Spell

Darren Francis was born in London but currently lives in leafy Bucks, writing and nurturing eschatological escape-plans.

His work has been published in a number of anthologies and journals, including Skin, emthree, Technopagan, britpulp! (print) and Retort, Why Vandalism?, Pulp, Catalyzer, ken*again, Sick Among The Pure, Starving Arts and Poetic Inhalation (online).

For further information and latest DF news go to www.darrenfrancis.co.uk

Spell

Darren Francis

First published in 2008 by Public House Press

© Copyright Darren Francis 2007

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover design by Darren Francis

Layout by Clai Philpott

Front cover Illustration by Darren Francis

Author photograph by Clai Philpott

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-0-9556840-0-5

http://www.publichousepress.co.uk

http://www.darrenfrancis.co.uk

For Clai

Acknowledgements

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Some of this material has previously been published, in different form, as follows:  Binary in the July 2001 anthology emthree; Circulating under the title Circles in the January 2006 edition of Pulp; Disappear Here as part of Jeremy Deller's 1996 exhibition The Uses Of Literacy.  Portions of Despite Straight Lines were published under the following titles and locations - Tatter in Sick Among The Pure (August 2004), Still Dead in Starving Arts (June 2004), Instead Of Stressed I Lie Here Charmed in Sick Among The Pure (October 2004), If God Were A Goth in Sick Among The Pure (June 2004).

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DF thanks the following for their support, assistance and advice with his writing over the years: Judith Amanthis, Bennets, Catalyzer, Robyn Conway, Steve Coulson, Jeremy Deller, EditRed community, Eldo, em, Su Francis, Vivien Francis, Stephen Grasso, Colin Ireson, Jenn, Phil Jones, Ken*Again, Michael Kowalski, Simon Lewis, Mercy Manic, Elaine Palmer, Jac Palmer, Philpotts, Poetic Inhalation, Pulp Faction / pulp.net, Retort, Sick Among The Pure, Starving Arts, Tony White, Why Vandalism?

Contents

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Despite Straight Lines (11)

Circulating (51)

Red Room (60)

The Golden Boy That Flew To Never (68)

Binary (95)

Disappear Here (99)

Citizen (118)

God Thing (166)

Notes & Acknowledgements (187)

Despite Straight Lines

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1.

Suzanne comes over to my flat to collect some things she left behind. Books, CDs, tee-shirts which I'd neatly folded and piled, a silk scarf from Thailand, a spider plant I keep forgetting to water.

She doesn't resemble herself; the first thing I think when Suzanne walks through the doorway. Her face a mock-up, not the face of the Suzanne in my memory, as if an actress had been hired to play her for me from here on in.

I busy myself in the kitchen making coffee, don't much fancy watching as she packs away her belongings. When I return to her she's kneeling on rust-coloured carpet, smiles up at me as she scans a CD inlay. Whoever this actress is, she's good; though her hair is cropped shorter, her mascara eagerly-applied, she's captured Suzanne's voice and mannerisms perfectly. She even wears the same clothes, the same dewberry scent, the same opaque heels, the same silver torc bracelet.

'Is this Tricky album yours or mine?' she says. 'I thought it was yours.'

'It's yours. I bought it for you.'

'Did you? I don't remember that.'

'Your birthday. That's why I put it in your pile of things.'

'But you like it too. You should have it.'

'I bought it again.'

She slides the CD into her bag. Reaches for a cigarette (blue box, I note - the Suzanne-hoaxer has got the wrong brand), realises she doesn't want one, returns the pack to her pocket, sips her coffee.

'I ought to go,' she says. 'I can't much stand being here. It feels too fresh.'

We stand face to face. Hold, rub noses like we used to. Then she leaves. Coffee-cup half-drained, cigarette stubbed, brown and sodden in the saucer.

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I lose myself for a second. Adrift in wood-grain and beer-spills, the texture of slapdash paint-work. I click, switch out. I'm not here for a bit. Then I'm back. Where is now?

I'm sitting at my desk. Legs folded in an affected half-lotus. Eyes weighted, heavy-lidded, incipient dawn eroding circadian rhythms. Should go to bed, need to get up for work tomorrow. And I will, just not now. I have this moment to contend with first.

The TV is on, a mute dead-channel fuzz that lights half the room. David Bowie purls songs of astronomical love against clipped acoustic guitar. I see skies of rain. Swill Coca Cola. Can there be anybody in the western world who hasn't tasted Coca Cola? There's a magazine open in my lap. Why do women in bikinis tell me which hi-fi to buy? What business is it of theirs? Regardless of them the room's a mess once more, cups and plates and beer cans and clothes forming a second carpet. I can feel my blood cool as it runs out across my skin, as it beads, as it mats with hair. Remember the rhythmic slashes I made against my right forearm. Eight bassy cuts, a four four thrum. I watch the blood darken as it dries. It's as if, by staring long enough, I can see it changing colour, from keen crimson to sluggish platelet black.

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'I still love you,' Suzanne had said, 'but I don't fancy you any more. It isn't fair to carry on being on with you. It isn't fair on you.'

How was I expected to cope artfully with that information? What could I do, how else could I deal with it, but to sleep with as many people as possible in order to make me feel like a viable commodity again? What would you have done?

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Here's Matilda, Belgian beer in hand, chatting to Jess. Matilda clad in recent fashions, severe bob of her hair, logo tee-shirts wrapping her slight breasts. She scrys in beer fluff for future lottery numbers. Jess, male fag-hag, could never sleep with another man but finds the gay scene so fascinating. As usual we're in a bar, the kind of place with dance floor too, that doubles as a club. Or rather, they'll open up a back room, bring in a DJ and charge you to get in.

'If I really did that would you come after me?' Jess says. 'I mean, really? Honestly?'

'What do you think?' Matilda says. 'I mean, really? Honestly?'

'What the hell are you two on about?' I say.

Then a voice which is somebody's and 'oh' I say, and then a laugh, mine or theirs, whoever, chopped up in lighter-click and bass frequencies. 'Matilda hi,' I say. 'You're drunk,' she says, 'you're just after a shag,' she says. 'What do you fucking expect,' I say, 'after all that's happened and all,' I say. 'Oh fuck yeah, I guess, respect,' she says. And I say and she says and I say and she says then Jess comes back. 'She didn't give a shit,' he says. 'For me, for then, ahh fuck and there I was.' I think that's what he said, assume it relates to the sun-skinned and dreaded woman he was cruising earlier. The music is so loud I don't know what to think. We laugh, let the strobes absorb us.

I go to the toilet, stand pissing and gaze at myself in the mirror. Faintly bemused at what time and alcohol and depression have done to me - body lean but nearing that thirty-something beer swagger, face redefined by sweat, arms ravaged and scabby and slender as sleep. Don't quite feel drunk enough to dance but know I will soon. I don't drink to forget, I drink to remember. To flick switches, re-circuit channels. Cutting is similar, in a way, but my relationship with cutting is different; more refined, a gift to myself. Later. This isn't the time to be thinking about cutting.

Tonight's game is Shell. The name her parents gave her, the song they crooned as she swooned baby-null in their arms. 'Hi,' she says, and I 'hi' back. Or, I guess that's what she said. The smile that accompanied her words said 'hi', at least. We holler in each other's ears a while. Oakwood hair. Skirt adorned with cavorting flowers. Cigarette weaving like a wil-o-the-wisp. The dance-floor beats one lovesong or another. I glimpse Matilda by the bar, leaning head to head with an owl-faced man; she flicks back her hair as he presses his mouth to her ear. Shell finishes her drink in two rapid gulps, bangs down the glass and I buy her another, and that's when we exchange names. On the dance floor we shimmy a while. My mind greased with alcohol, each movement so fluid, so seamless. I don't want sex with her, really, just want to wake up with her hands close, with that hair dashed across my pillows.

'What happened to your friends?' she says, 'I noticed you earlier, you were with a couple of people.'

'They're around. Jess was waiting for his dealer to turn up, I think.'

'Were you waiting for that, too?'

'No, not really.' Matilda gives owl-man the finger.

'So they won't mind if I borrow you for a while, then? I'm done with this place for tonight, anyway. What about you? Do you want to go somewhere else?'

As we leave the bar Shell checks her mobile for messages; none. Was she expecting somebody who didn't show? She slides the phone back in her pocket and I see her at last, in the crudity of neon as opposed to bar-light and beer-light. She's cute and I want her and my ears are ringing. A seed of sweat hugs her left eyebrow. Allusion to a double chin; give her a year or two. She hasn't mentioned my scabs yet, though it's hard to believe she's not noticed them; I'm wearing a short-sleeved tee-shirt. But people don't say anything, I've noticed, even when it's clear they've realised exactly what I've been doing.

'What sign are you?' she says.

'Sign?'

'Star sign. Get with the programme. You're a Scorpio, I know you are.' She smiles then, mischievous, lips out-turned and henna-coloured.

'Cancer,' I say.

'Both water signs. That figures.'

We taxi to her Cheapside flat. A cat greets us at the door, Bible-black with nose and paws of cream. She scoots it to the kitchen. Some milk and biscuits will keep it out of our way. And we kiss then. Shell's body pressed against me, her fingers closing so keen around my shoulder-blades. I whirl for the flushed curve of her cheeks, the just frankness of her mouth. She breaks the kiss, says 'this way', and I'm startled by the softness of her voice now, laugh at this and she takes it as a good sign, leads me to a bedroom that smells of lavender. Face in shade as she tugs her skirt off, hands behind her back and unclipping her bra. Breasts buoyant, nipples off-centre.

'I couldn't decide whether to go home with you or not,' she says. 'I was watching you for a while. You looked like you were having a good time. My friend didn't show up and I was so mad at him but I was curious, couldn't decide whether I should phone Ed and moan at him - Ed's the friend - or whether I should take you home with me, instead. I thought you were a bit strange.'

'You changed your mind, though.' What does it mean, when I chew my fingernails? What need is being served there? 'I'm glad you changed your mind.'

'Sure I changed my mind. Are you going to take your clothes off? I feel a bit self-conscious, standing here half-naked.'

Shell's fingers trace my arms as she undresses me, sometimes stray over my scabs and scars in an absent kind of way. She knows how I got them. Knows what I do, what I am; a cutter. But she doesn't mention it. Her sex-style so to-the-point, as if she'd learned from fashion magazines, had studied long and was only now applying the knowledge. 'Good,' she murmurs, her fingers dipping over my thighs, pulling me onto her. The first time I slept with somebody other than Suzanne was strange. It felt as if I were betraying her. I wanted to sleep with them because they weren't Suzanne; to see if I could, to see if the desire was still there, to see if I could remember. I guess