Cloak and Daggery

Cloak and Daggery

Some hours before dawn, Stevie awakes to find his head resting against the blowtorch. He rises purposefully and makes his way into the bedroom searching for the comfort that warmth brings. He lays down pulling the duvet to just below his chin, enjoying the sensation of his temples being gently massaged by the mass of down and feathers. Dreams don't interest him; the possibility of forgetting is too overwhelming to be disturbed by half-tales of nonsense. The bedroom is cluttered with discarded clothes and empty shampoo bottles lining the dusty windowledge. On the back of the chair sleeps an old leather waistcoat, furrowed at the chest with tarnished silver buckles glinting in the reflection of the mirror. Powdered light pours into the room through a break in the curtains and slices the back wall. Stevie rises from the bed rubbing the small of his back with his hands. He pads across the landing towards the bathroom tying his bushy hair at the nape of his neck on the way.

A few months ago, Stevie had been approved for surgery. The expected relief didn't come and he became unsure of every aspect of his life. The counsellor said that he needed to think long and hard before going through with anything so drastic. Stevie didn't want to think, he wanted to somersault over the high street and float away. In a drawer beneath his wardrobe, Stevie had been foraging for his new life. The gaudy swirls of the Japanese kimono made his head swim as he grasped it between sweaty palms. He shut the drawer quickly and made his way out of the door, double-locking it before stepping onto the pavement.

Stevie walked to his appointment quickly, glancing every now and then at the gawky teenagers ahead that had slumped themselves against rusty lampposts. Their battle-weary breaths broken only by the smoky exhalations from yellowing crumpled roll-ups. Stevie looked down at his feet and dug his gnarly hands deeper into his pockets, his nails snagging on hems as they sunk towards his sinewy thighs. Rambling haphazardly up his forearms was a vivid display of cheap tattoos, the faded ink resembling damp wallpaper. Relics from his past that in daydreams slid down his arms and dripped onto the floor. Stevie concentrated on the melody that reverberated around his head. He had always loved the song Woodstock and Joni Mitchell's soothing tones reassured him. He took a deep breath, splashing out on lavish oxygen for his aching knee as he reached an incline in the road. He arched his back and felt the mechanical movements of his thighs as the nerve endings resisted the emphatic action. He thought about his workshop at the bottom of the garden hidden between prickly foliage and dead leaves. There he could sprawl his throbbing limbs while he secretly welded the luxurious curve of the blade.

The stubby pile of dog-eared magazines looked as if they were about to topple over. Stevie picked up the top one and sat back on the brown plastic-moulded chair. The peeling magnolia walls concaved towards him making him swallow loudly into the silence. Opposite him sat a young woman with a long fringe that partially covered her face. She was ferociously attacking her left wrist with gusto, unaware of her surroundings, she just kept scratching along the path of the vein. The old-fashioned utilitarian clock bluntly ticked away the seconds in the airless room. Stevie looked towards the reception distracted by a middle-aged man leaning against the counter. He was weeping soundlessly, the tears pausing at his jaw-line before dancing towards the floor. Stevie tapped his foot against the metal leg of the chair longing for his name to be called. Spring had begun and sunshine streamed through the window, bouncing off the pane onto the cheeks of the passers-by.

'Ah Stevie, how are you?' The doctor's concerned tone was betrayed by his eyes. He was in his early fifties and had the faint tan marks of a skier. If you looked closely enough, you could just about see the outline of goggles etched into his skin. His hands were steady and reassuring to his patients, the tufty golden hairs on his knuckles added maturity and wisdom to gestures. Stevie sat back listening to the doctor speak in this other language, Vaginoplasty using Rectosigmoid Colon. He had no clue what this meant, but the hypnotic lingo of the medical world gave him clarity and became oddly comforting. Technical terms made things real. The wall behind the doctor's desk was decorated with framed certificates tessellated across the solemn papered walls. Stevie tried hard to avert his eyes from these scarlet stamped qualifications and back to the doctor's moving mouth. The doctor nodded and shook his hand. 'If you have any questions, don't hesitate to call.'

Stevie crossed the street and bent his knees to begin the descent. Joni was whispering to him about a child of God walking down the road. Her haunting tone made him close his eyes and pause to breathe. He made his way towards the seafront, distant seagulls calling to their briny-beaked kin. He dreamt they were bombs ready to drop upon his head. Once Stevie reached the coastline, he walked across the pebbles and sat down clutching his knees to his chest. He looked into the horizon waiting patiently for the smog to clear from his eyes.

It was quiet; too quiet. He looked up at the darkening sky, his eyes shrink-wrapped with tears. It was getting late. Stevie picked himself up and began the tumble towards home. White spots of stardust filled the corners of his eyes and he shook his head to free them. A shiver of darkness moved across his body as he strained to hear the muted footsteps that followed him. His heart began to drum against his ribcage as he breathed in giant, panic breaths. The oxygen was making him docile, as calm as a Hindu cow. Stevie turned around slowly to accept his fate.

The first punch stung, sending red beams across his brain. Stevie had landed on the pavement, eyes open in disbelief. Pain clouded his vision. He cried with bruised confusion as punches entered his body like bullets. He heard his jaw crack and then everything was still. Everything's a copy of a copy when you somersault out of your body and see your bones being broken one by one. Each bloody gash less shocking than the last. The cheap rubber soles of tightly laced boots stroked his leaking spleen. Did you know you can swallow a pint of blood before you are sick? There's only so much you can watch of your own body's disintegration before you turn and run as fast as you can into a dream, a better reality.

Stevie was sprinting, his soul free across the flat field. Grasses swerved to avoid his gathering speed. He dodged the swiping quarterstaff and landed firmly back on the earth. The armoured figure ahead was the very image of his dreams, his vision as he carved and welded his replicas. The near-black eyes, the twisted smile, the puckered skin he imagined crawling with sweat droplets across the brow. This is war. He ran towards him holding his sword high and heavy into the air. This was it. Salty, salubrious, no holds barred. He swung his hips around with adrenaline, penetrating his steps with lust. He had been preparing for this very moment for months. The furore was deafening. The ground trembled as determined men stampeded across the field with looks of hatred marring their faces. Gathering forces joined Stevie in the pursuit with weapons tightly gripped running in formation, united. He smiled and ran faster towards the orange smoke. Polished silver badges leapt with each stride, marshals of pleasure. It was a bitter evening, greying smog misted across the plain. Golden embers blurred the edges of the battle-scene. Stevie was falling, tumbling towards the earth. Confused, broken, his decayed pride slumped on the sward.

Stevie awoke bruised and bandaged in an empty room. Pain engulfed him making it impossible for any thoughts to linger in his aching head. Was it over? He felt as if he'd died and been resurrected. Losing all hope is freedom someone had once said to him. Only now did Stevie truly understand what they had meant. A monitor to his left flashed green light rhythmically like a musical score. Long sweeping notes followed by the clash of cymbals to shock you into a state of wakefulness. A man in a pristine white coat held the door ajar, gesturing to come in. His tufty hands were large with golden hairs that glinted in the reflection from the overhead neon light.

'It's all over now' he said in a reassuring tone. Stevie closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.