CHRIS MADOCH - PIECES NOUVEAUX

A PART APART

He was at it again- bitterly obsessively regretting being christened with such a burdensome name, a name that bit at both his ganglia and prostrate, a name never meant for greatness: Godfried Dick. He knew of Phillip Dick, Bladerunner, the sheep, the weeping of the lambs. He got there, fair and square in Thomas Harris territory, in a flash. Lately he was prone to do this, the domestic circumstances predisposing him to introspection and morbid depression.

It was early afternoon, a Friday, and he was watch-watching whilst eyeing inbred pigeons with an intense envy.

He'd ended the working week early with a sense of glee, boyishly exercising his freedom to virtually come and go when he pleased where he was prized and also demonised by a junior partnership. Law firms ran in the family as did truncated marriages to doctors and unseemly divorces.

He picked at the brie and rocket sandwich he'd purchased from Starbucks, scattered crumbs exciting the sky rats, felt in a blink like some demi-god. Odd as a peg with no hole at all.

London's many smaller, mostly walk-thru parks, were active pockets of intrigue, places of consequence where stories, indeed films, either began or ended or, in the case of some European directors, both. Shit, all of life's detritus, sifted through them in a giant cycle of glory, boredom and regret.

This particular bench, the one marked in dedication to Sybil Fort- a maverick female banker was, he knew, to be his first fresh benchmark, the start of a new life without a cunt of a surgeon wife when the bells eventually chime four. It was ironically apt. On this bench he'd get the call to say the deal was done- his substantial assets duly raped; the West Sussex Manor and the Colombian gardener gone along with two million in pristine sterling. He kept telling himself how liberating it was.

It was an obvious loss. Even whenever he'd been a phenomenal success he'd thought himself a loser. Well, with a name like that, a name that defied a halfway decent nick-name. No-one was going to call him God. Dick was obvious and consequently ubiquitous even at a Public school- Winchester. Winchester, followed by a first in Law at Oxford. Fried Dick always hurt him the most. She who was noted for her heart bypass technique had persistently called him Dickie- the one trifle that had always made him feel rather sick. The scalpel adept bitch.

Glad? Yes.

At least he had the de rigueur bachelor pad in Covent Garden- with garage, a state of the art Audi and a legitimate million. Not exactly a setback to anyone fresh out of the closet about to embark on a new life as a gay man. The head of his firm was a very understanding old queen with a wicked glint in his eye that spoke of tit for tat and prospective promotion. So fuck Ms bleached skin and her endless theses on the refinements of suturing.

His Blackberry played Elgar, cutting the ambient silence like he'd seen MP's from The Treasury slice the end off of fat Cuban cigars.

A DONE DEAL.

Free. But he was suddenly at a loss as how to feel.

Three albino pigeons chopping the sunlight like 'copter wings, the vision slabs of white and black, not unlike the precursor of a migraine attack. The arms of The Isle Of Man. He covered his blue eyes with both hands, began sobbing like a much bullied boy.

Traffic police found the abandoned Audi, doors agape, keys in the ignition, the engine purring. Blood at jam set stage, sticky, viscous, mocked the custard yellow hide of the driver's and the passenger side. No sign of structural damage. No theft. An SLR digital and a Macbook had been left along with all of the vehicle's accreditation. Nearby a major hospital- a great white toad with NHS blue eyes held ghastly court across the urban sprawl where anything of any possible predilection might actually breathe air and reside.

All he has said over and over is 'The bag. The bag. The [expletive] plastic bag.'

No-one is surprised.

THE A&E RECEPTIONIST

"I was fresh on. He was my first. You always remember them. Dead on ten pm he was. Never late me. We were pretty slack- just a broken foot and a suspected heart attack I knew full well was dyspepsia. No medical qualifications just years of experience. You see it all the time. He was a walk-in. Well, I say a walk-in. Two, in uniform, door security men helped him stagger to a seat. They're plastic. The Accident and Emergency seating. Totally washable and bolted to the floor. His face was as white as a sheet. His hands and his lower half were covered with blood, totally covered, and he was shouting out about this bag he was holding. Very unpleasant. Major. I immediately pressed the emergency triage bell as per our pocket training manual. I couldn't look at him. He was smart though. Nice shoes. Probably tailored I surmised. Bespoke. You can always tell a lot about a man by the gib of his shoes."

The assessment nurse arrived. An obese flap of youth, badges and an upside down watch, sensibly shod. She called out almost immediately. The back-up arrived in double time, seeming like too many chefs spoiling the buffet of flesh and flannel, but the froth of chrome and green was altogether necessary. God was whisked away to a semi-intensive surgical bay, the curtains cerulean blue with not a cloud to suggest rain in their softly pleated sky. Sharp scissors attacked his Paul Smith jeans. Quick fingers sought a wallet, diary, any form of identity. Godfried Dick, Queens Counsel. Forty two. Next of kin- Mrs Priscilla Dick, Consultant Cardiac Surgeon. It suddenly seemed he was one of theirs.

In went a multi-valve for a variety of lines- saline, morphine. Swabs. Machine bots all singing and all dancing mountain ranges. Shocked eyes locked then criss-crossing, asking, no-one answering, doing the routine on injuries anything but routine. The whole team breathy and agog. Their silence much louder than when encountering the usual run-of-the-mill proximity to death, to infant burns victims, to nuns miscarrying. In that profession you do become inured to the topography of tragedy until a new volcano suddenly erupts as if to deliberately trip you out of auto-pilot. Sandra threw up in a recycled paper dish, adding to the scent of shitted Calvin Kleins and tissue damage. Leanne fainted, qualified for her own bay, a cold sponge to the forehead and regularly tapped hands. Eventually done with the humdrum, a junior doctor turned to the transparent bag whose contents, at that stage, needed no medical judgement and offered no surprise tangents of thought- half melted ice-cubes, blood, meat, a pathetic human piece, a part apart.

A&E SENIOR NURSE

"I'd seen him before. Lovely couple. We have a Cardiac Suite, the fifth floor- all of it. Very handsome. I shouldn't say it but everyone remarked on it- his good looks. Televisual I think they call it these days. Yes. Of course. The hospital ant's nest being the hotbed of rumours that it is we all had an inkling of the impending divorce. Minutes after we laid hands on him he lost all consciousness. Swift blood matching. Transfusion. Rigorous monitoring. Transfer to theatre and the safe hands of a plastic surgeon who was fortuitously available. No. He never uttered a word other than was sufficient to draw our attention to the bag he brought in with him. Speed is crucial in these cases. He's in intensive care now drifting in and out of sleep supported by a raft of drugs. I wouldn't expect him to be reliably lucid for at least 48hrs. Yes. With severe subcutaneous injury there is always danger of infection and yes, some of those infections can be life-threatening. Mrs Dick. No. No, I can't say that I have."

Still sobbing, he stopped when a young man tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the Blackberry he'd just dropped. God was taken aback. The lad loped off- lank blonde hair, thread worn street threads, careless and awash with honesty. A miracle.

It was four thirty.

A whole half an hour of freedom wasted.

A new cycle of self chastisement began keeping him pre-occupied as he sauntered from the City to Covent Garden. The gate porter smiled. Then, as he entered his G&Q domain- the home she hated, he discovered a scrap of paper in his pocket; unfolding it he read the rather cryptic 'www.squirt.org' and decided to investigate the site later, after his long bath.

Physical nakedness often begets more denuding. Immersion in warm water with all its residual references to the womb where sound and motion both seduced, produces an inclination in us to undress our beasts of lies, to lay bare their reality as unkempt rent or sloppy trollops; at least God thought as much. He'd lied enough and often blamed the legal bar- the greatest liars always made the best defence briefs. They could turn the theft of a Blackberry into the mere 'oversight' much beloved by fraudulent members of The Commons. The Lords too he quickly remembered- how sweet the unsavoury relationship between The Crown and honesty. The joy in that impossibly honest boy. Maybe he was gay too, felt it on his radar. He was showing empathy.

A London blonde boy glowing empathy. That was real, not the prejudicial preconception that he was bound to steal

Why the fuck speak posh.

God's cock was soft, moist moleskin; sac relaxed. Best wash Priscilla fully off with oils alive with vetiver. Never. How clever the mind. No more the torture of that ever present question- is this a geezer's cunt or a front arse passing itself off as a fucking rose, a blood red origami rose with thorns that prick your swollen bell-end into spending millions for the dubious pleasure of an overblown wank. Men, God thought, are fuckwits to put up with it. Maybe their wedlocked totty learn. Maybe they come to yearn, to long to have their man shove it up their next to kitty shitter.

'Oh! Come back, loping boy and soft soap me into aping raping you. Lick me dry. I wish. I wish.'

He screamed but soundlessly. The overhead lights seemed stolen from a set by Spielberg- crafty the Germans, spinning, always going back to a beginning, being dazzling, dizzying. His movement on the pillow rang a bell. It came- opaque with hands outstretched and spoke in tongues. It flapped fabric, switched switches, checked both wrists. It twists, spiralling like smoke, a much sucked curly-wurly chew bar. You show me yours and I'll show you mine. Rub it. There, I told you, Fried Dick, isn't cock divine. 'Mother' he whispers and she turns- a face with vast almond eyes staring intently as he drifts back into fretful sleep. He's chalking in white chalk on a black blackboard 'YOU FOOLS. THERE ARE NO RULES'. It spots a drift of spittle and gently cleanses his pale cheek. Dickbrain- ever had poppers, d'you know what Crisco is, fancy a bit of felching, fuck a bit more go for second helpings. Get your kit off. Blimey, that's a beauty. Take a gander at this one son, bloody lovely. It's your lucky night tonight. Tonight I'm gonna let ya shoot right into me mouth.

Mummy wouldn't like it. Mummy didn't ever like what daddy did. She slept with nanny.

It was then God wet the hospital bed.

In intensive care wetting the bed makes a discreet light glow at the nearby nurse's station.

Now why would the psychotherapist have made quite such a pointed point about the fact that he was a happy heterosexual. It is a huge fucking leap from side-effect bonding to random buggery- how insecure was he in his sexuality, his Marks & Spencer's off the rail suit, his no tie casualness and his Next loafers? God guessed he was the Positive Obsessive type who regularly looked in the hall mirror on the way out and told it, Hey shiny guy! If ever I were a lady I'd go moist for you. Please! What was that aftershave. Oh yes. NHS.

And you're British, God thought, not a fucking American mime artist.

It was not a good start. The door was deliberately left ajar. The utilitarian room was beige and institutionally stuffy and even the succulent plants were in dire need of a crash team. God could hear them whimpering on a higher frequency.

So. How is the healing coming along. I mean the physical healing.

Oh. Healing. Healing to the point of being pretty much healed. But there are scars and it is not a pretty sight. Would you like to see?

No. That won't be necessary.

There are residual non-palpable scars. PTSD. MDD. Frequent suicidal tendencies. Would you like to see?

I beg your pardon?

It was a joke. You're being so frosty.

I understand that you own a small boutique hotel in..

Brighton..

Brighton. Yes.

..London by the sea- very cosmopolitan, gulls, immigrants, a gay ghetto, rock candy in the shape of cocks, drag bars, drugs, drop-outs, loads of homeless, Big Issue sellers on every corner, a shop where you can buy grow-your-own magic mushrooms and every conceivable variety of skunk seeds. Very high incidence of drink related, sex related violence and disease. It's breezy. It's the seaside. There are lairs for bears, bars for men with beefy bellies and gents with a bent for the hairy likes of them. Rent boys, prostitutes, gangsters, mobsters, big time crime. Any of that lot take your fancy? Crystal meth for the weekend?

This is not about me.

God was totally crap at mind games, wonderfully good at writing, writing and prodigiously remembering. On the day that he was meant to he created a word file and began divulging the unforgettable.

He was still rather afraid of the dark so, unlike God Almighty, he began by first creating light. He lit a ludicrously expensive scented candle in a cut crystal jar- it glowed whilst diffusing the lily rich aroma of 'Giorgio Of Beverly Hills'. He was rich but didn't give a shit that he was burning money. Besides, that scent, plus a couple of blue diamond meds, and a raging hard-on was a virtual certainty. God bless restorative British surgery.

THE END FILE

....there are 350 prior pages to this one but I'm cutting to the chase purely in the interest of the short story genre.

Yes.

I was coked up and cocky as fuck strutting through Old Compton Street. Nothing worth mentioning but a few casual bum fumbles in the usual dives. I was hungry for action, simple as that. The sign was full on but the sissy fish weren't biting. Wankers. All talk and no fucking walk- ball-breaking spoil sports. You're supposed to be queers. Well then, start acting it dear. It was all beer and bleeding braces with not one geezer at the jump races.

I kept hearing two things, just the two over and over. The first was- go home, put porn on the HD widescreen TV, butt plug, lube, wank in a hanky, no sweat; sleep like a baby. The other said- that destination west, the cottage in a lay-by you got off the internet, give it a look see. Glory holes that site said. I liked that. I liked the semantics of the juxtaposition of the words glory and hole. It thrilled me, made me feel proper queer, dirty, clean, wonderfully obscene, free to be- fingered by a mystery, sucked by a nobody, a mouth for the most part, a mouth attached to a nobody. Anonymous. Sex with strangers. No poncing about with dates. No apologising for being late. Just a place, somewhere soft and warm to jettison my load, drive home alive with endorphins, dreaming of a hot shower, a scotch and a late night movie. Sexy Beast. Yeah Sexy Beast with Ray Winstone that would do it for me. So I gets to the car and educates the sat nav.

This was my first time. True. That's what life is for- breaking the hymen of all them screaming first times.

It was easy. Fulham East.

The door's locked. I was sat on the pottery lavatory pan wanking a stonker. Something in me yearning for home. To my left there's this hole in the dividing wall, a drilled hole filled with an active eye. The more I rub myself the more it bleeding winks. A hazel eye- not old, not young. Through this prick sized hole comes a glistening tongue. I let it lick my prepuce and frenum. It withdraws. My turn to spy. My! He's Latino, Cuban maybe, well hung. Yum. He beckons and I reckon why not. This is hot. This is the action that Soho so is not. I stick my throbbing bang stick through the hole and he envelops it with wet lips and spit and gives it deep throat kisses stoked with bliss.

I come spasms into him a back-up of frustrating stress-filled months and then he jumps.

And then the lights blow.

I feel something cold slide onto me, hand-cuffs, cock-cuffs, what the fuck.

This is where I get a little confused. Damn. Now, how was it really, did the sound of the cut come before the pain set in or was it the other way around? I don't remember and, in truth, it don't matter much.

It was pitch dark. Velveteen. And in the pitch black, hearing me scream, he had the grace to push my severed part back through to me.

I heard him unlock his door. He washed and dried his hands.

It's taken years to put together what came next. I heard the rip of cellophane. I heard what I now believe to be the sound of a fat cigar cutter. It cut through a cigar. He struck a match. I understand. I know I smelled that.

I have a long-time lover now. Life partner. Business partner. He is holistically enormously kind. We have a relationship I had never dared to dream possible. I think I've told him everything. The whole. And the whole does seem glorious. But, most importantly, I don't want one small part of my past life to cause us to be apart ever.

Equally we lay no wilful traps for each other. We're queer and constantly err on the side of queerness.

I'm part of the judiciary now. Part-time. Soft on the young

OK. I still reason, albeit insanely- if that is at all possible, that the vindictive bitch paid to have this happen to me. A part of me wants it to be plausible but it just doesn't stack up.

And yes. I still shudder and feel sick at the smell of cigars.