Chapter 6 - Satanic Eye For The Comatose Guy
I know you
have a little life in you yet
I know you
have a lot of strength left
I should
be crying but I just can't let it show
I should
be hoping but I can't stop thinking
-"This
Woman's Work" by Kate Bush
I also
loved Kate Bush, oh man, 70s ladies!
- Murdoc
from BBC Radio 1 Murdoc's Session Obsession
sam from
uk asks: where does 2d get his hair dye from, or is it natural?
2D: It's
been like that ever since I came to in the Nottingham Tescos car park
- From the Dot Music dot com
interview
2D: I'd
phone my Mum, cause she'd be really chuffed.
Murdoc:
Your Mum is a foul chuff
Russel:
Don't be dissin' a man's mother, you're way out of line
- From the Dot Music dot com
interview
Dr Whinge had left room 666 at Alderman Bowers Nursing Home by the time Murdoc, carrying a large paper bag and grinning from ear to ear, got back from the chemist. He sauntered in, ignoring the moans of the living dead coming out of the other rooms. The nursing home still gave Murdoc the creeps, but he felt buoyed by a rush of enthusiasm. If there was one thing that annoyed him, it was being useless. Now that he had something to do for the boy he had made comatose, he felt better.
Stu-Pot lay still and bruised in the bed, wearing a dull green hospital gown. With his thick black monobrow and black beard, he looked awful, but the sight of him made Murdoc grin. Loudly tipping the contents of the bag beside Stu-Pot's blanket covered legs, Murdoc said, "Your lips aren't swollen anymore, Stu-Pot, that's a start." Stu-Pot didn't move. But Murdoc did not expect a reply and didn't need one. "You've got a long way to go before you stop looking like a toilet brush. I can do something about that." He indicated the things he had just dropped on the bed: a pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers, a packet of razors, shaving cream, hair gel, and a pot of blue hair dye. "Makeover time, Stu-Pot, just like you said you always wanted."
Murdoc flicked back the blankets and pushed his arms under Stu-Pot, to pick him up, and his nostrils were assaulted with a smell that made horrible memories come flooding back. Butterscotch! That was what he had smelled as he knelt by Stu-Pot's bleeding body in the shattered remains of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Butterscotch and blood. Murdoc released Stu-Pot and stood back up, trying to catch his breath and stop himself being sick. At length, he mastered himself and stepped forward again. He wasn't normally a squeamish man. He took a deep breath, pushed his arms under Stu-Pot and lifted him, amazed at how little Stu-Pot weighed, and the way his long, lanky limbs dangled. Tucking the things he had just bought against Stu-Pot's stomach, Murdoc carried him to the bathroom. He soon had Stu-Pot, still wearing the hospital gown, balanced on a plastic bath chair, with a rolled towel under his neck and his head leaning back into the shower stream.
Hair dye first. Murdoc tore open the cardboard box and started applying it, noting how it stained his hands and swearing loudly when a pair of plastic gloves fell out of the box. Too late to use them now. The dye took twenty minutes to work and Murdoc lit a cigarette to pass the time. He lit an extra one, slipped it between Stu-Pot's still lips and watched Stu-Pot inhale the smoke and give a great cough that made the cigarette fly across the bathroom like a bullet from a gun. Murdoc retrieved the cigarette, laughing. "I'll teach you to smoke if it kills me," he said, sticking the cigarette back.
Ash was starting to drip from Stu-Pot's cigarette onto his hospital gown by the time Murdoc washed out the dye. Stu-Pot's hair was now azure blue. Murdoc rubbed a handful of hair gel through, making the spikes come back and said, "Now for your bloody monobrow. Want to know a secret, Stu-Pot?" Murdoc glanced from side to side to make sure there was no one nearby and then he leaned forward and whispered. "I've got one too. A fucking monobrow. I tried plucking the bastard a few times and I always managed to butcher it, so I grew this fringe so no one can see it. Maybe you can have a fringe too?" He stroked Stu-Pot's hair forward in a similar fringe to his own and stood back. "Nah, that's not a good look for you. Gonna have to pluck your monobrow. Rip the middle of that bugger out. Put a stake through its heart." He tossed their burned down cigarettes down the drain, grabbed the tweezers and set to work. Stu-Pot stirred and moaned slightly as Murdoc yanked out the hairs but he didn't open his eyes. Nor did he open his eyes when Murdoc put down the tweezers, admired the gap he had made, and reached for the scissors and razor to get rid of Stu-Pot's beard.
Shaving Stu-Pot was like digging up a buried statue. Murdoc had no idea what he'd find when all the hair was gone. He started on the cheekbones, trimming first with scissors, then using a razor and shaving cream to get the rest of the beard. Slowly, Stu-Pot's face began to emerge. High cheekbones, tapering down to an elfin, pointed chin. A small, flat, turned up nose. A wide, generous mouth, with straight, white teeth. Murdoc gave Stu-Pot's smooth, shaven face a final wipe with a towel to get the last of the shaving cream off, then stood back and gazed at it, mesmerized. He put the fingers of one hand under Stu-Pot's pointed chin and lifted it, looking greedily into Stu-Pot's face. Much, much better. Who would have guessed Stu-Pot was such a pretty boy under all that fuzz?
Murdoc picked up Stu-Pot and carried him back to room 666, but there was a distracting tickle in his t-shirt as he put Stu-Pot back into bed. "Damn it, Stu-Pot. I'm completely fucking itchy now. Your beard hair has gotten into my clothes," Swearing, Murdoc ran back to the bathroom, scratching his chest frantically.
When Murdoc came back, Stu-Pot had a visitor. Murdoc had seen Stu-Pot's Mum during the trial. She was tall, thin, colourless woman, whose drab, unfashionable clothes looked suspiciously like the ones Stu-Pot had worn at Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Now she was standing by Stu-Pot, her grey vinyl, handbag open at her feet, holding a pair of scissors. One of Stu-Pot's pointed, blue locks were inside the jaws of the scissors and the jaws were closing.
For the first time since the ram raid, time slowed down. Murdoc heard someone shouting, "Noooooo!" and didn't realise it was him. He rushed at Stu-Pot's mother, nearly crash tackled her, and pushed the scissors away just in time. "Don't give him a mullet!" he bellowed, and Stu-Pot's mother cringed, then caught herself and replied angrily.
"Murdoc Niccals. What are you doing here?" Her voice dripped venom.
"I'm carrying out my sentence, of course. Why do you think I'd be here?"
"To cause trouble, as usual. Did YOU do this?" She indicated her son's blue hair.
Murdoc leered, and flicked his long tongue at her. "Sure! Improvement, don't you think?" He looked down at Stu-Pot. It really was an improvement, but he didn't get much time to look before Stu-Pot's mother snarled at him.
"It's disgraceful. He looks like a young punk. The administration here KNOWS I don't want my son shaved and as for what you've done to his hair." For a moment, she was too angry to speak. "I'm going to report you. We'll see if they let you near my son after that."
Sweet Satan, give me strength, thought Murdoc. I wonder if this will stop me getting the 24/7 care rights? Aloud he said, "Your son asked me to give him a makeover when I met him at the organ place, so I did. Nobody's going to cut his hair without my permission. He belongs to me now. I'm taking care of him."
"He's my son! I've cut his hair since he was born."
Murdoc hovered possessively over Stu-Pot, like a raven over road kill, and bared his pointed, green teeth in a sneer. "Sweet Satan, that mullet was your fault? You left him with a monobrow? No wonder he doesn't have any girls visiting. No, leave his fucking hair alone. Don't you dare point those scissors at me. His hair is staying long. And blue!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoc could see Mrs Davies, the bewildered happy wanderer with Alzheimer's, drawn by the commotion, creeping into the room behind Stu-Pot's Mum. "Where's my handbag?" Mrs Davies slurred.
Stu-Pot's Mum glanced over her shoulder with annoyance, "I wouldn't know, dear," she snapped and turned back to Murdoc. "I'm going to give the nursing home administration a call on my phone right now. You've ruined my son! As if running over him and putting him in a coma wasn't enough." She reached down to grab her phone out of her handbag, but her hand brushed the cold, tiled floor instead and she spluttered, "What the? Where's my handbag?"
Murdoc was shuddering with suppressed laughter. He had one hand behind his back. "Don't look at me!" he said, his mismatched eyes glittering with amusement.
Stu-Pot's Mum's eyes narrowed in fury. "Give it back!" she cried and she ran around the side of the bed to see what Murdoc had concealed behind his back. She tugged at his arm, but it was empty. "What have you done with it?" she demanded.
Murdoc grinned in delight. "I didn't touch it!" He indicated the door.
Stu-Pot's Mum turned frantically and caught sight of Mrs Davies hurrying through the door with a grey vinyl handbag over her shoulder. "Wait! My dear! That's not your handbag!" she cried and ran after her.
Mrs Davies paused by the door and her blank eyes looked at Stu-Pot's Mum uncomprehendingly. "Handbag," she said.
"That's not your handbag, that's my handbag. Give it back, dear." Stu-Pot's Mum sidled up to Mrs Davies and made a grab for her property.
A look of confused alarm came over Mrs Davies face and she turned and ran for it, with Stu-Pot's Mum in hot pursuit.
Murdoc saw his chance. He picked up Stu-Pot and ran out of the room and down the corridor. Behind him, he could Mrs Davies shouting, "Mugger! Help, I'm being mugged! She's stolen my handbag!" while Stu-Pot's Mum remonstrated with her. The nursing home administration staff were rushing down the corridor to separate them.
Pausing only to grab a wheelchair and blanket out of a cupboard, while the nursing home staff were distracted, Murdoc ran for the door with Stu-Pot. He was laughing so hard that he nearly doubled over at one point. "I don't think administration is going to be too willing to listen to your Mum after she mugged one of their patients," he said to Stu-Pot. "Looks like your new haircut is safe."
Stu-Pot, sitting in the wheelchair, looked as blank as Mrs Davies but much prettier. Much, much prettier. Murdoc nearly tripped over his feet when he got another glance at the high cheekbones, the wide, pretty mouth and the small, snub nose that had been hidden before in hair and he felt a rush of exhilaration. "You look great, Stu-Pot. There's only one more thing I need to do." He eyed the blue dye stained hospital gown. "Gotta get you some clothes."
Murdoc lit a cigarette for himself and stuck another lit cigarette between Stu-Pot's lips. Stu-Pot only coughed slightly this time, and the cigarette stuck rakishly to his bottom lip.
Two hours later later, Murdoc and his mate, Stumbo, who was pushing Stu-Pot in the wheelchair, covered by a blanket, strolled towards the exit at the nearby mall.
Stumbo wasn't much to look at and gave the impression of being badly drawn. He had a big, oval head, with sparse, short hair and small but sticking out ears, small, squinty eyes and most obviously, two large, uneven fangs that stuck out of his mouth. His left arm was larger than the other, and his skin was ghostly pale. Poor Stumbo, thought Murdoc, if he'd had an artist, that artist should have been slapped upside the head. But Stumbo was an OK guy. Certainly more loyal that that nasty bad boy crew that had deserted him on the night of the ram raid. Murdoc hadn't heard from them since and he sometimes wished he'd dobbed them in.
An unpaid-for tie swung, very obviously, from Murdoc's hands. The stocky, red-haired security guard standing near the entrance frowned when she saw Murdoc, but she was distracted for a moment when she saw Stu-Pot.
"Oh, you're an angel! What's your name?" she said.
"He doesn't talk," said Stumbo. His voice had a strong Northern accent and seemed just as ill formed as the rest of him. "He's comatose, he is."
"What a shame. He's lovely." Her eyes flicked towards Murdoc. "I know you. I got you for shop lifting last month. Don't think I can't see you there with that tie. Have you paid for it?"
"Let's just see if I've paid for it," Murdoc sneered, flicking the tie at the door. The alarm went off instantly. "Nope, doesn't look like I've paid for it." He gave a growling laugh, "Oh dearrrrrr. I'll have to put it back."
"You'd better step into my office," said the security guard. "I bet that tie isn't the only thing you've got."
While Murdoc and the security guard argued, Stumbo pushed Stu-Pot in his wheelchair out the door.
Murdoc was in a foul mood when he got back to the Winnebago. Stumbo and Stu-Pot were waiting inside. "Bitch," he said. "She wanted to strip search me but she wouldn't do it herself. Probably a lesbian."
"Did you get charged?" said Stumbo.
"Naah. They couldn't find anything else," said Murdoc. A cheeky grin crossed his face as he looked at Stu-Pot. "They were looking in the wrong place." He lifted the blanket from Stu-Pot and plonked him unceremoniously on the bed. Underneath Stu-Pot were thousands of pounds of clothes and shoes, their price tags still on. "Oldest trick in the book," Murdoc chuckled. "Set the alarm off and distract the security guard, then get the rest of the gear out. The alarm can't go off twice."
Stumbo chuckled, "It was smart, Muds. Real smart. But I was worried for a bit when the guard started checking him out." He prodded Stu-Pot.
"I wasn't worried. She wasn't suspicious. Stu-Pot's just a bird magnet. Did you see the stares he got when we wheeled him through the mall?"
Looking a bit sad, Stumbo said, "Yeah. Lucky bugger."
"Jealous of a comatose guy, Stumbo?"
Stumbo didn't reply but scratched the toe of his dirty sneakers against the carpet.
"We can use him to pull birds, Stumbo. I'll get him dressed, then we can go to the pub and you'll see."
Dressing Stu-Pot proved difficult. The long sleeved t-shirt went on without too much trouble, but the tight jeans were a problem, as they had to fit over Stu-Pot's adult nappies. Murdoc trimmed the nappies down with a knife, so that they didn't show over the waistband of the jeans. He looked into Stu-Pot's motionless, bruised face, as he ran the knife around his belly, slicing the nappy, not touching or breaking the skin. There was something strangely arousing about running a knife so close to that trusting, still body that Murdoc was glad when Stumbo made a disgusted noise. "Can't believe he's wearing nappies."
"Well of course he has to wear nappies. He's hardly going to wake up and ask to go to the toilet, then go back to being comatose again," Murdoc grumbled.
"That's just foul. You're going to be changing some bloke's nappies for the rest of your life?" said Stumbo.
"Three and a half years, if I get full time," said Murdoc. He stood up and put the knife away. "It's not so bad." He looked at the nappies thoughtfully. "They're clean now, but he'll probably need changing in a few hours. I didn't bring any spare nappies so I'll have to go back to the home after we've been to the pub." He slipped a pair of red socks onto Stu-Pot's feet, then a pair of red Converse sneakers, not bothering to do up the shoelaces. "How does he look?"
"Pretty. The lucky bastard."
"Cheer up, Stumbo. He's going to get you laid!"
The Arms wasn't exactly the most welcoming pub in the world. No sooner had Murdoc and Stumbo stepped over the threshold, carrying Stu-Pot between them, when the bartender pointed a thick finger at Stu-Pot. "He's drunk already. I won't sell him any more."
"Fine," said Murdoc through gritted teeth. "I wasn't planning to buy him a drink anyway." Stu-Pot's limp arm was draped around Murdoc's shoulder and his Converse sneakers were dragging on the ground. Murdoc was tempted to walk straight out, but The Arms had a lot of female patrons and every one of their heads had turned when Stu-Pot entered the room.
Murdoc and Stumbo sat down in a corner table, with a long, padded seat. No sooner had they set Stu-Pot down on the slippery upholstery, than he began to slide down to the floor. Murdoc grabbed him just in time, pulled him upright and set him back against the leather. He immediately began to slide again, and Murdoc swore and stuck an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Stu-Pot's head came to rest on Murdoc's shoulder.
Stumbo watched them with a look of worry on his face. "Muds, I don't know how to say this. But you both look," Stumbo winced, "I'm so sorry mate, don't hold this against me. You both look gay."
Glaring at Stumbo, Murdoc growled, "I'm not gay."
"Yeah, I know, Muds. But when you're cuddling him like that," Stumbo squirmed in his seat.
"I'm not cuddling him." Murdoc released Stu-Pot, who slid down, until his head was resting in Murdoc's lap.
Looking even more uncomfortable, Stumbo said, "I hate to point this out, Muds, but that looks even gayer. Really gay. We're talking Tinky Winky purple handbag Village People gay when Stu-Pot's face down in your lap in the middle of a pub."
Murdoc was about to reply when a female voice cut across the table. "Hello love, you look like you need to sober up a bit. Want a cup of tea?" Then came the sound of another female voice, giggling. He looked up. There were two girls in short skirts and smeared makeup standing over him. They weren't looking at him, but at Stu-Pot. He hoisted Stu-Pot's limp body and answered for him.
"Thanks ladies. Stu-Pot here needs to sober up but Stumbo and I don't. If you're buying, we'll have two pints."
Later on, as the two girls left the Winnebago after an energetic sex session with both Murdoc and Stumbo, Murdoc reflected how useful Stu-Pot was while comatose. The girls had bought endless cups of tea for Stu-Pot, in a futile attempt to wake him up, and plenty of pints for Murdoc and Stumbo. The girls had struggled to get Stu-Pot to drink but it hadn't stopped them trying and they were keen to go back to the Winnie and tuck Stu-Pot into bed. Then Murdoc and Stumbo tucked themselves in with them. Easy!
"Gotta get Stu-Pot back to the loony bin," said Murdoc to Stumbo, who was doing up his fly.
"I'll see you later, then. I need a toilet anyway. I finished all Stu-Pot's cups of tea and they've caught up with me," said Stumbo. He paused by the door. "Great night. Call me next time you go to the pub. Bring Stu-Pot." He staggered out of the Winnebago and into the grey twilight outside.
Night never came to the Alderman Bowers Nursing Home. Fluorescent lighting shone continually, sometimes flickering where a bulb was about to break.
Murdoc carried Stu-Pot into the shower and pulled off his new clothes. His nappy needed changing and Murdoc figured he needed a shower anyway. Naked, Stu-Pot was painfully thin. His hip bones stuck through his skin like the figure of Christ in an old painting and his ribs showed. But his skin was soft, luminous and pliable as a young girl. His blue hair shone next to his pale skin and his natural, sweet smell no longer bothered Murdoc. The sight of Stu-Pot's nipples, hardening in the cool bathroom air, caused a tightening sensation in Murdoc's groin. He averted his eyes, and sponged Stu-Pot down, trying not to look.
Murdoc felt a strange melancholy, as he bathed Stu-Pot, and he put it down to having just had sex. But the sad feeling grew as he towelled Stu-Pot dry, dressed him in a nappy and another dull green hospital gown and carried him back to room 666. By the time he reached the bed, it was all he could do to sit down on it, with Stu-Pot in his arms.
Everything he'd done today had been pointless. He'd started the day thinking he could make up for what he had done. He'd had the misguided notion that he could give Stu-Pot a makeover, and make everything alright again. But things weren't better, they were worse.
Because Stu-Pot was beautiful now. Exquisite. A damaged angel. No longer a toilet brush lying in a bed. There was something about him. The way his hair rubbed into soft, blue spikes. The few whiskers on his upper lip that had survived the razor. The pointed chin and high cheekbones that Murdoc wanted to reach out and touch.
The makeover had only highlighted Murdoc's crime. He'd as good as killed Stu-Pot, it was as simple as that. Worse than killed him. At least if Stu-Pot were dead it would be all over. But this half-life he'd given Stu-Pot was worse than death. Murdoc could see the years passing Stu-Pot by, without any change or healing. He could see Stu-Pot's future life, a grim, twilight existence, caught forever between life and death. An adult crushed back into an infant, needing to be fed, changed and washed, until death finally released him. There was no hope. And it was all Murdoc's fault.
Murdoc started to tremble. He remembered how Stu-Pot had screamed, when he still had a voice and a mind and a life. Screamed as the tyre went over his head. A musical scream at a volume that had nearly blown out Murdoc's eardrums. Stu-Pot had a trained voice, all right. All those years at the Conservatory on the scholarship, studying keyboards and voice had given him the most powerful voice Murdoc had ever heard. But the voice was lost now.
Murdoc had done some terrible things in his time. He had set fire to cats while drunk. He'd taken every drug under the sun. He had used everyone and anyone he met. But running over Stu-Pot was unquestionably the worse thing he'd ever done. Murdoc rocked on the bed, burning with the feeling that he'd ruined someone else's life worse than he'd ruined his own.
Murdoc lifted Stu-Pot, buried his face in his warm throat, and felt the pulse there. He fought a strange urge, an urge that he hadn't had in many years. His eyes prickled and he shuddered, stifling a sob. But there was no need for secrecy. He had this ward to himself. The other occupants were all asleep, and even if they weren't they were mad enough not to realise what he was doing.
It all washed over him. The ram raid, the sad, bruised, dead-alive body in his arms. The guilt. Oh Sweet Satan, the guilt.
A choking sob broke from Murdoc, then another. He pressed his face into Stu-Pot's throat for a moment, then he sat up, held Stu-Pot and rocked him, sobbing openly. His tears fell on Stu-Pot's face and trickled there, as if Stu-Pot were crying himself.
At that most hopeless moment, Murdoc heard a soft noise and felt Stu-Pot move in his arms. He looked down. A sob died in Murdoc's throat as Stu-Pot's eyes opened. He had mismatched eyes. One a clear, healthy white. The other a sickly, fractured black. Both focused and looked deep into Murdoc's eyes, with a gentle expression of curiosity.
Murdoc felt a powerful connection. Felt the same way a mother, looking at her new born baby feels, when the baby looks at her for the first time and becomes a little person, someone to love. Hardly daring to breath, Murdoc whispered, "Stu-Pot? Stu-Pot? I'm Murdoc Niccals. I'm looking after you."
Murdoc's words seemed to sink in. Stu-Pot smiled; a heartbreaking sight. He moaned faintly, as if trying to talk. But then his eyes become unfocused, "Stu-Pot?" said Murdoc, but Stu-Pot's eyes were closing, as if he were falling asleep again. A deep sleep, but not a hopeless one.
Murdoc sat with Stu-Pot in his arms for a long time, just looking at his face, memorising it, watching it on the off chance that Stu-Pot would open his eyes again. But Stu-Pot seemed fast asleep, and before long Murdoc felt his own eyes trying to close. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so sleepy. He was tempted to lie down beside Stu-Pot and put his arms around him, but the thought of what the morning staff would say if they caught him in bed with Stu-Pot was enough to stop him. He lay Stu-Pot down, pulled the covers over and sat down on a chair next to the bed, too tired to walk to the Winnebago. He was asleep in moments.
In his dreams, he was lost on the foggy moor again, handcuffed to the body in his arms, but everything was different. The body was no longer headless and terrifying. It was merely Stu-Pot, wrapped in the green blanket and sleeping like an angel, with his head resting, warm and comfortable, on Murdoc's shoulder. His skin shone with a faint, white radiance that lit up the fog, and made it a pretty white, rather than eerie, grey. In the light, Murdoc found that he was no longer lost. He was standing on a well-beaten track over the moor and he followed it, holding Stu-Pot in his arms. Something told him that when he reached the end of the track, Stu-Pot would wake. He strode along the path with a feeling of joy and purpose.
But in his dreams, strange eyes, one black, one white opened in front of him, and smiled at him, he felt the soft skin and beating heart against him, rubbing against him with the rhythm of his walking, and in the morning he had to dash to the bathroom and clear up an unexpected mess in his jeans before anyone saw.
