Chapter 9 - Wicked 360
How could
you leave me?
When I
needed to, possess you, I hated you, I loved you too
-
"Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush
Don't
forget it was me who nursed you out of your coma in the loony bin
- Murdoc
from the Dotmusic dot com interview
Q3: You
were in a coma can you explain what effect that had on you?
2D: Well,
when I came to I found that I had an instant recall to Stravinsky's
"Rite of Spring" but nothing out of the ordinary
- Apex
Tapes interview
Standing in the nursing home carpark in the gathering dusk, Murdoc slipped his mobile phone back into his pocket and let his mismatched eyes feast on the sight before him. There was Stu-Pot, of course, looking particularly fetching in a camouflage patterned t-shirt and Converse sneakers, his blue hair gleaming against the front seat of Murdoc's newest possession: the Geep. The Geep had a brand new camouflage paint job and it made sense to Murdoc that both it and Stu-Pot matched. They were his two most prized possessions, after all.
"Got a surprise for you, Stu-Pot," said Murdoc. He grinned as passers-by turned to stare at the sight of a demon talking to a comatose man. Murdoc loved attention, it was his favourite drug. Leaping with studied casualness into the driver's seat, aware of all the eyes on him, Murdoc turned the key and gave a wicked chuckle when the Geep engine came to life, roaring like a bull and even more passers-by turned to stare. His new car was a cracker! He revved it and gunned out of the nursing home carpark with smoking tyres.
Holding Stu-Pot back in his seat with one arm - the passenger seat of the Geep had no seat belt - and steering with the other, Murdoc tore through the streets of Nottingham. "Been talking to Dr Whinge, Stu-Pot, and he reminded me it's our anniversary today, sort of. I ran you down a year ago and you still haven't woken up. Bad sign, the doc says. Means you'll probably never wake up. But I told him it's a good sign. I mean, it's not as if you were really living before you met me. Working in a keyboard store? Studying at a Conservatorium? Boring as batshit! I Now /I you're really living," said Murdoc. The quiet streets of Nottingham flew by. Someone honked and Murdoc made a rude sign in their direction.
He turned back to Stu-Pot. "So I thought we'd pay Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium a little visit," said Murdoc, a gleeful grin coming over his face.
Stu-Pot smiled, the way he always did when Murdoc talked to him, but he didn't open his eyes.
Hours and two six packs of cheap beer later, night had fallen and the Geep was parked in the Tesco's supermarket car park next to Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. The Emporium was closed and almost unrecognisable as the same shop Murdoc had ram raided a year before. Now it was protected by a heavy, rolling screen and there were security stickers plastered to the screen, promising closed circuit security cameras and armed security guards if anyone attempted to rob the place again.
Murdoc threw an empty beer bottle against the screen and it shattered. "Nice they haven't forgotten me," he laughed. He glanced back at Stu-Pot and for a moment, thought he could see two of him. Then the two images blurred back into one. Satan, he was pissed! Though not as much as usual. He wasn't lying on the ground holding on yet.
Stu-Pot lay on the passenger seat, a sweet smile on his face and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Murdoc took a swig out of the bottle that rested in Stu-Pot's lap, then took the cigarette out of Stu-Pot's mouth, and held the bottle to Stu-Pot's lips, watching him swallow reflexively and his eyes flick under his closed lids. When Murdoc took the bottle away and put the cigarette back, Stu-Pot stirred and gave a wordless murmur. "What are you dreaming about?" Murdoc asked.
Stu-Pot had been restless lately, like a sleeper about to wake. Not for the first time, Murdoc wondered what he'd do if Stu-Pot woke from his coma. Surely nothing would change? Stu-Pot ate the same food as Murdoc, wore the same clothes, listened to the same music, attracted the sort of women Murdoc fancied and let Murdoc screw them. After Murdoc had kicked the women out they slept together in the same bed. Stu-Pot was as much a part of Murdoc's life as his Winnebago. Hell, they even both had mismatched eyes. Stu-Pot couldn't wake. It would ruin everything.
Taking another swig of beer, Murdoc silently assured himself that he had nothing to worry about. Hadn't Dr Whinge just told him comatose people hardly ever woke up after a year? He reached over and rubbed the soft, blue spikes of hair on Stu-Pot's head, feeling the dint the accident had left behind. "Nothing but a serious blow to the head would ever wake you up, Stu-Pot," Murdoc said, half to reassure himself. "What's the odds of that happening any time soon?"
He took another swig and the uneasy feeling faded. The drunken recklessness returned. He was Murdoc Niccals, outside the store he had ram raided, sitting in the fastest car he'd ever owned, with his latest victim in the front seat. He could do what he liked, and this was supposed to be a celebration. He drained the bottle and tossed it at the security screen, where it smashed spectacularly, and put his seat belt on.
"Ever done a 360 donut spin, Stu-Pot? I bet this little baby eats them for breakfast," said Murdoc, bringing the steering wheel around while slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The Geep's tyres shrieked as Murdoc executed a near perfect donut spin in Tesco's carpark.
"Wicked 360, Stu-Pot? Love this, don't you?" Stu-Pot was being thrown around on the seat. He liked being thrown around, you could see by the grin on his face. "You should work in a funfair," said Murdoc. "Another 360, Stu-Pot? You know you want it," Murdoc grinned and slammed his foot down on the accelerator again, feeling his own seat belt clamp to his chest and pelvis, seeing Stu-Pot slip to the door side of the Geep again, then slide back to press against Murdoc, then slide forward...
Right over the windscreen.
Murdoc could see it happening, in slow motion, just like the ram raid. He slammed on the brakes but it only made things worse. He made a grab for Stu-Pot - too late. Stu-Pot flew forward over the front of the Geep, limp and helpless. Murdoc heard his head strike the kerb with a sickening thud.
The Geep stopped. Murdoc put the handbrake on, turned the Geep off and pulled out the keys automatically, shaking with horror, his face a frozen mask. Was he dreaming? Had he really managed to run over Stu-Pot again? The stink of burning rubber brought him round. Scared sober he leaped over the door and ran to Stu-Pot's side, crying out his name.
Right away, Murdoc could see something had changed. Stu-Pot was actually moving and groaning as he lay face down on the kerb, a thin trickle of blood running down from his head into the gutter. "Stu-Pot!" cried Murdoc again, crouching down. At this moment, he realised that Dr Whinge was right. Stu-Pot was his best friend. He couldn't deny it anymore. Had he killed him?
One weak, thin arm pushed against the ground as Stu-Pot tried to turn himself over. Gently, Murdoc reached over and helped him and found himself staring into Stu-Pot's face. Black blood trickled from his remaining white eye. Satan! Another eight ball fracture. But both of Stu-Pot's eyes, the black, and the blackening, were open, conscious and full of pain and confusion.
Murdoc could hear a police siren start up nearby but he heard it at the edge of his consciousness. There was something far more important happening in front of him.
Stu-Pot's mouth open and the faintest sound came out. "I can't hear you," said Murdoc, pressing his ear up against Stu-Pot's mouth. He felt the mouth move against his ear and the word:
"Rites."
"Rites?" said Murdoc, sitting up to look down on the bloodstained face below. "You want Last Rites? You're a Catholic?" Confusion spread over his face. "Your Dad said you were a Buddhist."
Stu-Pot's mouth moved again and this time Murdoc could hear him properly. "No," said Stu-Pot in a voice as faint as mist. "Rites...of Spring."
"What?" said Murdoc, feeling dizzy. He couldn't be sitting here, looking at the blood on Stu-Pot's face, listening to him talk, about classic music. It had to be a dream.
"Stravinsky's Rites of Spring. I can hear it," Stu-Pot's voice was raspy from lack of use and there was a distinct and dismaying half-wittedness in his voice that hadn't been there before. He tried to raise one of his weak hands to his dinted temple but failed. He looked up at Murdoc. "I can't move," he croaked. Then his face crumpled, "My head hurts. My eye! Oh God! What's wrong with me?"
Murdoc managed to speak. "I'm sorry, Stu-Pot. I'm so sorry," he said. He could see by Stu-Pot's expression that he was considering this and watched him, waiting for him to slip back into unconsciousness. But his damaged eyes remained steadfastly open.
"Do I know you?" whispered Stu-Pot.
Murdoc felt his heart clench. Stu-Pot had been looking right into his eyes as he said it and the words were like a punch in the face. Murdoc's cheeks flushed, remembering how the adoring way the comatose Stu-Pot had looked up at him as he lay in his arms, remembering the love in Stu-Pot's eyes during that strange black and red dream he had tried his hardest to forget. There was no recognition in Stu-Pot's eyes now. His best friend was a stranger.
Stu-Pot tried to sit up and failed. "Why are you saying sorry? Did you do this to me?" he rasped. There was a note of accusation in his voice.
"Sorry," was the only word Murdoc could say. He put an arm around Stu-Pot's shoulders and helped him up.
Stu-Pot's indrawn breath showed how much pain he was in. He squeezed his eyes shut. He's dying, thought Murdoc, trembling. I'm losing him. But Stu-Pot's eyes opened as a white light hit his face.
"What's all this then? Murdoc Niccals, what's going on?" said a loud, deep voice.
Murdoc turned his head. A police car had pulled up next to the Geep, pinning them both down with its headlights. The blood running down Stu-Pot's face shone in the light.
He was gone. Stu-Pot was gone, just like that. Murdoc paced in a fury, alone in a police cell. Gone off in an ambulance without a backward look at Murdoc, who had sat handcuffed in the police car, pressing his face to the window and shouting Stu-Pot's name as the ambulance's sirens and lights started and it drove away.
Arrested for assault! He'd tried to talk his way out of it, but when Stu-Pot had cried, "Oh God, my head! What have you done to me?" it was all over but the handcuffing. That blue-haired twit had dropped him in it and no mistake. Luckily the police hadn't seen the wicked 360s, or he'd have had drink and dangerous driving charges as well.
It was too much to grasp. One moment he had been messing about with his best friend, Stu-Pot. The next his best friend was gone, replaced by a wincing, silent stranger. A stranger with unsettling, damaged, coal-black eyes.
What rankled Murdoc worse than anything was the ingratitude. After all he'd done for Stu-Pot that year: washed him, changed him, fed him, dressed him, taken him on holiday, carried him around to every pub and convention in Britain. Stu-Pot hadn't remembered a thing.
Most importantly, he'd forgotten that he belonged to Murdoc.
How Murdoc hated that blue-haired twit.
But something inside Murdoc felt torn in two, as he paced the police cell, hour after hour.
In the next part, the identity of the living doll is revealed
