The Urban Book of the Dead (6 page)

As I came down on the castle I did not destroy it, instead I had the impression of passing fast through a wall of sand, grainy against my body, my mouth was open and filled up with it, I landed in a cool room on my feet, the walls textured with the same sand that I now spat out of my mouth, I was inside the sand castle. Four other bodies fell in at all angles, landing awkwardly. I looked around, the room was not quite empty, there were pictures of a great battle carved in the wall, that appeared to be from Revelations, yet, I knew they had chosen to decorate with a Bible myth, a real fight against God, would not take that form, it was done as a glorious fairy tale by some probably very resentful women.

The women immediately gathered in a circle and started to gesticulate a kind of sign language, one began to hold her bosom and swoon; this was the one who had followed me. Another stood up and with authority made signs that I must depart; at once; fly away, and all nodded their heads, but there were tears in their eyes, I thought perhaps this was because they had not seen a man in a long time. I wondered why, if it was possible to escape, they had not done so themselves, and how exactly I could leave, when the great pressure and resistance of the planet made me feel my magic was dampened and all but useless, they, however, as I had seen, appeared to of retained at least some magic.

They left the safety of the castle with some haste; and I followed them out. Behind me the castle was just a small sand castle again. They quickly began dismantling the car, the wings, the doors and the windscreen came off. They were piled up and curved around, until they looked like some old B-movie rocket ship, complete with window, door and the cars fins as wings. Finally I was given the speed dial to hold in my hand, and the woman who had stood up ushered me inside. They looked through the windscreen at me and chanted in my face whilst holding it with their hands, leaving sticky black palm prints.

The needle of the dial in my hands moved straight to one hundred and forty, the highest it went, and flickered there. Outside went bright, the G-forces were incredible, pushing my now bubble body into distorted shapes. Then I was splattered against the screen in a liquid, and everything went black.

Next I heard a crash and I was falling out of the windscreen into my own living room, I tumbled upside down and saw the rocket wedged through my window, crumbling some of my wall. For better or worse I had returned to my familiar haunt.

As soon as I was back at the flat I slipped on a pair of rubbery jeans that distorted my never regions with their relative rigidity, pushing my balls up into my body, to my astonishment my trainers reformed over my feet. I was very dry throated, and what I had wanted more than anything during my recent exploit was a cup of tea. So looking around my now rather avant-garde looking home for a cup, I picked one off the living room floor and went into the kitchen. I put the kettle on the stove; it was an old fashioned kettle with a whistle on it, which you heated up on the stove, a memento from my grandmother. As I looked through the window I saw a hulking postman climbing up the steps, he was wearing a gas mask because of the atmosphere here; a letter went through my letter box. I went and picked it up and steamed it open over the kettle.

The contents of the envelope fell out; and inside was a shrivelled and darkening piece of flesh that looked like the nipple of a living woman and three grainy postcards, which I now looked at. As the kettle built up steam so did I, as the kettle screamed and screamed higher and higher, so did I inside my head, even opening my mouth. The window glazed with steam, the kettle ran dry. I laughed a very unhealthy laugh. God had upped the ante.

One of the postcards was not very remarkable; it showed the back of a living woman being branded on the arse with magic symbols by a red hot brand. The second picture was somewhat even worse and the woman could now be identified, under the three headed dog of Cerberus was a face appealing to the camera and the face was Jane’s, the dog was obviously in the middle of a sex act, having mounted her. The third picture was a living and moving picture obviously depicting what was happening somewhere now, Jane was naked in a corner crying, her beauty somewhat disfigured. She was wearing only her underwear.

I took a lighter to the two still postcards, it flared up lovely and warm in my hand, but such is the human fascination with cruelty we can blame our God for, I did not burn them straight away. After maybe thirty seconds hesitation I did. The third post card I put in my pocket, since it was useful, and would tell me what was happening. There was a note with the postcard; the scrawl was spastic; showed signs of derangement and simply said, “Do you want this to stop Surrender yourself to me. Give up your powers.” I burned the note.

Now nowhere in this story did I claim to be a good person; I did not feel an overwhelming need to sacrifice my self to end her further suffering. Such an act would be one of weakness, that could never right the wrong, he should of threatened rather than carried out the act to have any chance of success, she looked all used up to me, it was already too late to salvage anything of her, so I didn’t for a second consider giving my self up, I did however, give consideration to finding and rescuing her any way.

The old unease of the crusader crept back into me though. How much does the crusader need the crusade? Does it feed him, give him a reason to live, does he identify so much with the crusade he needs it, and the worse the situation the better? It felt like that, and that is why I had laughed so ironically, now I would win and now it would be the worse for him.

I sat down in my living room. I hugged my self with my wings, snuggled the cold feather fingers like some dead stringency. I merely called for her because from now on she would never be far away. Judith appeared in front of me, she looked down on me enclosed in my feathers like a dieing dove.

Her lips opened and she demanded “What? What is it?”

I took the picture out of my pocket, something shadowy was descending on Jane’s crouched form, and a silent scream filled her mouth, I passed the picture to Judith, wanting to get the responsibility out of my possession, it was something I wanted to rip up, like some childhood artistic effort that had gone maddeningly wrong, beyond redemption, rip it up and start all over again.

Judith looked at it and remarked “This is no good, there is a stronger magic in the veneer than the picture, we can not enter; we will have to find out where it is.”

I replied with icy anger, mingled in it was the beginnings of sadness and hatred “It’s no good, she’s finished.”

Judith gave a cry like a mother exasperated with her child “Argh!. What the hell do you mean, look at it, look at it; it’s you’re love.” She pushed the picture in my face “And she needs your help now.”

I looked at the picture, its growing urgency, and then averted my gaze sadly.

Judith said calmly “That’s better. The picture may give us some clues, what ever he blackmailed you with, and I’m sure he did, to finish him is the only way to save her and yourself, when you kill God there will be nothing you can’t undo, nothing.” She emphasised the last word. Then she added, “Put it back in your pocket, snuggled next to your cock” She gave the picture back and I pocketed it.

Judith said “Now, when you’re feeling better, look for clues with me in the picture and that way we will find her, and; when we find her, you can bet, we will have him.”

Judith handed me a gun, it was a ‘Dessert Eagle’ and it glowed a dull red, like a block of metal that was just being heated up, it was very cold though to touch, it stuck to my fingers like ice from the fridge. As she held out her arm and I took it she said “A detective needs a good gun, this will vanquish minor souls.”

I put the gun in my waist; if I shot off my dick I could always grow another one. I got the picture out of my pocket and braced my self to look at it again. I could make nothing of it, although I had the feeling that the information contained was everything I needed. Jane was in an almost bare white room, a digital clock, late eighties, was on the wall, the time said 2 am, the time it was now, it was there to show that this was live, a phone in the shape of a large red lobster, close up in the picture was on a desk, a large figure in a suit, possibly God, possibly not as he had his back to me, was standing before Jane. She defiantly gave a little dance in front of him and he slapped her and tore at her knickers, she spat at him and fell, catching herself with her arm. I knew instinctively I had just been given all the information I needed to find her but could make nothing of it. With the picture on my lap I banged my fists against my head trying to make sense of it as the man or God raped her.

I cried out “aghh! I know its all there but I can’t think, I’m blocked by my own agitation, I want to kill and kill, I want to disfigure, I want to torture.”

Judith talked to me gently, mothering my tormented soul “It’s alright, it will come”

She gave a condescending smile and pinched my cheek; I felt the flesh slowly take back its shape. “I know it’s not what you want to hear but it’s too early to do anything now any way. He will have an army and you need one too. You need to gather your troops, very, very fast.”

I replied defensively “I have set such a thing in motion”

Judith looked down at me searchingly, then she shook her head “No, no; if your reaping from your own past; you want to look in Hell, if they’re dead now that’s where they will be, and there are better soldiers out there . . .” She bent and looked me in the eyes and I sensed a light of nostalgia or admiration, flickering in the movement of her eyes “in Hell your followers are like grains of sand on the beach, you can release a few now and when you have the power release them all.”

I asked flatly “Is that wise?”

Judith laughed heartily “Wise! To follow you’re mind is that wise! Is it wise to be wise, Ha-ha; you will find out just whose side you’re on. ‘All power to the imagination’; who said that?”

“Guy Debord” I replied.

Judith pinched my cheek again, this time more tugging, a few tugs, and I put my hand to the flap of stretched skin on my face “Did he say that first, did he?”

Judith continued “When you’re down in Hell, not that it’s really up or down; tell them that, that you want to give all power to their imagination. What do you think that means here? Identity, exploration of the self and to be the star in ones own story, free expression of desire, those are the things you should talk about to them.”

“But that’s what I believe” I replied, expressing it with an upper turn of the sentence like a question, but one I had answered.

Judith bent over me. The cruellest look I had ever seen came on Judith’s face, similar to her portrait but in higher definition from the underneath tension of the muscles, it should of moved or flinched under that tension, but remarkably there was an immense stillness. She stayed that way for maybe ten seconds, I thought perhaps she would never move or speak again.

Then she spoke “Of course; well what else would you think.”

I scrutinised Judith and analysed her. Judith was sometimes a transformation of Jane in 17
th
century Italian, fiery and forcefully sexual. At other times she seemed too manly to be Jane, the opposite of her internal feminine vitality that had erupted when she became a crab. It revealed complexity, but with the outer simplicity of all effective authority. This was a Jane who had always had power.

Where as Jane now, seemed a symbol of female helplessness, her compassion and vulnerability stretched thin like the skin of a hymen stretched over the soul looking out in her face, God using it to suffocate her with strong hands, and she needed to poke a hole in it to survive.

Jane was an articulation of 21
st
century capitalism, Judith had missed capitalism altogether. She was from an unfragmented time when people found it easier to be self reliable precisely because they were not atomised and forced to be self reliable, standing on their own, all against all.

Judith was less Jane like than all the Jane’s I had imagined and fantasised with the help of my marvellous pillar that held up the temple of my thoughts to her in my wild imaginings, that fleshy pillar I caressed and adored when my head hit the pillow.

Getting back to the conversation, I pointed out “When I was in Hell; they sent me back, as you can see from the fifties art décor” I pointed at the rocket.

“They thought you were trapped, they were trying to help.” Judith stated with a circular movement of her head.

I sighed “So. What do you suggest?”

“A fishing trip. A fishing trip in the ‘Lake of Fire’.”

Judith continued in a voice calculated to charm “There’s the boat man and well you have the right coinage stuck in your waste band, I’d take a net and even a rod, the lake is molten lead, so don’t fall in, I won’t be there to catch you.”

I used to fish now and then, so I went into the kitchen cupboard, and took out a rod and net for holding fish. When I came back in the living room, Judith held out a much bigger net.

I took the net and asked “are you going to get me there?”

Judith looked annoyed “You’ve got to use your own magic more, it’s really, really strong. This is the last time.”

Judith put her hand behind her back, bent her back to get leverage, and slapped me hard in the face with a fish. The living room disappeared and everything went blinding light.

I found myself on a jetty made of wood, which some how was not corroded, it spanned out into a sea of red molten metal, the sea glowed and was emblazoned by the Sun and ached the eyes, making me nurse them with my hands; at the end of the jetty was the boatman with a yellow water/lead proof Mac and matching triangular hat, his face was a skull with green shaggy beard, as I approached it became clear the beard was overgrown moss, obviously old bony couldn’t grow a proper beard. He held out his hand for the right coin and I put a bullet in it, he looked down at it and then looked at me, I put my gun to his skull before he could protest and squeezed the trigger. The skull fragmented; pieces dancing in the air on a red background; if he had any blood; you wouldn’t see it against the sky. The hat fell on top of his shoulders and the body collapsed.