Twenty Seven

A short symbolic Gothic story inspired by Angela Carters "A Bloody Chamber", take from it what you will, all reviews are welcome.

27

 

London was alive. The streets were heavy with the usual night time madness. People flowed in and out through the hungry doors of O’Neil’s and the air rippled with repetitive beats and loud, braying voices. A group of girls stood, smoking under the light of a lamp post, laughing at some s**t, in too short a skirt, collapsed on the pavement. She was a mess. Her mascara had bled down her cheeks in two black scars and her tights were ripped up the side. She retched heavily and a cheer sounded from the heckling girls every time she managed to get anything up.

A group of lads loped past, carrying pint glasses. One of them flicked his cigarette at her. A glowing brand scratching through the air and shattering on the ground next to her. His mates barked a viscous laugh and then were eaten up by the darkness.

A couple with a young daughter came round the corner. They were on their way back from a production of Wicked; the husband clutched his daughter’s hand as they approached the heaving crowd outside the pub. He glanced at the girl on the street and hurried on with his family.

 

The Man walked through it all. He saw the pub and the laughing girls and the hurried family but he didn’t see the “Pathetic S**t.” He saw a poor, insecure girl, who’d just drunk too much and really needed a hand. The Man looked around at all the people, so many of them and not one would help this poor girl. He sighed and crouched down next to her, breathing in her sweet perfume tainted with the smell of vomit.

“What’s your name?” His voice was soft and reassuring.

She turned and looked at him for a while, her eyes straining for focus, “Mary” she slurred.

 “It’s nice to meet you, Mary, I’ll get you home. Where do you live?”

Mary answered in the proud, practiced rhythm of a drunk able to remember something “3 Calgary Street.”

He lifted her into his arms and stumbled across to the road with her dead weight. A taxi pulled up and he carried her inside.

 

Mary had passed out on his shoulder and the rest of the journey was filled with silence as the driver navigated his way through the labyrinthine streets of the council estate she lived in. A couple stumbled past laughing, a bottle of Bella clutched in a deathlike grip, their faces distorted into leering creatures by the grimy wing-mirrors of the taxi.  The Man’s shoulder was smeared with foundation. He wiped at it with a clean white handkerchief, he didn’t understand why girls wore makeup. He didn’t understand what had caused this huge rush of self-doubt, everyone was already beautiful. That’s what his Father always said.

 

They stopped outside a small house, its windows staring blindly into the black of the Saturday night, and the Man paid. He watched the taxi drift off into the darkness before making his way towards the door. The kitchen light was on and faint music could be heard through the open window. He knocked three times and soon the silhouette of a woman loomed in the glass followed by a burst of warmth as the door opened.

 

It was dark in the estate, its narrow streets warren like in the night time air. It seemed even quieter now without the regular sound of Mary’s breathing and the man must have been walking for a good ten minutes. In the silence an air of menace pervaded the ugly houses. The bricks exhaled the venom of another night of poverty and street lamps flickered like malevolent eyes. The street came to a dead end and he took a small cut in between two houses.  He looked up at a huge piece of graffiti on one of the walls. In the impassive moonlight a stenciled skull glared down at him. He came out in a small car park illuminated by two huge lamp posts. In the middle, three lads were tearing into a fourth boy, curled up like wounded dog, their faces transformed by rage into snarling beasts.

 

The Man darted forwards, panicked. He pulled one of the lads off. He was tall, dressed in a red hoodie, his face twisted into a snarl of disgust. He lifted a heavy hand and struck the man. His friends joined in. The man didn’t say anything; he just collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his guts. The boy on the ground ran off.

 

The youths each took one of the Man’s arms and the third drew out a silver switchblade. It clawed through the air, flashing in the stuttering lamplight. He was all alone.

 

The man crawled to the fence and heaved himself up. In the light of the lamppost his shadow looked strangely like a cross.

 

He collapsed and gazed up at the sky.

 

Father, forgive them, he thought.  

 

A red donor card slipped out of his pocket.

 

It started to rain.

Author's Note

I'd be interested to know if you understood the symbolism in it or if i was to vague, general comments are also much appreciated!