Underlay

By Andrew McEwan

A rhapsody in colour and black and white. A political satire, comic fantasy, detective novel...featuring Death and Romance, Heroes, Villans, Demons, Succubi...confused men, fey women, a child who is fated to replay old records, a journalist whose hair and car are both yellow, two boys in the movie business, another who builds fish, several competing producers/directors...giving up Murder, Treachery, a talking penis...incorporating Pain and an idea of Justice in a city that is all cities, the mother metropolis: ILEUM.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew McEwan
• Release date: Jun 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476082387

Andrew McEwan

Van driver from Newcastle. My work divides opinion. Look me up on Goodreads and Twitter. I welcome all reviews.

Book preview

UNDERLAY

by Andrew McEwan

*

Copyright 2011 Andrew McEwan

Smashwords Edition

*

Paperback edition published 2007 by Pen Press, 25 Eastern Place, Brighton, BN2 1GJ

*

Cover design by Alexa Garside

*

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

Part One: EVERYBODY'S FAVOURITE PICTURE

Chapter One: On The Roof Of A Tall Building, A Tonic For Cats

Meet Thorp, who has a franchise from Death. Meet his car, a Ventura large and black and dented. He fleeces the city for souls, folding them carefully in the boot, stacking them on the back seat like ironing, clothes no longer worn, put through the spin-cycle of non-living and stretched flat. Thorp is dead too; or so he likes to think. But that truth, like most truths, like everything in the city, is more complicated. The Ventura runs on ice-cream. Thorp smokes copious cigarettes. The dead are manifold. Everything is black and white, paintwork and frozen whip, the flake behind the wheel in his trenchcoat and dark glasses seeing the world in monochrome. The buildings, the cars, the people. Death, where Thorp is concerned, is a colourless experience. His milieu. He steers the Ventura at street level and above. Although you couldn't call it flying, he soars over the city traffic about his work. This is his domain, his territory. And Thorp likes his job. He likes it enormously...

Right now he's driving at a height commensurate with the first floor windows of homogenous buildings, their homogenous occupants stapling and faxing their homogenous selves and mailing them to the city populace, either directly, by post, or indirectly, via the magic of life.

Thorp peers in at them. It is not to the first floor he travels, however, but the roof.

He flips open his appointment book.

Jenny Pith at eleven o'clock. He hopes she won't make too much mess. Thorp always feels a little guilty about the mess, about the fact he can't take the bodies with him, whole or in bits. Someone else has to take care of that, of the brains and shit. Souls are neat, his to collect. Often he's contemplated branching out. After all, he has inside information on the juiciest flops, the messiest RTAs and the clumsiest gunshots.

But the dead are the dead. Corpses are incidental.

The Ventura's engine, although running, is silent. Thorp shifts gear and accelerates. He can't be late. He's never been late. Today though, he’s preoccupied. There's something gnawing at his shins, a vague insistence seemingly lodged in his bones, flexing like cold liquorice, writhing like a pocketful of loose change. His very marrow is itching, a source of discomfort that stirs memories of less simple times.

Once, as a boy, Thorp had climbed an apple tree. The plumpest apples were always at the top, red and green and lovely as they winked at him in the sun. They cast dazzling spots in his eyes, the dew on their skins tantalizing. He had no head for heights, but climbed the wrinkled tree, breath caught as the greasy bark painted his hands. He reached with his arms and pushed with his feet, ascending through ranks of leaves and lesser fruits, his gaze locked onto one apple right at the top, bending the branch from which it sprang. His mouth and throat were dry. His teeth itched with anticipation. The apple loomed large, its shape perfect, its texture smooth and taut, its rosy hue the sole focus of his mind as his body moved upward against a gravity that would not be denied. The branches were thin this high, thin and bendy. The motion of the tree in the air was exaggerated by his weight. Thorp stretched, fingertips brushing the lush flesh of his prize. His own flesh leaned and strained toward the apple that was his heart's desire. And he fell from the tree, a seemingly endless headlong tumble that left him broken and unmoving on the ground.

It wasn't the pain he found disturbing, wracked as his small body was with an unquenchable agony exacerbated by his conscious state. It was the disappointment.

Staring now at the moon, full even in the blue of day, he was reminded of that apple.

One day he would have it, he thought. One day he would hold it in his hand.

The moon was silver; and, as Thorp saw it, the sky a liquid grey. He drove the Ventura in the moon's direction, turning aside when the building's vertical face ran out. The car could never make it all the way, was bound to the city much as Thorp was bound to the car, the two engaged in a business of collection and redistribution that despite its ethereal pretensions remained firmly wedded to earth. He parked on felt and gravel and got out, adjusting his sunglasses and the collar of his trenchcoat, as, with a few minutes to spare, he decided on a stroll.

It hadn't entered his head that he might see her, that his eye might be taken by her dance along the edge. She was an appointment he had to keep, her rendezvous with Death's proxy a routine stop. But she had that apple glow in her cheeks. He could almost see the colour, the green-red of memory tinting her flesh, shining through the preternatural greys compositing his vision.

Thorp was smitten. ‘Don't,’ he said.

Jenny Pith looked at him, seeing him as none should, as more than a shade. Her gaze was curious, perhaps alarmed. Thorp was sorry he'd interrupted.

Quickly, he returned to the car. Angry with himself, he leaned, arms crossed, against the Ventura's wing. It was close to eleven. In a moment he'd walk back to the edge and she'd be gone, her soul a parchment stain guarding the roof from the drop. He'd lift it like a bridal veil and fold it under his arm, her soul her body had left, abandoned like a lover on a cliff.

It filled him with regret.

It was, he realized, sadness he was experiencing. Melancholy he was familiar with. Despair and resignation were old friends. But sadness? Sadness he met with a surprised shake of the head.

The hour chimed by some distant clock, Thorp retraced his steps. The girl was gone. There was a sepia tinge to the air. He looked down at the coarse rooftop expecting to find a soul, but there was nothing. Thorp checked his watch. Eleven. Checked his appointment book. Jenny Pith, eleven o'clock, this address. There was no mistake; only there was no soul to collect. He eased a thumb and forefinger under his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Blinking, the sepia tones were washed from the gunmetal sky, yet still there was no soul for him to stoop and pick. Puzzled, he stared out over the concrete lip, peered to the street beneath, and spying no bloody splash felt a crick in his neck like an electric shock.

Not dead?

‘Don't,’ he'd said. And she hadn't - hadn't jumped? He was sure jumping was her intent. Had soul and body been spirited away? Did he have a competitor? Was he getting slack?

Questions bugged him. He'd never been one for questions. He did not normally crave answers or demand explanations in the absence of facts. In his profession pragmatism counted for a lot.

Not dead?

‘Don't,’ he'd said. And she hadn't.

Thorp was responsible for that.

He wondered at the consequences. Were there precedents? Was he in breach of contract?

He elected to laugh. It was a ridiculous sound and made him cough. His eyes watered and he saw sepia again.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Thorp held his breath. He was embarrassed, uncomfortable, and his discomfort made him mute.

‘Isn't the view great?’

The view was always great from high up.

‘I wanted to fly, you know? I was tired. Scared, too. Scared won out.’

Yes, thought Thorp, scared.

‘My name's Jenny Pith.’

He knew. Eleven o'clock.

‘My friends call me Orangepeel. Or did.’

Did?

‘They're dead now; killed in a plane crash. Maybe you read about it. In the harbour?’

He'd been there, he recalled, the Ventura parked on the swell as the aircraft sank.

‘It was like my life had ended with theirs. Only now I'm not sure. Seeing you up here has made me think.’

‘About what?’ he asked nervously.

She shrugged. She wore a purple dress, a simple affair draped over bare arms and shoulders. She wore no socks and baseball boots.

‘What changed your mind?’ He needed to know, to establish his guilt or else uncover a glitch. ‘Why didn't you jump?’

She gave him a quizzical look.

‘I have it in my book here,’ Thorp explained. ‘Jenny Pith, eleven o'clock. You really ought to have pavement in your teeth.’

She was frightened now, retreating bodily.

Thorp bit his lip. How could he let her leave? How would he explain a soul missing from his list?

‘I've got to go,’ said Orangepeel. ‘Nice meeting you.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Thorp. But she made a dash for the stairhead, disappearing down the concrete shaft into the voluminous building.

Mingis

Nancy laced her boots and got up off the sofa. The street lights dimmed as dawn zoomed in, spilling over rooftops even as she gazed out the curtainless window. She had a hangover and the sofa's rough, worn covers had marked her skin. The cushions smelled of lager, the room of dope, a combination requiring the attentive buzz of caffeine to smooth their pungent edges. His name was David, she recalled. This was his flat. He was asleep in the bedroom, in the bed she'd refused to enter. Nancy loathed to share a bed. Men and beds didn't go together. A lot of things in Nancy’s life didn’t go together, come to think of it, but few of those she had any control over.

Boiling the kettle, she combed her hair, short and lemon-hued. She made coffee and leaned on a bench to drink, trying as best she could to put a face to the name. No luck. A memory lapse; not unusual. There had been no coitus, she knew that. She remembered him in her hand, limp. It wasn’t important. She just couldn’t help herself, like there were all these men and she could take her pick. It was too easy. They were sickly antelope to her lioness. They were, almost without exception, a disappointment. It, he, whatever his or its name, was never the one, the one to avenge her misery. If that was the right word.

Seven-thirty.

The face appeared, groggy. It looked like shit. Best say nothing; keep him guessing. He wouldn't be seeing her again. Nancy was leaving in two minutes.

Fumbling with a white sliced loaf, he offered her toast.

Nancy drained her mug, patted his arse and left.

Her car smiled, languid and yellow.

It was morning. Yes, the clocks told her that. She opened the driver's door and got in, turned the key in the ignition and fired the rumbling engine.

But what day was this?

Sunday.

Driving, Nancy sang a silent tune, her lips moving to words she neither heard or knew. The tune was in her head, in the car, in the thin traffic as she pulled out onto the main road. It was in the traffic-lights and the somnolent pedestrians with their dogs and newspapers. The fresh sun was in the tune, tickling these early risers. She braked for a child, jerking the car to a halt, its yellowness a blur to the youngster whose running feet were carelessly adrift on tarmac. Boy or girl, she couldn’t say. Little more than a toddler. And in such a hurry. A complicated early life. Nancy breathed deeply and continued, but the tune was lost to her. Her lips shaped no soundless words. The sun hovered accusingly. Reality became stark. She made it home and parked.

A man caught her eye. He sat on the railing, large feet dangling above turgid water, broad back to the quay. Stall-holders and their ex-utility vans (gas, electric) scampered behind him. There was colour and noise, sounds of preparation for the coming market, dirty canopies and painted signs. None of the people hastily arranging goods and tables took any notice of this lone figure. They didn't see him; not like Nancy. Sat in her car, she peered. And he turned his head, his features, although distant, openly hostile, the eyes intense as they returned her gaze. She doubted he could even see her through the windscreen; yet he knew she was there and that she watched.

The car door opened, startling her.

‘Well, it's about time.’

‘Where did you come from?’ Nancy asked, bewilderment like tiredness in her veins.

Jane rolled her eyes and stepped back, still holding the door. ‘Your place. We were out together last night. Remember? You sloped off.’

‘Right...’

‘Exactly. I hope he was worth it. Give your father a call.’

‘Hey!’

‘Hey nothing. Sort your life out.’

Nancy shook her head. She got out of the car and locked the door. Her sister was headed for the bus stop.

She cast her eyes back to the man on the railing, but he was looking away. Nancy trudged the few yards to her building and took the stairs, trying not to think about anything but a hot shower. But she could see him from the window. Pictures were a must.

Her camera was traced to under the bed. There were only three exposures left on the roll and she had no more film. She could buy some. Hadn't she meant to yesterday? Not enough time; never enough...

The man was still there when she returned to focus, his gaze fixed to the river as round him a number of strangely robotic characters arranged geographic dishcloths and cheap electrical goods. The distance was too great. She would have to get closer. The closer the better, the surer, what with just three frames to capture the breadth of powerful shoulders, the features like a stained and rumpled pillow. She headed for the stairs, hitting the quay in time to catch the first pale sheets of a drizzle.

Seeing he'd gone from the rail, Nancy walked over to where he'd sat and peered down at the murky water. There was no sign of him having jumped. She thought it unlikely anyway. The hostility she'd seen in his eyes had not been directed inward. His anger, such as it was, had a separate point of impact, was directed somewhere else.

Shoulders hunched under the increasing downpour, she remembered a jacket stuffed behind one seat and ran toward the rusting yellow TR7, its faded paintwork streaked with grime. The rain appeared to fall heaviest in its vicinity, bouncing off roof and windows as if intent on punishing the car. She ran round to the driver's side, the camera cradled in one arm as she searched her pockets for keys, only to recall tossing them on the bed. The keys to her apartment, also.

Closing her eyes, Nancy allowed the rain to drum on her head. It came down in rods, slashing at her shoulders and breasts. She stood by her car in a loose cotton blouse and jeans.

The door opened from the inside, its mechanism working with a familiar sound, not unlike that of an opened beer can.

The rain prevented her from seeing inside. She took the handle by two fingers and pulled the door wide, before sliding wetly in.

It was the man, large and sturdy in the passenger seat.

‘The rain follows me,’ he stated.

Nancy pasted her hair back and licked water from her lips.

‘Frightened?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

The man laced his fingers in his lap. His hands were huge and knurled, almost blue, as if once tattooed.

‘What is it you want?’

‘I'd like your help in finding my brother.’ His voice was soft, unlike his lineaments, which were creased and pain-filled. ‘His name is Mingis.’

‘And yours

‘That's not important.’

‘But I have to call you something; if I'm to help you.’

‘There's a story in this. That's all you need to know.’

Nancy frowned. The windows had steamed up. She could no longer see or hear the rain without. It spooked her, that quietude, like death itself.

‘Who put you on to me?’ she asked, fiddling with the camera flash.

‘A mutual friend.’

‘That could be anybody.’

He didn't elaborate.

‘You're not exactly forthcoming, are you? You're going to have to give me something more to go on.’

He turned his head. The vague light picked out his nose and chin, but not his eyes.

‘Tell me about your brother.’

‘Mingis is a criminal. He kills people for fun.’

‘Then you should go to the police,’ she told him, freezing now where she sat.

He smiled ruefully. ‘I don't want him caught,’ he said.

Nancy listened to the alarm bells in her skull. Loudly they rang. ‘Wait a minute; there're laws. I can't help you break them.’

‘But you are a journalist.’

She wasn't sure what he meant. ‘Yes...’

‘Then help me find him.’

She didn't think she had a choice.

The Bacon Savers

Owen and Mickey were bored. They opened cans of beer and talked of how life was cruel to them. They wanted things to happen in their lives. They put their feet up and supped. If only they had something to do, they moaned, things wouldn't be so bad. Life on the dole had its moments, sure, but they were nearly all alike. There was nothing for it but to drink beer and watch videos. Pictures flickered effortlessly across the screen, a wash of colours and happenings that side of the thick glass Owen and Mickey would dearly love to be this.

The movie over, beer drunk, cans squashed and filled with cigarette ash, sighs came over the pair. And something else. Some unnatural quality of light. To Owen it was as if he’d been seeing the world in wobbly 3D, objects ghosted, the reception poor on his reality set, only for someone to have whacked their fist on top of the box, miraculously tuning him in. His 3D lenses, shaken into place, suddenly began to make sense. Was that the word? Sense of what, he couldn’t be sure, but it was giving him palpitations.

‘Why don't we make a film,’ he suggested, somewhere between worlds, reality and fantasy.

‘Are you kidding? What with?’

Mickey would take some convincing, he saw. ‘I don't know.’

‘Then why mention it?’

‘I thought it was a good idea.’

‘It is a good idea,’ Mickey said, scratching himself. He looked around at the day’s collection of unemployment detritus, his best mate included, eyes darting from side to side, up and down, as if attempting to track an elusive insect. Something was occurring to him. Perhaps he ought to have worked harder at school. Owen was the brains of their outfit; yet lazy with it. But what of this?

‘Impossible.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Okay. How?’

‘We make it up.’

Owen had to think about that.

They sat in silence a while, smoking. The light began to play tricks. It shuffled cards and asked them to take one each. It fanned the deck and cut...

Owen crushed his cigarette out. ‘Okay, let's do it.’

‘What, now?’ The idea of actually going through with an idea that was basically nonsense left Mickey perplexed. He pulled on one ear as if adjusting an antenna; then both, wriggling his nose at some new odiferous spectrum.

‘Why not?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’ The idea of actually going through with an idea that was basically nonsense left Owen in a state of near euphoria, one he could not explain. Instinctively, he reached for the 3D glasses sitting on his face. Only they weren’t there. Not on the outside at least.

They opened the curtains and left.

It was a short walk to the Railstation, from there an underground run into the meat of the city. Tower blocks shone left and right as they exited the terminal, the bodies of men and women passing about them with purpose. Owen and Mickey moved among the crowd, hands in pockets, boots leaving no indelible mark on this compacted earth. They had three hours of daylight left and nothing to do other than reconnoitre, their target a child, boy or girl they didn't know. How many captors? Another question to be resolved. It was all in the job. They stalked a shoplifter through a clothing store, a middle-aged woman who slipped items of lingerie under her coat, her shoes flat and her glasses wire-rimmed. Owen manoeuvred his way beside her, that casual danger in his stride, and leaning across the woman to a rack of brassieres he let his jacket fall open just enough to show her the heel of his gun, metal and hard under his shoulder. The woman looked at him with much younger eyes than her appearance suggested, her age part of the dissimulation. He smiled and lifted a bra from its hanger,