SKULL
He alone can believe in immortality who feels the resurrection in him already – Frederick W Robertson.
A Bit of Back Story
He didn't care if they gave him those looks. He ignored the stares and the muttered noises coming from the people. What was it to them what he looked like or how he twitched? Not their business. The boy – if you could call him that – he wouldn't mind, call him what you want... as said, he's not paying attention to what people are muttering. He looks to be about sixteen though, a skinny, dirty kid with shoulder length raven black hair. From the back you'd expect his skin to be coffee coloured to match that, but no... Sam's face was as though it had never seen the sun before. He had eyes to match the darkness of his hair, though one of those eyes did seem to look closer to his nose than the other eye. His small and maybe under-developed nose and his full lips set a strange appearance of a teenager who could maybe be a boy – or maybe be a girl – and the way he was dressed, because it was a boy – sort of a boy – didn't give any clues. He had on baggy bib and braces. The legs rolled up to just below his knees... on his feet he had a pair of very battered leather, lace up boots. Under the bib and braces he had on a faded orange Tshirt. There was a very old leather bag over his shoulder.
For now he was hunkered down on a bench. There was a row of wooden benches here in the square and each one had a small brass plaque dedicated to someone – who that was he didn't know, he'd not bothered to look at it. Never would bother. Things like that were of no interest to Sam. He could feel the heel of his boots through the soft denim covering his behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around him. He was looking out over the square towards a big building the other side... behind bushes and fancy trees... beyond the pigeons... shouting birds... screaming obscenities at him – again ignored – behind the low stone wall with black iron railings... there were the steps to a museum... eight dark stone steps. To the right was a ramp, but Sam was looking at the steps, sniffing and wondering if he could get across the square without the birds attacking him, without the statues coming to life; and one of them was holding a gun, one of them a sword high in his hand. Sam twitched and glanced at them. Damned things! Covered in pigeon shit. Covered in grime... Sam knew that they were slippery too, sitting there on their pedestals, sitting there looking down at him; staring at him, trying to force him to leave.
Sam unwound an arm from his chest and rubbed at a place just above the eye which wasn't working properly. He'd been getting bad headaches... every day worse than the one before and short of getting hold of some hard drugs, he didn't think it was going to go away. He was sure that he could feel it there throbbing in his brain. Something alive. Something bad. It made his eyes water and made his vision blur and that meant that he couldn't see those steps way across the square quite as easily as he could earlier.
It was raining. Sam licked his lips and gradually uncurled from where he was crouched. It was mid day... and though it was mid December, he was still dressed as though it was summer. He stood, patted his bag, rubbed at his head and slowly walked towards a café with tables set up outside. No one was using them. The usual summer things were missing. There was no menu standing there in a cheap plastic stand. This would mean going in the place and ordering at the counter, and Sam didn't want to have to do that.
They would know.
They would sense it.
They would smell it on him.
Sam rubbed hard at his inner arms. In this dull winter light the scars didn't show up so much. Not that he was ashamed of his scars.
Some done with a little red handled razor.
Some done with the end of a cigarette.
Some done with broken glass, a bit of rusty wire, needles... oh he had plenty of old track marks.
But NOTE: They are old! He would defend that to his dying breath. He'd not injected anything into his arms in years!
And you'd look at his face... that face which didn't grow hair... that face of a teenaged boy and wonder, just wonder...
And Sam didn't like to be wondered about. But he wanted coffee. He wanted sweet hot coffee. He wanted coffee with ground up painkillers in it, but he didn't think they sold that sort. He wanted it injected directly into his veins.
'Dirty whore.'
Sam spun around and looked at the pigeon sitting where he'd recently been crouched.
'Can smell your filth from here. Cum dumpster.' Sam twitched and folded his arms around himself again. He wanted to shout at the bird to go away and leave him alone, but he still wasn't sure if he'd really heard those words. 'Been crying because you lost your fuckbunny?' Sam shook his head and turned his back on it.
What would a pigeon know about his losses and his life? What the fuck would a damned pigeon know about this morning when he thought he was never going to stop crying again. Bastard bird wouldn't know that, now would it? Sam spun around, to grab at the vermin and tear off its head, but the thing was already gone.
If it had ever been there.
Sam wasn't so sure now.
His mind had a habit of playing tricks on him.
Decision was made though. He was going to have a busy evening and he couldn't turn up looking like he'd not had a fix in weeks... months. It had been months... or had it only been days? He wasn't quite as sure about that either. Time seemed to slip between his fingers like...
'Can I help you?'
His thoughts interrupted by the girl behind the counter. The ordinary looking young woman with brown hair tied back and a white pinny over a black blouse and trousers. Sam wanted to reach over and squeeze her tits. His fingers tingled with the thought, but he instead placed them on the counter top. 'Black coffee. Four extra shots.' He didn't say please. It hurt enough saying what he had... saying more might have brought on a nose bleed. He didn't want to bleed everywhere again. Last time that happened there was such a fuss made! They had to call an ambulance and they kept asking Sam questions they had no right to ask. Damn them.
Because of the rain, Sam sat inside. He found a small table near to the window, right next to the window. A dead fly was laying on the sill. He thought to say something, but picked it up and slipped it between his lips when no one was looking. He washed it down with coffee so hot that his mouth must have been lined with lead. Sam tasted the sweetness rush over his tongue... he could smell the strong coffee wafting up his nose. He wondered if he could have had a more – acceptable – job working in a place like this.
From the window he could see the steps to the museum. There were birds standing sentry there... walking back, forth, back, forth... 'And fuck you!' Sam was on his feet and the coffee mug sliding out of his hands. 'Damn and fuck!' He pulled a note out of his pocket and threw it down onto the table. The puddle of coffee was on the floor and a tall man from some southern European country was marching towards him.
Wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Might not be the last, but Sam knew that the best thing to do now was just to leave. There was coffee down the left leg of his denims and over the pale skin of his leg. He snatched the door open and flew out into the square, at a run, heading towards the steps of the museum.
People from the shop stood at the door and watched.
'I could tell by his eyes. Something wrong with his eyes.' The girl in the pinny said.
'Damned scum. I've seen him, hanging around the square. Day after day. He tried climbing that.' He pointed at the nearest statue. 'Would think it hard to pick pockets up there.'
The girl laughed, but they were both watching his retreat and his form racing up the steps. They didn't notice the birds... Sam did... Sam waved them out of the way.
'I fucking dare you!' He howled at them... and they didn't dare. At least not that day.
The man at the museum doors was shaking his head before Sam even stopped from his run.
'I've told you before.'
'I'm waiting for a reply to my letter.' Sam told him. 'Is there a letter for me?'
'This is a museum, not a post office.' He smirked back.
'But I wrote to Professor Lythum about something. I said that I'd come here and...'
Again, like earlier on, Sam was cut short. 'There's no letter for you. There's nothing here for you. Why don't you go home, kid?'
Sam bit on his bottom lip and sighed. 'OK... what do you want? What can I offer you to let me in?'
'After last time? The fuss you made?'
Sam pulled his bag around and dug down deep into the bottom. He pulled out a photograph and showed it to the man. 'I can get more like this.'
But judging by the look of horror on the man's face, naked photos wasn't what he wanted. Sam turned and walked away. He had no time now to pursue this further. He had to get ready for work. Tomorrow he'd be back. Rain or shine.
There was a small shop with buckets of crappy goods on sale outside the window. One of those buckets held see through plastic capes. Sam got one for less than a pound and slipped it over his shoulders. Not that it mattered. He was wet and dirty now. He'd have to have a shower at the very least.
Looking back now, Sam felt that he should have had a smile on his face that day. The evening had gone well. There are weird people around, but if someone wanted him to dress in a little skirt and a cropped top, to take photos, then he was game. Sam was actually game for anything. Perverts didn't bother him.
'Bend over – lean back – lift the skirt at the back – lift it at the front – show me something.'
These were all said over and over by different people and Sam kept whatever expression on his face which was desired. The photographer didn't want sex. He just wanted pictures to sell on to people who were too afraid to come and look at flesh. Creeps who had little attic rooms with dirty pictures pinned up on the rafters. Dirty old men and women, who had tanked out basements with the walls covered in photos which no normal person would want... but if these weird people wanted them, Sam was happy to take the money. Sam knew what photographers wanted... flick of the hair, that sideways glance, hands touching, teeth showing... a tip of the tongue... a glimpse of something under the clothing. Sometimes he was dressed as a boy. Sometimes as a girl. Sometimes he had no clothes at all, but Sam didn't mind. He was happy that people liked what they saw and though they might be creeps and perverts, Sam got off on the idea that the pictures were touched with shaking fingers and pressed against sweaty bodies.
Another day it might be something different. He was just as happy to entertain in other ways.
'Let me help you off with that.' A sly sideways smile. 'I will help you relax. I can show you... Has anyone told you what lovely eyes you have? Here, mister, let me show you what to do with that.'
A good whore knew what to do with his hands, where to put his fingers, how much moisture to share. A good whore could get even the most nervous, raging with a cockstand he'd never had before... and Sam considered himself a good little whore.
But that was last week, the week before... before his trip to Highgate. Before that urge compelled him to start digging at one of the graves... Before security was called and he was dragged away screaming... it was before he smashed the glass in a museum display case and took the skull which really shouldn't have been there! It was before now and now wasn't where Sam wanted to be.
They had slipped the screaming, muddy, writhing boy in a cell. They'd slammed the door and stood there listening to the raving cries of the lad who had been digging up a grave in Highgate, though how he'd got in with digging tools in his hands, they didn't know. Someone was going to be in trouble... someone other than the person the other side of the cell door... screaming that he had to go. That they can't lock him up... Oh yes they could! - Hammering on the door and pleading with them to let him out.
'It's so close! So close! You can't stop me now!'
But they had stopped him.
They thought he was high. They thought he was on drugs. Tomorrow when he was calmer they'd talk to him. He had tried to bite anyone who got close enough. He'd spat at people... screamed and wailed and cried that they didn't understand what they were doing.
There was a small, very small... so small that it didn't notice, amount of pity. The lad was obviously ill... They decided that the following day when they took him some toast and coffee and he threw it at them and then dipped down into the stainless steel toilet and hooked out something vile and threw that at them too.
They called a doctor who suggested that the boy was insane. They held him down and took blood... they forced his mouth open to look at his teeth, which appeared to have been filed down at some point. They were razor sharp. They told him he could have a shower. Gave him some jeans and a blue Tshirt to wear. Asked him his name. Asked him what he had been doing.
'Digging up my friend.' Sam had told them. 'He needs his head back.'
But he'd not give them his name.
'Giving a stranger you name is giving them access to part of your spirit. They can use it against you. They can cast spells and debauch your mind. I'm not telling you my name.'
They wanted to know about photographs he had in his bag.
Sam's mouth went from a serious smirk to a tight white line under his nose. He didn't want to talk about it and they had no right to go looking through his bag.
They wanted to know why he had a collection of pamphlets and newspaper cuttings about The Mystery Skull which just so happens to have to stolen from the museum.
Sam blinked but didn't react beyond that.
They wanted to know if it was him who had smashed the display cabinet and made off with a priceless relic and did this have anything to do with the grave he had desecrated?
He spoke at that point. 'I didn't thieve it. I didn't desecrate anything. It didn't belong to the museum. It wasn't theirs to have in the first place.' And then he shut up again. He had tried not to speak about it. He'd tried to keep quiet, but they were being so stupid! Why couldn't they see that?
And though they asked where the skull was now, Sam refused to answer. He told them that he thought maybe he needed a lawyer... he thought he'd said too much. He said he had a headache and wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to go home. He wanted some warm milk and some pills to help the pain. He wanted to have his own clothes back... Apparently they were being washed for him... He sat and rested his head on the table he was sitting in front of. They asked him how old he was... he didn't answer.
Then they asked a question which made Sam's head spin and he slid from the chair onto the floor with a groan and a cry.
'Who castrated you?'
That was all last week now. They'd kept him in his cell. They'd said lots of long words to him which he didn't want to listen to. There were creatures on the floor of the cell...
'So small that you can't see them.' He told the police man who was standing there looking at Sam crawling around on the floor. 'But I can hear them. They tell me all sorts of secrets... They say that special people are coming to talk to me.' Sam pushed up so that he was kneeling, wiping something away on the floor with one hand. 'Is that true? You sent for someone else?' He moved his hand to rub at his head. They had noted that he did that a lot. Always rubbing at his groin or his head. They'd not asked about his mutilation again. But during one of Sam's away times... and he seemed to have quite a lot of them, they'd called a doctor who said that the scar was old... That Sam had been castrated years ago... he doubted that the lad could remember what it was like before. He couldn't say if it was done for medical reasons... The policeman standing at the door couldn't say if they'd called for someone to talk to Sam, but the man said that they knew his name.
'My name?' Sam stood now, wincing slightly and rising up to tip toes. He moved quickly and slid onto his bed. 'You don't know my name.' He told him. 'I've not told you my name.'
That was back then though. That was after he'd smeared his cell with shit. It was after he'd pissed in his bed every night for a week. It was after he'd tried to bite everyone who came near to him... his only comfort for now was the voice in the wall.
Stay calm. Everything will be good.
It kept telling him that. And Sam laid there in the dim lights at night and listened to that voice.
As far as Sam was aware, they'd not charged him with anything, yet when he started screaming and hammering on the door again and telling them that he was dying and they had to let him go... and he had things to do... places to go... they told him... they told him something, but he didn't stop shouting at them long enough to hear what they were saying.
Oh and he was sure they were drugging his food, so he stopped eating.
They started drugging the water in the little bottles... he wasn't sure how, because they still had a little seal on the lid but he knew... oh he knew. So he refused to drink that, and licked the little creatures off the floor and drank from the toilet... at least until that made him ill and his lips got blisters and his nose started to bleed... terrible nose bleeds... so terrible that a doctor was called.
'He should be in hospital.' The doctor had said as they pulled Sam off him, pulling his fingers back out of the nice Indian doctor's hair. 'There's something seriously wrong with him.'
And now it was today. They took him out of his cell and down a beige corridor and through a door into a room with walls made of little holes. There was a recording machine attached to the table and Sam was sure he could see eyes looking at him through the tiny, tiny holes all over the wall. They asked if he would sit still or if they needed to tie him down. Sam responded by telling them that there were worms in the walls and they were going to eat his brain.
Again they asked him about the skull and again he twitched and wriggled and didn't tell them a thing. They asked him about what he was doing at Highgate Cemetery and Sam sniffed and wiped tears – false of not, it looked good – and he shook his head sadly. He couldn't tell them because they simply would not understand. They gave him a drink of orange juice. They'd caught on finally that coke made him scream and bounce off the walls and coffee was often thrown at people... fruit juice was harmless.
The room had a window... one of those windows he couldn't see out of but the people the other side could see in and there were always people there watching. Always. Nosy people wanting to see the kid throw his toys out of the pram, but today he could smell it. The stink of something which had come and found him after... how long? - Sam couldn't remember how long it had been... longer than life for most people... longer than anyone could imagine.
He looked around for a clock, sitting firmly on his hands so as not to rub at that place throb, throb, throbbing... always there picking at the inside of his skull. It made his bad eye water... unless he just let it all go and let the voices take over, but something special was happening today and the voices had to stay away.
'Worms in the walls.' He muttered.
'The walls?'
Sam nodded at the wall and licked his lips. 'The holes have worms in them... chewing at the wood. Can't you hear it. I can. I can hear them chewing, swallowing, taking a crap... and they hear everything, everything... and at the cemetery, in the trees...' Sam blinked and stopped talking... He had to be so careful!
'Do you want to tell me more about the cemetery, Sam?'
'No.' Sam leaned forwards and rested his head on the table. 'I'm tired. I want to go back to bed. I want to go home. I want you to let me go.'
'When we know what you've done with the skull.'
Sam twitched but said nothing. He was thinking of the cemetery... of the darkness, the rain which had been pelting down like it was Armageddon and like if he didn't do it real fast all would be lost. 'Tick tock... Watch the clock... wind it back and spring again.' Sam muttered to himself. The grave had been unmarked... unknown who lay there, but Sam knew; he could smell it. There plants growing wild around the small wooded area were laying low, it was winter after all, but around the grave there was nothing. The ground was dead and the death seemed to be spreading slowly... slowly, tendrils spreading out. Already a tree was dead, but maybe it would have died anyway. Up here in the woods there were only a few graves and only one which had no name on it. Someone had left a single red rose there, maybe a month or so back now. It was dead by the time Sam knelt there looking at the parched ground with no marker except for a large flat stone with FFF engraved into it. Well that's all Sam had needed... obviously. He had knelt there that first time until someone told him that the gates were going to be locked. He had to leave. He didn't realise at that time but he'd been crying.
It happened the next time he went... this time with a plan on how to get the skull back. That's all that was needed. Give Floyd back his head and he'll leap back into life again. Surely.
a/n More to follow soon.