The weekly column from the world of Geoff Clams. Continued from last week…
On Wednesday, June 3, at 8:57am, and with only 24 hours to go until polling stations were to open up across the whole of the country, a man calling himself Malcolm appeared on my doorstep and blew my safe little world apart.
This mountainous being who stood well over six feet tall and who was clearly built from the tough stuff, lunged forward with a familial smile and sputtered a script that was pretty much lost on me. My heart was still thudding in its cage, my eyes yet addled with heavy sleep; hangovers from a terse nightmare that was soon to become a headache of the soul. As he brandished a pamphlet in my direction, I noticed the military tattoo on his massive left hand, just above the crook of his forefinger and thumb. Here was a small phoenix rising up from behind two symbolic flames; beneath the image, a banner which bore the sloppily-inked mantra: Death before Dishonour.
I refastened my dressing gown behind the half-open front door, squinting and glinting at the man who was slowly coming into focus. In the watery lens flare of the bright morning sun, his head bobbed reptile-like from left to right as he trumpeted some opening monologue in a thick, jarring Newcastle accent. The first thing I noticed about this Malcolm was his bizarre set of teeth. No front ones to write home about, just two giant incisors hanging down like sabers, guarding a fumy, black tunnel. He wore a cleverly-fitted grey suit over his colossal frame, complete with a brilliant red tie fastened into an apple-sized knot at his bulbous throat. One of his ears was slightly deformed and scarred, like it had been torn at some point in a distant, battle-strewn past. He smelled like a thousand wars. The mixed aroma of 11 exotic boozes and the thick, rank smell of dried animal blood floating before him, and in his wake, like a warrior’s barrier. I suddenly remembered how to talk and, pinching some non-descript crumbs from the inside corners of both eyes I intervened, ‘I’m sorry, hold up… Malcolm, is it?’
‘Aye,’ he said, pausing to narrow his furrowed eyes as his lips drew back into a hideous open-mouthed grin and I gawked inside the murky elephant’s graveyard of his dilapidated gob, ‘that’s the one sir.’
‘Sorry to cut you off, but could you run all of that by me again please? I’m still waking up to be honest.’
Sharply bringing his lips to bear and cocking his head to one side like a Boxer dog he enquired, ‘Late one was it, Mr Clams?’
‘No, I just overslept. We both did.’
‘There’s a Mrs Clams?’
‘Yes, well, we’re not married just yet,’ I replied in half-sigh. If it weren’t for the fact that Malcolm had to be one of the strangest looking people I had ever met, I would have terminated this conversation shortly after opening the door. No such action. Here was a scab that I felt strangely compelled to pick at and so, I foolishly did. After a pregnant pause, I asked of the man-mountain, ‘how did you know my name?’
‘We get our canvassing leads from the electoral register Mr Clams,’ he said with self-satisfaction as he once again held the leaflet forwards, this time pressing it firmly into the palm of my hand with an overt super-thumb. ‘It’s just a routine call. Would you like me to buzz off or could I swing by later once you’ve got a coffee in you?’
‘That’s fine Malcolm, go ahead.’
‘Well, a little bird tells me that you’re quite into your politics,’ he ventured in a cheery whisper while leaning in and towards me; that aura of plastic social electricity hanging on his every pre-permeated word, ‘and I never pass up the opportunity to talk shop with a complete stranger. Such conversations are invigorating for the soul i’m inclined to believe, wouldn’t you agree Mr Clams?’
A massive pause and a creature crying out in the woods, in the distance.
‘This little bird you speak of Malcolm,’ I asked, becoming aware of Judith ruffling her night gown on in the bedroom behind me, ‘it wouldn’t happen to look like a floating box with cameras on it, no?’
‘A floating box, Mr Clams?’
‘Or… more specifically, a Drone.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Clams, you’ve got me well and truly-bluely stumped there,’ he said, squaring the pile of papers in his hands and itching the back of his left calf with his well-polished right boot in the silence that followed. I began to peruse his leaflet cynically, breathing through my mouth so as to avoid nasally-inhaling the demonic, maggoty funk about him.
Malcolm, it seemed, was a New Labour emissary. Red tie, red socks, red-font pamphlet and reddish hamster eyes that glowered with albinal menace. He was almost certainly a life-long member. A bully-boy union type who’d no doubt clogged up megaphones with whisky-laden spittle at many a picket line over the yonks. I felt the indignation bubbling in my gills as I prepared my own monologue, studying with stupification the badly-rendered promo picture – two of Labour’s local European candidates in wellington boots. A pair of burgeoning, careerist war criminals with sculpted Newsnight haircuts meeting a beef farmer in a South Hams field. Local issues for local people. Covered in shit.
As I opened my mouth to speak, Judith’s startled voice ragged out from behind me, ‘Oh my God, George?’
‘George?’ I queried, all cardiac jolt and morning surprise as she surged past me to embrace the hulk.
‘Judie the Rudie!’ he piped like a din, pocketing the pamphlets and throwing his arms around her waist, ‘How’s you, m’good lady?’
‘Here, let me check,’ she said, playfully grabbing his ample chops and turning his head to get a closer look at his bad ear. ‘Yep, it’s definitely you George. Good to see you again, darling!’
She kissed him on the cheek. He reciprocated by cradling and slowly turning her face to inspect and verify the tiny pear-shaped birthmark on her left cheek. He kissed it softly and withdrew. He was looking at her lips. On my doorstep.
‘George nee Malcolm, or is it the other way around?’ I promptly interjected, moving the door to a fully-open disposition and glancing down at the burly right hand that was resting gently on her behind; five hooked fingers poised like dirty, retching claws, ‘Or is it neither?’
‘Oh don’t listen to him, Porgie. He’s such a sourpuss. He never got over Iraq. It’s like sharing a bed with Jane sodding Fonda!’
‘Porgie? Another alias? Brilliant.’ I ventured as she lead him past me and into our house. ‘You two know each other then?’
His words came back as impish echoes in the hallway when he spoke over his shoulder, ‘I was just about to bully him into voting for us Jude. He can put the kettle on instead if he likes! Mine’s a Kenyan. Black, but weak, with one sugar.’
For the next hour I sat in my lounge in my dressing gown and listened to both Judith and George as they spoke at each other’s faces. They used to shop the Labour vote together in Huddersfield as part of a small campaign team in the early 1990s. He lived there for a year, one of many ‘stop-gaps’ on his ‘life-long journey’ down to the Westcountry, his ‘spiritual home’ where he had spent the last 10 years or so, no less. He apparently had changed his name for ‘legal reasons’ that he was not at ‘liberty’ to divulge ‘for now’. They talked about David and Isabelle’s house-boat. They talked about some seasonal office party where George/Malcolm/Porgie had stripped down to the Santa thong that Judith had bought him for ‘giggles’. They talked about Stewart Leane managing to persuade three young, female interns to hoist up their xmas skirts and sit on the photocopier in tandem, and they relayed to me the subsequent game of ‘Guess the Botty’ in all its pale, flabby excess.
Oh, how they laughed. Oh, how ugly this bully with its frightening teeth and barely-concealed fascist tendencies seemed, reclining like an outsized tumour on my futon, spouting party-political banalities and occasionally brushing her hair with its outstretched arm when it thought I wasn’t looking. As she rose up and gathered the empty mugs, Judith declared, ‘Well, Geoffrey’s a lost cause, but you can count on my ink. I’m a Labour lass through and through. Always was, always will be. Another coffee-like drink, chuck?’
I wanted to demand an explanation for The Drone. I wanted to know whether local councillors could gain access to The Drone by invoking these controversial RIPA (Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, 2000) laws. Perhaps it could be a handy new tool for spying on alleged benefit cheats or for investigating local parents of suspected catchment-area fraud? I wanted to ask him if he would have voted for the wars had he been a member of the Parliamentary Party. I wanted to ask if he had to pay for his university education when he was lording it at Manchester Metropolitan. Instead I sat there and watched the television screen as BBC News24 played out on mute, and I wondered how much of our long-lauded day off together would be eaten by this giant horse fly. Glancing at my watch I suddenly remembered that yesterday I had agreed to taxi my elderly neighbour Hugh to the hospital to have his bag changed anyway. My bad. I was five minutes late. I left the wasteful mountain spewing on the futon and hoped that Judith would see sense enough to gently usher it from my house. I should have asked it to leave.
Jovial Hugh. Lovely, old jovial Hugh. He understands everything. He knows things too. He doesn’t mind me pulling up late, he’s thankful for his lot. He wastes no time in being a model pensioner, fastens his seatbelt with a royal flourish and extends his arm, shouting at the top of his croak: ‘Drive on for glory!’
‘For glory, Sir Hugh!’
‘You like to help people don’t you, Geoff?’
‘Probably.’
‘I used to bomb villages.’
‘Yeah. Ouch.’
Probably hurt a few people in my time.’
‘Probably.’
‘Perhaps killed a few.’
‘Again: ouch.’
‘You always help people though Geoff, don’t you?’
‘I’m only after your money Hugh. You know that.’
‘Your wife’s after my money more like!’
‘She’s not my wife yet Hugh.’
We parked up for a small fortune and I escorted Hugh inside the hospital and up to the Urology Clinic on level four. Hugh was made to wait a while and so we both sat down in the waiting room, underneath a terminal strip light which crackled and dimmed occasionally. Carefully handing Hugh a plastic cup of tomato soup from the vending machine I asked him whether he knew a Malcolm from his time at the town hall. His alarming reply was like a small history.
‘Malcolm? As in the big-suit who was sniffing at your door earlier? Thank Christ for curtain-twitchers, eh Geoff? Nosey old boys like me who water our gardens before the sun comes up. I’m afraid you’re dealing with The Patriarch, Geoff. I know of the guy because everyone did at Town Hall. He was quite high up the local food chain back in the day, a top councillor, no less. Although if he’s door-knocking now, my guess is someone took him down with a bullying or assault allegation. Ex-forces he was, but he never worked the violence out of his system. He’s a letch and a demon. An enforcer, if you like. Intimidation was his specialty, but he hid behind a whole raft of socialist ideals. Little regard for the likes of you and me, Geoff. I wouldn’t be surprised if the oily sod ate babies at Easter time to tell truth, Geoff, but… joking aside… types like him? They don’t even classify as human in my book. They’re like aberrations. They come from nowhere and stalk around corridors where no one wants to upset them. They used to call him The Patriarch because, not only had he fathered 15 bairns, but he was the low-level fixer who took care of people’s problems. He was popular with the junior staff. Once he’d granted a favour for someone, they’d forever be in his debt. We used to joke that he liked collecting souls.’
* * * * * *
About an hour and a half later I came through the door of my own house and found him still sitting there next to Judith, who was still in her nightgown. Their conversation was now notably more somber and measured. I felt like I had walked in on the back of something ominous. His thick smell had now filled the entire house. I took an innocuous seat in the corner and observed the ghostly visage of Hazel Blears preening from the silent television screen like a death mask while they finished up their 17th coffee together, winding their conversation down into a series of parting formalities. Judith and The Patriarch didn’t seem in such high spirits now. He finally decided to leave at one in the afternoon. Judith went back into the bedroom as I escorted him down the hall and out of the front door, my line of sight irresistibly drawn to the weird black dots on the back of his neck, like tiny pinheads surrounded by an itchy-looking pink rash. As he went up the drive I ventured a non-committal ‘goodbye’. He grunted and floated off on his massive legs, never once turning back to look at me.
Judith immediately went back to sleep after complaining of lethargy. I went to my study to write a press release for Project Duvall while she slept all day and all night. The Drone stayed away that evening. Surrounded by abortive sketches of mysterious robots and screwed-up paperwork, I watched the news alone with my feet up and fell into a deep sleep around midnight; on the very same futon where The Patriarch had begun his infestation only hours earlier.
This dream was different. More vivid. One of those dreams where the dreamer is more a disembodied spirit, floating over and observing a series of moving pictures. An idyllic field in the middle of a forest, overflowing with tall, tough grass and wild flowers. A white blanket laid out in the brilliant haze, a food hamper, some breadcrumbs and some crumpled paper napkins. I hovered close to them as they sat together with wine glasses. They talked but made no noise that could be heard clearly over the infernal buzz of crickets and grasshoppers and invisible, humming wires. Deviant Judith and the evil Patriarch picnicking under the midday sun together; a predatory giant grooming its next tiny victim. In each tableau, his awful saber-teeth grew more angular and prominent; he began to look less and less human. I floated down a busy high street and followed them into a clothes shop where she tried on some dresses that he paid for on a black credit card. I followed them out into the summer traffic. They took drinks in a seafront bar as I hovered above them like an unmanned drone. I was unable to stop the inevitable kiss as night fell and fireflies surrounded them. They clambered drunk into a taxi and I flew alongside them as they loosed their hands on each other in the back of the car. Next, the three of us were in mine and Judith’s bedroom… except it wasn’t our bedroom. There was a giant photo-poster of Hazel Blears’ grinning visage hanging above the headboard of our bed, under which they proceeded to undress each other. I watched, pinned powerless to the ceiling as he consumed her and feasted on her pale, soft skin. From under the bed, an army of tiny, malformed babies started mewing and scuttling.
I awoke in a sweat. It was election day. She was still asleep, partially-uncovered and glistening in the shard of light that fell through the crack in the curtains. I noticed something black on her left thigh, like a raised mole but much darker. I ran my finger carefully over it. Her skin was pinched and pink around the site of the anomaly. There was another one. And another. I drew back the remaining duvet and looked her over closely. These were deer ticks. Their heads buried just beneath the skin, probing flesh and extracting blood. Deer ticks. Judith’s body was infested with them. Thirty-three of them.
To be continued…
Read more from Geoff Clams
• Premiere Time
• Geoff Clams is fixin’ to die
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