; traffic noise crescendoed and faded; a solitary street lamp lit the statuette, and Forster swore one eye winked.

He cleared his throat and said, “What are you asking?” in a tone he always used when business had been good. Now most of the money, courtesy of Margaret, had either been supped, eaten or invested in senseless bric a brac, his own arguments and life thrust into virtual oblivion. Where Margaret belongs. Hold the thought.

He’d hoped for a quick haggle, a swift settlement, his nest egg spent how he wanted. He could live with the rows. Then again-?

“Sira is from the time of Homer,” the woman said. “Her name derives from the Sirens, she sings a sweet song-”

The tune. Yes. Hardly sweet, but it replayed in his head.

“-It’s in her lines, her beauty. Sira is unique, sir. None other in the whole world. Her song lures.”

“I’m not one for legends, madam.” Forster had trouble quelling his impatience, and told himself he shouldn’t have come. Exactly what had brought him? A whim? A song? He shrugged. “As you say, very old. So, how much?”

Blast you, make your fragile mind up.

Her eyes bared his soul. He sought solace in the statuette.

Her dry, rasping laugh made his heart race. “I see you want her.” His skin crawled. “I am too old,” she added, “my life measured in heartbeats, yet- ,“ She jabbed the air with a bony finger as an ancient clock ticked the seconds, tocked her pulse.

“Name your price,” he snapped.

Her toothless grin smacked him in the face. “To you I say go. Sira is not for sale.”

Forster died, his fists clenched. “Come on, old woman, be reasonable, set a price.”

Creaking her way back to the counter she slapped a mittened hand down, her print like an ancient seal in the dust. “No haggling. You leave. NOW.”

His heart hammered. This close, this. . . I must have her. “Please, madam, reconsider. I apologise for my rudeness.”

Her head shake, and pointing finger defeated him. He stepped out of the shop like a petulent schoolboy and slammed the door.

Some half dozen or so angry paces further on he stopped - the song - the call - eroding everything he filed under Logic. He went back.

The woman wasn’t anywhere to be seen as he carefully unlatched the door, the bell held firmly in his other hand. With the jade under his coat, Forster relaxed only when he parked his BMW in the garage of his country house.

In a quiet broken only by the sigh of the closing garage door, car warmth assisted his conjured thoughts. He drank of the jade.

“Priceless, yes. But only to me, not that stupid bat. No-one takes me for an idiot.”

Oh no? Margaret’s been doing it for years.

“Fuck her!” He caressed every line, every enticing curve. “Sira,” spoken softly even as a low, decisive moan issued from -

No way! Yet, Forster’ s mind scurried into swirling mists; he ran naked across plains of pleasure, scaled mountains of ecstasy, paused at forbidden peaks, explored secret valleys, as the song climbed. He was lured down forbidden paths... And she moved between his fingers.

Scrambling from the car, Forster ached with suppressed longing. “The hell with Margaret. A giant foodbag on legs that’s her. Couldn’t ever be like...”

He paused, deviousness in his slitted look. “Can’t let her see Sira. She’d sell her. Make herself fatter... So bloody fat she might well explode.” He grinned, loving the idea. If Margaret wasn’t around anymore he could stay here every day with his dream.

Forster wrapped the jade in his scarf and secreted her behind a can of GTX. “Soon,” he promised.

“What the hell are you looking so chipper about?” Margaret, sipping Cherry Brandy and guzzling soft centres, appeared to grow from the easy chair.

Forster sat on the sofa. “Possible job,” he lied. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Your dinner’s in the dog.” She petted the comatose rag on her lap, the poodle’s stomach as distended as her own. “Enjoyed Daddy’s supper didn’t you baby? All dat lovely gravy and those itsy bitsy chunks of beef.” Her lips suctioned the animal’s head.

Forster was repulsed. The TV played but he heard a different song - Sira’ s song, green eyes tantalising in close-up. He moaned and crossed his legs to hide his embarrassment.

“Coming down with something, dahling?” Margaret savoured another chocolate. “Tummy bug?”

Forster gawped at the standard lamp behind Margaret, the lamp transformed into a swaying figure with soft breasts, grippable hips. “Sweet Jesus.”

“If it’s that bad take some Epsom Salts. And don’t moan when the tele’s on.”

He gestured rudely behind her back, the dog’s yipping forcing her half turn as he exited. “What I’d like to do to you, you oversized-”

In the kitchen the whistling kettle became the song...

He hit the worktop hard with the flat of his hand -
just like the old woman had struck the counter
- Margaret yelling: “WILL YOU BE QUIET.”

“Shut your fat mouth,” he hissed. The dog yipped again and he wondered how it might sound if he shoved it in the microwave.

Steam from the kettle held her voice. “Cold, so-o-o cold here. G-e-r-a-l-d.”

Possession became obsession. “She knows my name. She. Knows. My. Name.”

Bloody Margaret! His eyes raked the rack of knives over the worktop. “Too much blood.” There were two cakes by the biscuit jar. “Mmm, one oversized cream slice should do it.”

He carried the plate and one slice through to the lounge. Margaret raised her eyebrows. “I thought you had stomach cramps.”

“I brought the cake for you, dear.” You’ll be smiling the other side of your face in a bit, bitch.

“How thoughtful. You can enjoy yours later.” She reached for the plate.

“Allow me.” Forster tendered his best smile.

‘G-e-r-a-l-d
,’ Sira called.

“I’m coming.”

“Pardon?” Margaret was puzzled.

“I mean I’m bringing the cake, sweetheart.”

“Gerald, are you on something? What’s all this lovey-dovey nonsense?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The cake! Give it to me. Or must I wait until it solidifies?”

“Oh no, dear, you can have it..
now
.”

And Forster didn’t realise just how long it would take to choke somebody with a cream slice, especially with a yapping dog tearing at his ankles, and Margaret’s desperation. .. God she had strength. How she managed to raise her legs and shoot her slippers across the room was beyond him.

He prodded her, her wide, shocked eyes staring, her body so still. No detectable heartbeat through all that fat. He laughed, the cadence all around him. And there was Sira: on TV; in the family photographs... everywhere.

He set the jade on the dressing table, the room lit by her pale green glow, and removed all his clothes.

Forster
demanded
she be real, his mind slewing into wild, erotic fantasy, his arousal complete.

Sira danced naked, her mystery hidden by flowing hair; waves washed the beach of his mind, the sea stroking, cajoling. And they came together. Naked, they twisted, and writhed and sweated, his fingers stroking every voluptuous mystery...

The room glowed, vivid, omnipotent, violent.

Even the thumping didn’t deter him.

They kissed, the lash of her tongue taking him higher, only to sink back again into the song... into her.

THUMP-BUMP. . .THUMP-BUMP…

He was vaguely aware of the bedroom door opening, and a dog yapping. What in hell was that lurching through the door? Across the carpet?

He thought: Sod it, locked as he was in the throes of delirious climax. Yet even before it started, before he opened his eyes properly, he knew something was wrong... something had changed.

Nubile flesh became wrinkled parchment; bony talons raked his back; coarse, lank hair smothered him -

He opened his eyes wide.. wider his demented wail rising into the room as he struggled to be free of the nightmare who was Sira... who was the old woman... who was now Margaret throwing the whole of her twenty stone across

him, straddling him, going down on him.

“Kinky bastard,” she laughed, and spat crumbs. “You never could do anything right. I’d eaten two thirds of that cake before you realised, so I just played my own little game... dahling. Hey -“ Margaret bucked, this is fun, too bad we didn’t do it more often.”

And the mountains heaved, smothering him, the valleys hampered his breathing.

Through it, he heard Margaret:

“exactly where I want you...” Before she stuffed the other cream slice into his mouth... and kept on stuffing...

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Atumn 1998]

FLY ON THE WALL DOCUMENTARIES

by Jonathan Taylor

Sheila: television on left; husband: television on right.

That had always been their arrangement: in bed, she took the left hand side, he the right; during their ‘courtship’, she’d sat on his left in the cinema, with the popcorn in the middle, like a baby too small to have a seat to itself. It didn’t signify anything - it was just their arrangement.

She fished out the remote control from under a dozen crisp packets, and started flicking through channels till she reached the Television Directory Home Page:

Type in the word or words that best describe what you want to watch, and the Directory will find someone who fits your description.

Would you like to see someone eating? We now have 135,352,793 people registering positive for that action.

Someone being violently assaulted? Well, we have 128,453 hits for that at the present moment. There are also 7,397,862 other people on line who are currently involved in crime, either as criminal or victim: are you interested in armed robbery? gang rape? cow tipping?

What about watching someone sitting on the sofa, eating crisps and watching television, watching someone else sitting on the sofa, eating crisps and watching television, watching... ? Well, we have 103,981,201 target channels located in the U.K. alone: could you be more specific? Or would you like us to select one randomly for you?

Yawning, she typed in the code for her own channel. There she was, sinking down the back of the sofa with the crisp packets, half of her husband visible next to her.

How many people have visited my channel today? How many people have watched me today? she wanted to know.

None, of course. Not even your devoted spouse.

He doesn’t need to visit my channel if he doesn’t want to, she hissed back at the television. If he just shouted at me from where he is; if he demanded that I go and get him a beer or tub of popcorn; if he kicked me off the sofa, so he could stretch his legs out more; - but he hasn’t spoken to me or shouted at me or even kicked me for five days. Perhaps if some kind stranger turned over to my channel, they’d feel sorry for me and write him a note to tell him I’m lonely - tell him that he’d see for himself how lonely I am if he just took one glance at me or my station. We all used to write to television stars when I was young - but that was when there were stars.

She switched to one of the million advertisement channels. Some twenty-somethings appeared on the screen, drinking, eating and generally over-acting enjoyment.

“Watch yourself at a party surrounded by loads of friends!” the voice-over blared. “Be the centre of attention of gorgeous people like these! Just type in the code shown at the bottom of the screen and today can be your birthday!”

There was a pause as the guests turned towards the doorway. A man wearing a tweed jacket and pink cravat entered, gesticulating at people with his handkerchief. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen - now, for a small, extra fee, Oscar Wilde will make a surprise appearance at your soiree! It’ll be even more of an occasion with his renowned wit and
bon mots
!” (Oooh, thought Sheila, some of those nice continental chocolates).

The advert changed to one of a beautiful couple, exhibiting beautiful (and rather large) teeth to each other whilst wandering through a beautiful park. Beautiful strings swooned beautifully in the background.

“Your life is humdrum and lonely, isn’t it? You’re tired of watching everyone else’s humdrum and lonely life, aren’t you? Well, now
you
can have romance! Love! Marvellous sex! With the star or stars of your choice! See yourself meander through meadows with Monroe! Make a pass at Al Pacino! Sip
vino
with Valentino! Eat
escargots
with Bardot!

“Tap this code into your remote, with your bank account pin and your National Insurance number, and we’ll arrange the rest.”

Next came an advert showing a man and a woman doing the Charleston; the man - short, with a tiny moustache and hair greased to one side - seemed familiar.

“Yes - you can dance with your favourite historical dictator today! McGee Enterprises will arrange your dreams! All you need do is dial in this code on your remote - and from the comfort of your own home you will see yourself Cha-Cha with Genghis Khan, Tango with Ivan the Terrible, or Lambada with Lenin!...McGee says: ‘You
shall
go to the ball!’”

Sheila flicked channels, back to the Directory Home Page. She decided she might check her channel just once more, to see if anyone had been watching her in the last few minutes.

But no. According to the Directory, no one had visited her today. Did the counter ever go wrong, she wondered? Almost embarrassed to do so, she stole a glance at her husband, who was still guzzling the popcorn.

She thought of their first wedding anniversary (a memory which had acquired the dated campness of an old, fondly-remembered advert). During the afternoon, the B.B.C. had been around. Sheila and her husband were the last couple in the street to have their own channels installed - but it had finally happened and she couldn’t quite believe it. Away from the T.V. there wasn’t much to show for all the fuss: the fly-like cameras which buzzed around her were almost too small to be seen. As soon as the technicians had left, though, she’d perched on the edge of the sofa, and had turned her channel on. And there she was: and every giggle, every silly face and every sudden twitch were reflected back. Will I be famous now? she wondered. Then suddenly she and her image had jumped and yelped as she saw a figure appear behind her on the screen. “Gis a hand, for God's sake, luv,” the figure had said. She turned, and found her husband there, struggling under the weight of a box tied up with ribbons. “Happy anniversary,” he said after they’d manoeuvred the box onto the settee. And she’d opened it - and had found inside a second television - and had then let him kiss her in front of the cameras - and had then let him take her for the first time in front of the cameras - and had (for some reason) found it difficult to recognise herself when she’d glanced at the T.V. during the sex.

Next morning, Sheila got up earlier than usual. She found her husband snoring on the settee, his belly spilling out from under his vest. He clutched the remote control in his hands; the right hand screen showed two tramps huddled together in a box.

Shifting his legs to one side (afraid to wake him), she squeezed into a corner of the sofa, and picked up her remote. And, ever so quietly, she tapped in some numbers.

Within ten minutes, she was watching herself being swept across a hall, to a waltz by a guy called Khachaturian, in the arms of Josif Vissarionovich Stalin.

There she was on the McGee Channel: her hair done up in ringlets; her eyelashes drawn out perfectly; her figure flattered by the low-cut gown she was wearing; her midrift looking surprisingly toned (perhaps I’m wearing one of those corset things underneath, she thought); her feet squeezed into such tiny shoes they were almost painful to look at. It was hard to resist the temptation to glance critically between her real self and her screen incarnation.

Stalin, who was smaller than she had expected, was wearing his Red Army dress uniform, and had evidently brushed his moustache. She knew she felt comfortable, if a little frightened, held by those puffy hands which had crushed so many: he could have killed her now, but instead he directed her steps with gentlemanly subtelty - their every, graceful movement absorbed by the real Sheila and the sofa as if they were waltzing too.

“You almost make one believe that all women are not equal,” commented Stalin in his gruff voice.

“Oooh,” Sheila replied, blushing.

“You are like the country I lead and dance with every day: large but beautiful, and made up of many different parts.”

“Oooh,” she replied, hoping he wasn’t going to ruin everything (or make everything complete) by getting lecherous.

“Yet you dance with me more splendidly than Mother Russia.”

“Oooh,” she replied, as she was carried one more time across the room - her real self trembling, tearful and out of breath on the sofa.

Her husband yawned and stretched next to her. Had he seen what she’d been doing? She did not dare look at him. It would be typical of him, she thought, if, just at the time when I least want him to take notice of me, he’s watching. But then - perhaps it might not be such a bad thing for him to see me dancing with another man. I don’t think he’s ever been jealous.

Stalin bowed, kissed her hand and was gone; her own image disappeared; in their place, the price flashed on the screen.

Still shaking, she flicked back to the Directory Home Page, and then to her own channel. Surely someone would have visited her? After all, there couldn’t be many people in the country to watch who are watching themselves dancing with a tyrant.

But when the counter registered zero, she didn’t feel disappointed in the way she’d expected.

Instead, to her husband’s and her own astonishment, she stood up. He was so surprised, he looked up at her.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“I’m going out.”

“Out?”

Sheila was surprised to find that ‘out’ was where it had been the last time she had been there: in the kind of ‘willing suspension of belief’ induced by the Television Net Directory, she’d begun to think it might just be fiction. She was nervous, but also exhilarated at the thought that someone somewhere might now actually think her channel was worth looking at.

She’d decided where she was going without even knowing she’d decided. After three hours of walking, she managed to find the place.

“I wish to speak to Mr. J. Stalin,” she said to the receptionist.

“Which department is that?” asked the receptionist, not bothering to look up from her monitor.

“I don’t know... I just need to speak to him.”

“I have to know which department he’s in so I can contact him, madam.”

“I told you - I don't know.” She was flustered and out of breath.

“Well,” said the receptionist, slowly and distinctly, “you tell me his job, and I
might
be able to help you.”

“Is this lady bothering you, Gladys?” asked a security guard who’d sauntered up. “Are you bothering Gladys, ma’am?”

“No, I...”

“Because if you are - and if you have no security pass, ma’am, I have a right to escort you from the premises.”

“It’s all right for the moment, Clive. Please, madam - tell me what this Mr. J. Stalin does.”

“He’s President or something of the U.S.S.R. and Chairman of their Communist Party - or he was, a hundred years ago. He took over after Lenin died. He told me that was what Lenin had wanted. Now Trotsky...”

“Right, that’s it. Come along with me. We’re going to get you some nice fresh air.”

“Please...”

As Sheila’s arm was taken by the guard, a tiny man who had been listening from across the hallway trotted over and interposed.

“Wait a minute there, Clive. We don’t want to be unfriendly to our customers do we?” The tiny man had a large head, thick spectacles and eyes that blinked too often.

“No, sir, no, certainly not, Mr. McGee.”

“I tell you what. Let me take care of this lady. You two get back to your work, and leave her to me.”

The security guard relinquished Sheila’s arm, with a parting scowl in her direction. She looked at McGee, worried that he would try and escort her away from Comrade Stalin like the others.

“You’re Mr. McGee?” she asked. “You don’t look anything like this on your adverts.”

“Don’t I? Afraid I wouldn’t know. Afraid I don’t watch them myself. I’m quite happy for someone to stand in for me. Between you and me, I don’t watch much television full stop.” He was guiding her gently towards the elevator, though she hadn’t really noticed. “Sheila, is it? Yes, I guessed as much from the description the wife gave me. The wife watches all my programmes (afraid, like I say, I don’t) - and told me you danced wonderfully. You and the great Russian despot made a splendid pair, she said. Might have made a decent man of him, she said - though, personally, I think she might be stretching the point there.”

They were now in the lift going up.

“Yes, well,” she said, shyly. “That’s... well, that’s really what I’ve come here for. I didn’t want to cause any trouble down there, but...”

“Mmm?”

“I wondered if it’d be possible to... well, to see Mr. Stalin.”

“But you have seen him.”

“Yes, but to... to meet him.”

“You did meet him.”

“But I wondered if it’d be possible to meet him
actually, really
, if you see what I mean.”

The lift stopped and they wandered into a passageway - a passageway which led directly into the very hall where Sheila and the ‘Father of Children’ had danced. Unlike McGee, the hall was as it had been on television - apart from one wall which was made of darkened glass. Behind this window, technicians could be seen, playing with computers and other gadgets; in front of the window, a large television screen displayed the room, with Sheila and McGee in it, like a mirror.

Sheila forced back a cry of excitement. “Where is he, Mr. McGee?” She was shaking with the effort of controlling herself. “Oh, Mr. McGee, if you only knew how charming he was, how gentle, how... If you knew, you’d understand why I had to come here.”

“Sheila, I understand perfectly. You’re not the first to come.”

“You mean he has other admirers?”

McGee paced away, over the chequered floor. He hated having to do this - and he could have delegated the task - but he felt that he should shoulder the responsibility for the drawbacks of his enterprise himself.

“Sheila,” he started slowly. “Sheila, I understand how you feel. But you must know that Josif Stalin has been dead a hundred years."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I know... I know, but... what about the man you get to play him?”