Read Online Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite, Deirdre C. Amthor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Poppy Z. Brite, Deirdre C. Amthor
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posters and automatic sweet vendors, the lulling motion of the train, the murmur of the sparse midday crowds, the tunnels and stations flashing by nearly put me to sleep. But I resisted Morpheus, who had been such a faithful lover these past five years.
The next time I emerged from the tube, I was in Piccadilly Circus and all the world seemed to explode around me, written in neon swirls and punctuated with shiny red double-decker buses. Piccadilly is a giddy hub of London, a cross between a traffic hazard and a funfair ride. Faded wax rock stars leer down from the wedding-cake balconies of Victorian music halls; behind the ornate facades, glittering modern shopping centres are cleverly concealed.
The traffic was deafening, the smells stunning: petrol, exhaust, a spicy blend of restaurants. I bought a souvlaki from a takeaway and ate it in three bites. It was the most deliciousthing I had ever tasted, the soft fragrant bread, the tender meat sauced and seasoned as if someone cared whether it was good, the subtle salty oils, the juices trickling over my tongue, staining the corners of my mouth. And the smells of the
people:
their clean skins, their perfumes, their scented soaps and shampoos, their sweat that did not stink of desperation!
On impulse I stopped at a news vendorâs to scan the advertisements in the
London Gay Times
. I remembered when this paper had been tucked away at the backs of shops, half-hidden behind magazines featuring glossy colour photos of greased arses and tumescent circumcised cocks. And that was when the shops carried it at all. Now it was up front with all the other city papers.
In addition to the AIDS information lines and HIV counselling centres that had sprung up like mushrooms on a wet lawn, a great many new pubs and dance clubs seemed to have opened, each promising more decadence than the last. None of these chatty pubs or glittering flesh palaces seemed quite what I wanted. Too many people noticing you, talking to you, their brains as likely to be hypertuned on stimulants as dulled with drink. I put the paper back on the shelf and headed up Coventry Street toward Leicester Square, Chinatown, the shimmer of Soho. My old hunting grounds.
I knew a secondhand clothing store where one could buy a coat, a jumper, and an old pair of trousers for three quid in 1988. Now these same musty-smelling items cost the better part of a tenner. âCount yourself lucky to find trousers that fit,â the proprietor said when I raised an eyebrow at the price. âWeâve nearly sold out. Guy Fawkes, you know; the kids want them.â
I traded Waringâs ugly rubber-soled loafers for shiny wingtips that fit me perfectly, and the old man threw in a fresh pair of socks. (Waringâs socks, I am sorry to say, were so ripe they had to be disposed of.) The scalpel was still taped securely to the side of my leg, and I left it there for now.
I outfitted myself in basic black, good for hiding bloodstains and blending into crowds. Not flash enough to be noticed in the trendy bars of Soho, but nothing to sneer at, either. With the little gold-rimmed spectacles and new haircut, I thought I looked rather smart.
No one would guess I had already killed two men today, and meant to do a third. But that was the whole point, wasnât it?
Outside the shop, a pack of boys accosted me, wagon trundling along behind, misshapen form sprawled on a heap of lucre. âPenny for the guy? Penny for the guy?â I surrendered all my coins to their grubby fragile-boned hands. I couldnât help it. There was a crisp November bite to the air, seasoned with the smoke of firecrackers and bonfires, and the boysâ eyes were bright and wild, and their cheeks were ruddy as autumn apples, dusted with fine golden hairs, smudged with ash.
In Leicester Square, children of a different sort sat smoking in the park, painted children who of a Saturday might parade up and down the Kingâs Road staring in the shop
The next time I emerged from the tube, I was in Piccadilly Circus and all the world seemed to explode around me, written in neon swirls and punctuated with shiny red double-decker buses. Piccadilly is a giddy hub of London, a cross between a traffic hazard and a funfair ride. Faded wax rock stars leer down from the wedding-cake balconies of Victorian music halls; behind the ornate facades, glittering modern shopping centres are cleverly concealed.
The traffic was deafening, the smells stunning: petrol, exhaust, a spicy blend of restaurants. I bought a souvlaki from a takeaway and ate it in three bites. It was the most deliciousthing I had ever tasted, the soft fragrant bread, the tender meat sauced and seasoned as if someone cared whether it was good, the subtle salty oils, the juices trickling over my tongue, staining the corners of my mouth. And the smells of the
people:
their clean skins, their perfumes, their scented soaps and shampoos, their sweat that did not stink of desperation!
On impulse I stopped at a news vendorâs to scan the advertisements in the
London Gay Times
. I remembered when this paper had been tucked away at the backs of shops, half-hidden behind magazines featuring glossy colour photos of greased arses and tumescent circumcised cocks. And that was when the shops carried it at all. Now it was up front with all the other city papers.
In addition to the AIDS information lines and HIV counselling centres that had sprung up like mushrooms on a wet lawn, a great many new pubs and dance clubs seemed to have opened, each promising more decadence than the last. None of these chatty pubs or glittering flesh palaces seemed quite what I wanted. Too many people noticing you, talking to you, their brains as likely to be hypertuned on stimulants as dulled with drink. I put the paper back on the shelf and headed up Coventry Street toward Leicester Square, Chinatown, the shimmer of Soho. My old hunting grounds.
I knew a secondhand clothing store where one could buy a coat, a jumper, and an old pair of trousers for three quid in 1988. Now these same musty-smelling items cost the better part of a tenner. âCount yourself lucky to find trousers that fit,â the proprietor said when I raised an eyebrow at the price. âWeâve nearly sold out. Guy Fawkes, you know; the kids want them.â
I traded Waringâs ugly rubber-soled loafers for shiny wingtips that fit me perfectly, and the old man threw in a fresh pair of socks. (Waringâs socks, I am sorry to say, were so ripe they had to be disposed of.) The scalpel was still taped securely to the side of my leg, and I left it there for now.
I outfitted myself in basic black, good for hiding bloodstains and blending into crowds. Not flash enough to be noticed in the trendy bars of Soho, but nothing to sneer at, either. With the little gold-rimmed spectacles and new haircut, I thought I looked rather smart.
No one would guess I had already killed two men today, and meant to do a third. But that was the whole point, wasnât it?
Outside the shop, a pack of boys accosted me, wagon trundling along behind, misshapen form sprawled on a heap of lucre. âPenny for the guy? Penny for the guy?â I surrendered all my coins to their grubby fragile-boned hands. I couldnât help it. There was a crisp November bite to the air, seasoned with the smoke of firecrackers and bonfires, and the boysâ eyes were bright and wild, and their cheeks were ruddy as autumn apples, dusted with fine golden hairs, smudged with ash.
In Leicester Square, children of a different sort sat smoking in the park, painted children who of a Saturday might parade up and down the Kingâs Road staring in the shop
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