sadmudzines

[sadmudzines]

EEL IN THE BATHROOM - PART THREE

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

INT. HALLWAY, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle knocks on the door to the bathroom but blushes when Dr Eel doesn’t reply.

Marge eyes him expectantly.

MARGE: Can we watch Inspector Morse now?

EARLE: In a minute-

MARGE: You said there’d be Pringles-

EARLE: There are.

Earle avoids eye contact to protect his lie.

MARGE: I’ve got a hankering.

Earle knocks louder, disappointed in the silence.

MARGE: I don’t need the toilet. I don’t go after 8pm. It’s a health thing.

Earle knocks desperately.  

EARLE: Dr Eel?

Earle goes to knock again when he eventually hears a grumbling noise. He jumps on it excitedly as it grows louder and louder until suddenly, silence.

DR EEL (OS): Come here or fuck there, I don’t care.

Earle breathes a sigh of relief that Dr Eel’s still there. He opens the door and nudges Marge inside but as he goes to follow him Dr Eel’s tail whips and the door slams shut.

Earle sweats, locked out, panic rising.

EARLE: Dr Eel? Marge?

Violent splashing.

EARLE: Everything okay in there?

Earle knocks tentatively. But no answer.

The splashing sound grows wilder, then screaming. Louder and louder screaming.

Earle panics. His knocking desperate. He’s shouting now.

EARLE: Dr Eel! Let me in!

No response. Just splashing and screaming.

EARLE: Marge? Marge! You alright in there?

The splashing and screaming zip silent. The silence sounds dangerous.

The bathroom door slowly creaks open.

Earle’s panting, scared to step inside.

Earle steps across the doorway. The once white walls now drip in red, glossy blood. Dr Eel and the multiplying fresh eels swim happily in the blood-dyed bath water.

Pieces of Marge scatter the bathroom, torn as if he was made of wet tissue paper. Earle whimpers when he spots Marge’s head. A frozen expression of fear and confusion on his dead face.

Earle can’t bear to look at it. He picks up a towel and gently lays it across what’s left of Marge.

EARLE: Mum’s going to be so mad… Why’d you do that for?

DR EEL: He just smelt so delicious. Like croissants.

EARLE: People will ask questions, what are we going to say? What are we going to do?  What a mess, what an awful, disgusting mess. I don’t-

Earle stops mid-sentence as he notices his white trainers are stained with blood.

EARLE: Oh. They were brand new…

The eels continue to slosh in the bathtub.

DR EEL: Go on then, go and get your sweeties. Same place as before.

Earle looks around at the bloody mess.

EARLE: I’m not really in the mood anymore-

DR EEL: But look at all this effort you went through.

EARLE: I know but-

DR EEL: It’s not often you get a night like this.

Earle scoffs.

DR EEL: It’s not often it’s just you, relaxing-

EARLE: With a fucking talking Eel.

DR EEL: Do it.

EARLE: Hmm…

DR EEL: I mean it, do it. Do it, there’s nothing else left to do.

EARLE: I really don’t feel like it anymore.

DR EEL: This isn’t an invite to a tea party. Snort the cocaine, Alice.

Dr Eel whips his tail. As it touches Earle’s skin, electric current zings through his skeleton. Earle howls in pain. His hairs on end.

Dr Eel raises his tail again as a threat. Earle jumps to the cotton wool pot. His hands shake in fear as he scrambles for the drugs.

Pinching the powder between his fingers he pushes it up each nostril. Desperately. He snorts and sniffs as chunks fall from his nose. White rings highlight the circles of his nostril holes.

He repeats until the bag empty. He slumps to the bloody floor once he’s inhaled it all.

DR EEL: Now, more.

EARLE: No more.

DR EEL: Another human, a prettier one. A skinnier one.

Earle shakes his head.

EARLE: No more, I just want to go to bed-

DR EEL: These are the final hours of the night. Aren’t you curious about what could happen? How much we could achieve?

EARLE: No.

DR EEL: That’s what you tell yourself now. But in the morning? When the memories are already made…

Earle softens, tempted. Dr Eel hisses in excitement at Earle’s change in heart.

DR EEL: One more human.

EARLE: There’s no-one who’s thin or pretty in Sugar-On-Sea.

DR EEL: Just thin, then. I can use my imagination…

EARLE: What are you going to do with them?

Dr Eel just hisses.

EARLE: I’d feel guilty about Marge if it wasn’t Marge. But another person… I don’t want you doing what you did to Marge.

DR EEL: One more human, one more line.

EARLE: But I don’t want one-

Dr Eel flicked his tail and electrocuted Earle. The flash created shadows from his bones, nerves and organs as if his skin was a silk screen for puppets.

The air smelt of burnt hair, his own. The electric current had singed his extremities including his fingertips. He didn’t want to leave the house, he meant it when he told Dr Eel there was no-one thinner, prettier and awake. Sugar-On-Sea drained the life from people and instead pumped them full of Trans fat and pessimism. It was a lost cause, but he couldn’t face Dr Eel. The shocks were becoming more painful as Dr Eel’s strength gained from the Fanta and blood. It made his bones vibrate, he never felt pain like it. He sank to the sofa, his hope catching a ride out on every exhale he took. His lungs were nearly empty of all air and feeling, his body as flat and flimsy as a pair of tights. He tried to concentrate, but his head swam; neurons darting in directions as a school of fish at a junction. He thought if he could brace himself, go back into the bathroom and tell Dr Eel no – as confidently as the women who reject him weekend in and out– then it would be all be okay. Just as he was to make the long walk back to the bathroom; something stopped him. A book on the shelf. Sugar-On-Sea still published the yellow pages. A mistrust of the internet in this town gave way for long lost relics to still have a functioning place in society such as phone boxes and Marks & Spencer’s.

This edition of the yellow pages was a few years old, Mr Salmon liked 1988 so he tried to hold onto as many things from that year. It was Earle’s last and only shot.

The town’s council had a surprisingly progressive stance on sex work; prostitution was legal and the strip club was more like a town hall than… well, a strip club. But really, to Earle, it was just a veiled attempt for the council men to cheat on their wives in the name of feminism and freedom.

Earle flicked through the yellow pages and came to the section he needed; whores. The council really had a way with words. He ran his finger down the listing from the Angelas through to the Bettys and then to the Catherines. He stopped on one, Daphne. Her shoulders were sharp points, her soft skin fell dramatically from cheek bones which could only have been achieved by a decent few years of an eating disorder. Thin, yes. Pretty, sort of. The decider was her foreign surname; at least if she was to end up on the floor of his bathroom, like a macabre pick and mix, then maybe it best if she didn’t have any family in the area, no-one would miss her – at least not in a one hundred-mile radius. Earle rang and to his surprise she answered straight away. His heart sunk a little as he heard a thick Essex accent. But it was late, and he just wanted this whole horrible ordeal to be over and done with. He imagined her pink lip stick smudging the other end of the retriever.  

He told himself if he managed to clear up all the blood and Fanta and Class A’s by morning. It would be okay to stay up a little later and do one last deed for Dr Eel.

INT. FRONT ROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle nervously scratched the back of his head.

DAPHNE (O.S): 5am? Make it 4am – gotta get the kids to school.

EARLE: Kids?

DAPHNE (O.S): I don’t know what you’re thinking you dirty pervert but-

EARLE: No, no. That’s not what I… I just didn’t think about them, about you having to be somewhere in the morning-

DAPHNE (O.S): I’m a real person, you know that right?  Got jobs on my list that don’t start with blow. Got it?

EARLE: Yes…

Earle’s face drops, the guilt almost weighing down the skin around his eye sockets.

DAPHNE (O.S): Looking forward to it… What’s your name?

EARLE (sadly): Cunt-Fuck.

DAPHNE (O.S): Is that German?

EARLE: Sure.

Earle puts down the receiver. He sniffs and wipes his nose.

Thumping electronic music sounds from inside the bathroom.

EARLE: Dr Eel! The Neighbours, please-

The music is nudged louder.

Earle rests his head against the wood of the door, weary.

The purple light of dawn seeps through the window, intensifying with every minute.

The doorbell rings. Earle’s paralyzed.

The doorbell rings again, but this time the ringing is sustained.  

Earle goes to duck and hide but is too late.

DAPHNE (O.S): I can see you in there! I’m not swapping my jammies for corsets for no money.

The door shakes as it’s banged.

Earle answers the door.

DAPHNE (58) stands on the other side. Older and fatter than her picture.

She barges past.

DAPHNE: What the fuck was that about? Told you I didn’t have the time for games. That’s extra.

Earle stares at the picture in the yellow pages. Looking up and down to persuade himself it’s the right woman. Daphne catches him.

DAPHNE: After the 80s, came the 90s and this is what they did me. Like I said I ain’t got all night.

Daphne drops her coat to reveal her body, like raw sausage meat poking through a complex of leather straps and fishnets. Earle grimaces but Daphne steels.

DAPHNE: Money. Now.

Earle scrambles for the cash.

DAPHNE: Actually, I’m desperate for a wizz. Back in a min-

Daphne turns to go to the bathroom but Earle goes green.

EARLE: Wait!

DAPHNE: I can piss on you, but that’ll be £30 on top of what we’ve agreed.

Earle’s thinks about it.

EARLE: Really?

Daphne takes another step closer to the bathroom.

EARLE: No, stop!

Guilt overcomes him.

EARLE: I can’t do this-

DAPHNE: You called me, remember?

EARLE: I’m not, I-

Daphne laughs as Earle squirms.

EARLE: What I’m about to tell you is… I just need you to believe me. It’s weird, I don’t really believe it myself but-

DAPHNE: Spit it out.

EARLE: There’s an eel. A talking one. In there. And I think it wants to chop you up. I told him no but he wouldn’t take it. He said to bring you here and-

DAPHNE: You were going to feed me to at talking fucking eel?

EARLE: Not feed, I’m not really sure what he wants. I think he likes blood or maybe organs I’m not really sure.

Daphne lights up a cigarette.

DAPHNE: I knew you were into some sick fucking stuff, but this?

EARLE: I was hoping he wouldn’t eat you.

DAPHNE: Where is he?

Earle nods solemnly to the bathroom.

Daphne sighs knowingly.

DAPHNE: £40 now then £40 after.

EARLE: I’m feeling quite vulnerable right now, I’m not sure I could… perform as I’d like-

DAPHNE: I’m not going to fuck you.

Daphne gestures to the bathroom door.

DAPHNE: I’ve seen this before.

EARLE: Oh.

DAPHNE: I should have known by the way you were chewing the inside of your cheek.

Earle claps his hand across his mouth, feeling for himself just how tight his jaw is.

DAPHNE: I need rubber gloves, a bread knife and salt.

Earle stares in disbelief.

DAPHNE: Now.

Earle scrambles for the items in the kitchen.

Daphne lights another fag.

DAPHNE: Nice place…

She picks up a family photo from the side and snorts.

DAPHNE: You a Salmon?

The sound of Earle clattering around from the other room.

EARLE (O.S): Yeah, why?

DAPHNE (mutters): Like father, like son.

Earle returns triumphantly. Daphne swipes the items from his arms and pockets the £40 into the leather strap of her girdle. She pings the plastic gloves onto her hands as if a vet would at the rear end of cow.

Earle watches as she marches towards the bathroom. Naked aside from her bondage.

Earle winces as he sees her stub her cigarette out on the carpet. Daphne bashes the door down with her hoof-like foot. Earle goes to follow but she slams the door shut.

A high-pitched squeal ruminates from the bathroom.

Earle can’t bear to hear it.

The sound of water thrashing. It lasts forever to Earle’s ears.

Daphne eventually emerges from the bathroom holding the decapitated head of Dr Eel. It’s as if a bucket of blood had been poured over head. She coolly slicks her hair back and scoops the blood from her eyes. Two pearl-like peepers peer back through the ruby gloop.

She lights a cigarette. Breathing in the smoke with resolve.

She holds out the palm of her hand and a shaken Earle places £40 within it.

DAPHNE: Let me know what to expect next time. I wouldn’t have worn this.

Daphne dumps Dr Eel’s head next to Earle and leaves without another word.

Earle slumps to the floor, weary and broken. Stunned.

His eyes heavy, he falls into a deep sleep.

INT. FRONT ROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – MORNING

Hungover, Earle remains collapsed against the wall. The room is blood-stained. Dr Eel’s chopped head next to him. The end credits of Inspector Morse speed downwards on the TV.

The sound of the front door opening and closing. There’s footsteps for a few moments until suddenly they stop. A startling scream pierces the house.

Earle bolts awake. The force almost makes him sick.

EARLE: Shit, shit, shit-

MRS SALMON (59) appears from around the corner. Furious, she stands over Earle.

MRS SALMON: Have you seen the state of that bathroom?

EARLE: I’m sorry, mum.

Mrs Salmon burns red.

MRS SALMON: You’ve been doing drugs again, haven’t you?

Earle hangs his head in shame.

MRS SALMON: I told you, no drugs!

Earle goes to open his mouth but no words come out. She knows when he’s lying.

MRS SALMON: You haven’t even bothered to wipe the tiles.

Mrs Salmon storms from the room.

Earle is left alone, a naughty and sad little boy.

Mrs Salmon caught Earle a couple of times a year in his early twenties. He did it because it felt good – for a while anyway – a pursuit of pure, selfish pleasure where the dopamine hit was only equalled by online shopping and not much else.

[sadmudzines]

EEL IN THE BATHROOM - PART TWO

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

Earle opens his eyes.

DR EEL: Predictably sad when fucking? Or assumingly awkward?

Earle sighs.

EARLE: Did you have my stuff?

Dr Eel’s facial features twist into a smirk.

EARLE: You said I could have my stuff, the bits-

DR EEL: Patience-

EARLE: Look, I’m the one with legs here-

DR EEL: Legs which I could bend like soggy bread sticks-

EARLE: Please?

Dr Eel tuts. He gestures to the cotton wool pot on the side.

DR EEL: In there.

Earle lurches towards the pot. He throws the cotton balls out one by one, searching for his fix. Eventually, he finds a small baggie of white powder. He pours the bag onto the tiles and without straightening into a line he snorts it in one.

Dr Eel flicks his tail in the water like a clap of appreciation.

Earle slumps on top of the toilet seat. A warm smile forming across his face.

Earle often thought about that moment as the white stuff went up his nostril and hit his brain. He liked to think of it on its way around, like a speeding caterpillar. It was cuter that way, thinking of it as a smiling bug rather than rat killer or an ingredient in tooth paste banned for human consumption. That thing earlier –what you don’t see is more frightening than what you do - Earle’s method was to slap a smiley face on it, cover it in glitter. He then always moved onto the mantra out of mind and out of sight, when it’s done it’s done, when the bag’s finished its finished. But it rarely worked like that. There was always going to be more hours in the day until the day there’s none. He felt a tension in these moments after. The tension between night and day, the tension between good or bad. Though he wanted to be good, the night always won; the strain pulled tighter to the inevitable.

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

A dozing Earle snaps awake.

EARLE: Do you have any more?

DR EEL: You’re just a City Boy Cunt Fuck under that Dumb Stoner Cunt Fuck skin of yours, aren’t you?

EARLE: I’m not a Cunt Fuck.

DR EEL: You are, Cunt Fuck.

EARLE: Whatever, have you got-

DR EEL: Scratch my back and I’ll scratch-

Earle squints his eyes and leans in to stroke Dr Eel’s back.

DR EEL: That’s exactly why you’re a Cunt Fuck! I didn’t mean literally…

EARLE: I doubt Shep has more Fanta… Those cans were dusty…

DR EEL: I need friends, Earle. Friends like me.

Earle stares blankly back.

DR EEL: Eels, Earle!

EARLE: Can’t you just call down the plug hole?

DR EEL: Fresh fishy ones, Earle.  

EARLE: I think my dad has some fish fingers in the freezer, I-

DR EEL: Eels or nothing.

Earle turns to the window where the rain and wind lashes onto the outside pane. It’s stormy out there.

EARLE: Maybe I don’t need more.

Earle wets his finger and dabs the remnants of the drugs from the side. He sucks his fingers. He repeats the action, this time more desperate.

Earle tries to shake of Dr Eel’s smug look. Ignoring him as he licks the last of the drugs straight off of the counter.

EARLE: How many eels?

DR EEL: A bushel.

EARLE: Tell me, how many?

Dr Eel enjoys watching Earle falter. Earle pines for his next hit. His forehead sweats.

DR EEL: Four.

Determined, Earle storms from the room.

Dr Eel cackles triumphantly as much as an eel can cackle.

A layer of dewy sweat spread across Earle’s forehead. His jaw tight. His palms wet. His heart punching.

EXT. SEA FRONT – NIGHT

The rain pounds down. Crashing waves bully the land. Lightning awakens the purple and black sky.

Earle leans forward into the lashing wind, dangerously close to the swirling water. The fishing rod line he’s holding onto – knuckles white - is nearly lost to the storm.

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle grimaces as he pours a bucket into the bathtub. Three baby eels slop into the water. Dr Eel writhes amongst them. The silky, silver eels clamber over one another.

Earle leaps to the cotton wool jar. He scrambles through the remaining cotton wool but is confused not to find his stash.

EARLE: Where is it? My bones are damp. Where’s the stuff?

DR EEL: I asked for four, but there’s only three.

Dr Eel gyrates amongst the eels.

EARLE: Have you seen it out there? I was practically swimming-

Dr Eel hisses as if kissing non-existent teeth.

EARLE: These are all there are, unless you want a handful of cockles. Or some two-bit dead gangsters who’ve drifted down from London…

Dr Eel ponders.

EARLE: Please can I have more?  

DR EEL: I’ve decided I want something else.

EARLE: That’s not fair, I-

DR EEL: I’m not the bargaining kind of fish.

Earle sighs, knowing he has no choice. Dr Eel smiles at Earle’s obedient silence.

DR EEL: I want a human.

EARLE: What for?

DR EEL: What do you need tiny bags of white powder for?

EARLE: Hmm… I’m maybe missing something from my life. Mum always said I had an overbearing personality, that I was a difficult kid and-

DR EEL: I’m not your therapist, Earle. Human. Now. Go.

EARLE: How am I meant to get someone here? What am I meant to say?

DR EEL: How much do you want it?

Earle was getting tired, the coke was wearing off, he didn’t think he wanted more but Dr Eel was persuasive. Just one more job, then one more line then the night will be over. He tried to fight the feeling the party had become the chore.  He thought about falling asleep to Inspector Morse, he thought about the takeaway he’d have the next day as if that had been the end goal throughout all of this. A reward, a relaxer before Monday morning hit and it was just another set of days, set of jobs, set of feelings, set of meals before he could do it all again.

Sugar-On-Sea wasn’t full of people, they existed on their own apart from certain hours in the day where they’d have to speak to other humans – for necessity over appearance. It was probably harder getting a stranger to Earle’s house than catching four eels in a storm. He could have given up then and gone to bed, but he didn’t want to disappoint Dr Eel. That’s what he told himself: Dr Eel would be very disappointed in him.

In the dead of night, there was only one person he could think of that would be awake: Marge. He went to school with Marge, kids thought he smelt like butter but Earle always thought of it as buttery onions. Greasy, buttery onions. He never liked hanging around with Marge; it would always make him hungry. He’d think of those orange hot dogs with the bursting skin, doughy rolls, sharp tomato ketchup and sloppy and sweet, greasy and buttery onions… Even thinking about Marge made him hungry but he slapped himself. This wasn’t the time for hot dogs.

Marge worked the night shift at the toll bridge. That little booth was his kingdom he ruled like a king, opening and closing the moat to those he decided were worthy. And by worthy, that meant big breasted or cash-rich. It’s why the natives of Sugar-On-Sea rarely left, why they only travelled in daylight. They were never well endowed or money-crazed enough to pass Marge’s shallow standards. Earle thought it was laughable that the monster who scared the townspeople, who commanded how and when they journeyed with as heavier hand as the fiercest dictator was a flour-filled council worker called Marge.

Earle cycled to Marge’s booth in the rain. He could smell the onions from the other side of the bridge. His stomach grumbled. He thought the portable heater Marge used in the winter must be on full blast; it cooked his scent, intensified it. Marge refused to raise the barrier, as predicted, so Earle had to do an awkward shuffle to his window under the stop sign. Marge was listening to krautrock; another fucking unbearable thing about Marge. Marge nearly slid the booth’s window shut before Earle had the chance to speak but Earle blocked it with his torch. He caught Marge rolling his eyes. He had no use for Earle; what could Earle give him that he didn’t have already in his booth. He knew Earle had no tits and no money. Speaking through the thin gap of the window, Earle asked what time Marge was clocking off – did he want to hang? Marge’s breath made wet steam on the glass as he said he was here until morning.

It was his duty to stay here until the sun broke the sky. Earle persisted; he’s got Inspector Morse and Pringles. He lied about the Pringles but reckoned by the time Marge came back and saw Dr Eel he’d hardly be hungry for Pringles. If he was hungry then he could always lick the salt from some old pretzels Mrs Salmon kept at the back of the cupboard for emergencies like these. It was obvious Marge was weirded out by Earle’s visit; his nose twitched suspiciously. He wanted him gone. Isn’t he lonely, said Earle. Marge snorted; some people don’t get lonely. Not being lonely isn’t a symptom of having friends, those with friends can be lonely too. Other people annoy him, demand things from him they don’t give themselves. Why would he want to be around people who give him nothing, but take? Inwardly, Earle agreed with Marge but the way he said it in his snotty voice meant Marge just came across like a fucking bore. Marge went on in his rant carried away on the winds of his own depressing imagination until an exasperated Earle blurted out: is he okay? Is Marge doing okay? Dumbstruck, Marge’s mouth immediately closed. It tightened every now and again at the corners, it wobbled. Earle was confused – he thought to himself, is Marge about to fucking cry? Is that a fucking tear? A trickle escaped from Marge’s eye, it sucked in the white light of the booth and shone bright. Marge was silent and swallowed his Adam’s apple to squash any guttural sobbing which could have escaped from his tiny mouth. Is that or no or a yes, Earle followed up but Marge could only mutter no-one’s ever asked how he was before. They shouted and threw things like cabbages and McDonald’s at his booth… But never stopped to ask how he was, how he truly was, how he felt. Earle was about to correct him and tell him it was a yes or no question but he didn’t think it was right to stop a man from crying. He saw it so rarely that sometimes he felt it never existed, that it wasn’t possible for a man to cry. He himself had never cried, for example, but he was savvy enough to know just because it has never happened to him doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Like, he’s never surfed or been in love but he was pretty sure it existed. Marge surprised Earle and agreed to come with him, it would only be a few hours before the sun rose anyway. This was a special day. A beautiful day. A day Marge thought could change everything. Maybe he didn’t have to be on his own, maybe he could share himself, piece-by-piece; his soul weakened like squash but easier to drink in social situations.  

It was if a rock had been lifted from his shoulders, he went with Earle with little force. Marge was happy, despite Earle’s grouchiness. He reckoned he liked Marge more when he was a fucking dick but he thought about Dr Eel and what Dr Eel wanted. Dr Eel would like to meet Marge, and he’s sure Marge would be interested to see the pulsating serpent in his bathroom… Though he wouldn’t say that out loud, Marge was weird but he knew that sounded like a creepy invitation.

[sadmudzines]

EEL IN THE BATHROOM - PART ONE

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

The Salmons went on holiday last Summer – all but Earle. Costa Del Sol or Brava or Brighton – Earle couldn’t remember as he didn’t go. They went to a hotel of the same name as theirs. Earle thought that was strange but he didn’t challenge them – an argument would just add to the minutes of them not going. Though he breathes the same air as the other Salmons every day; holiday air is always different. It’s short and expectant. We must be having a good time, we must enjoy ourselves, this must be the best pina colada we’ve had because we’ve paid double not to drink it in our house… We’ve paid to have a good time. No thanks, he thought. Mrs Salmon wouldn’t be happy of course. Earle tried to explain why he wanted to stay on his own. In his pants. Cointreau. Inspector Morse boxset. Jaffa cakes. But he didn’t make much leeway; some people just don’t get happiness can be found when a person is by themselves. She aired him with suspicion - alone or not, Inspector Morse wasn’t savoury for a boy of his age.

The door clicked shut, a sweet and satisfying click, and he found himself with no-one. Safe in the silence, comforted by the all of the time he had in front of him. He lined up his supplies on the coffee table with the precision of a neurotic serial killer, testing its reachability from his seated position. It was important everything should be accessible without the crunch of an ab. This wasn’t to be that kind of party. And without hesitation or even need for consideration, he dialled Ian.

INT. IAN’S CAR – NIGHT

The rain pounds onto the window. The glow of street lamps illuminates inside of the car. IAN (42) and EARLE (23) sit in the driver and passenger seat respectively. The radio fills the awkward breaks in conversation.

IAN: You never called me back.

EARLE: I’m sorry, I-

IAN: I was waiting by my phone.

EARLE: Wasn’t in the right mind that night, I thought about-

IAN: You’re just like the rest of them.

EARLE: I’m not, I promise. I just got nervous, spooked – you know me, don’t you?

IAN: I thought I did.

Ian drops his head, forlorn.

IAN: Are you going to invite me up then?

Earle clenches his teeth, his mind racing for an excuse.  

EARLE: I thought we could do the other thing…

IAN: Is that all I am to you?

EARLE: Ian…

IAN: Is it? I just have to drop everything and run to you when you need me? When you call me? When you want to use me?

EARLE: You are my drug dealer, Ian.

Ian slams the steering wheel. Emotional, he shakes his head.

IAN: Not anymore. I’m done with you.

EARLE: Ian, please don’t do this.

IAN: Get out.

EARLE: I was wrong, I’m sorry. You can come up, we can watch Morse and-

IAN: I said, get out.

Earle leaps to Ian’s belt buckle and starts undoing it. Ian fights him off.

EARLE: I know where you keep it! I just want a gram, two grams to last the night-

Ian grabs Earle by the throat and pushes him up against the seat’s head rest. Earle struggles for air, surprised by Ian’s force.

IAN: Always want to get fucked but never want to do it the hard way, that right Earle?

Ian grabs Earle’s crotch.

IAN: You might find a bit of light in this world if you used your eyeballs instead of your nostrils.

Calming, Ian strokes Earle’s face.

IAN: I may be your dealer, but I feel, I hurt, just like everybody else. Respect, that’s all I want.

Ian drops Earle. Earle gasps for air.

IAN: That’s all us humans have got to do.

Earle scrambled for the car door. Ian kissed the air as Earle made it out. But as the door slammed shut, and Ian was alone; he sunk into chair – saddened by the thought of another night on the road by himself.

Upstairs at the Ocean View Hotel, guilt weighed heavy with Earle. He thought how he shouldn’t call Ian as every time ended the same but his gear was good and he couldn’t help it. Earle’s itch always needed to be scratched. His regret for Ian didn’t last long as it dawned on him he was empty handed. The clock was ticking.  

He didn’t like the company of his family, but he hated his sober company more – he didn’t explain to Mrs Salmon that part of the story. He knew too much time spent in his own head was dangerous. He feared the surprise of the stones he would turn, the can of worms he’d open. He started banging around the kitchen; reckoning there must be something to shove, sniff or smoke. But there was nothing that wouldn’t knowingly cause him bleeding eye sockets and/or brain damage. A post it note stuck on the fridge door read ‘don’t forget to feed the fish’ and an idea sprung in Earle’s mind… Perhaps too quickly, but didn’t worry about that - he didn’t want to dig into the psychotherapy of it all. JERRY (1) swam gayly in a bowl on a side.

Without further thought, as nothing this dumb could be thought of in detail, Earle dunked his gammon paws into the water and pulled out a flapping Jerry. He’d seen it on the telly once, some far-out tribe getting off their noggin to some spicy fish scales. Closing his eyes, Earle poked out his tongue and licked Jerry. Little Jerry was weirdly warm. Earle couldn’t figure out if he liked it or not, it didn’t matter. He just waited for the hit, the rush, the breathlessness… But – not surprisingly - it never came.

Earle sunk into the sofa; the fear of a sober few days seeping into his reality. He shoved jaffa cakes into his mouth with a depressed desperation of a man who found out his wife, kids and dog had all left him. Crumbs and chocolate framed his greasy lips.

He didn’t realise he had dozed off. That’s the only good thing he thought; sleep isn’t so much of a chore when you’re not pumped full of Class A’s. He feared sleep in a different way when sober. Sleep always marked the end of the night, of the fun – the end of everything always came easier, quicker, whilst in a state of sobriety and Earle didn’t see that as a good thing.

Wiping the dribble from his mouth, he flicked through the TV channels; the hours in front of him slipped dangerously away… But out of the silent house suddenly came a noise, a splash. It jolted him from his hazy sleep. He tried to shake it off, it could have been the tap but the next splash was louder. And louder again. He pulled himself from the sofa and shuffled to the bathroom. The splashing grew wilder. It couldn’t have been the cistern either – this splashing had a life of its own, a rhythm.

With caution, Earle pushed open the bathroom door and the splashing immediately stopped. Earle suspiciously eyed the room, everything looked as it should; the mirror, the toilet, the window looking out onto London’s muddy gutter, the pot plant, the cotton buds, the bath with a live eel, the picture of Princess Di… Wait, the bath. The eel. It was alive. Earle stepped an inch closer and as if triggering a sensor, the splashing went wild once more. Excitable splashing. Earle peered over the side of the tub. His bottom lip dropped. Holding onto the tiles, Earle lent further over. Inside the half-full hull of the china bath throbbed a smooth, grey, juicy ribbon.

Earle’s face fell into one of disgust. Heranfromtheroom and grabbed his phone, fumbling through the contacts until he came to Mum. The picture of the pumping grey flesh burnt into vision. Like looking at the sun, he blinked and all he could see was: eel, eel, eel. The phone rang but Mrs Salmon didn’t answer. He thought in retrospect that was a sign; he felt shame at the thought of Mrs Salmon finding out what he was up to. She could never find out what he shoved up his nose or about the eel in his bathroom. Secrets are the essential glue to families; there’s no other way they could exist together otherwise.

Frightened, Earle turned the TV’s volume up to drown out the eel’s watery kicks.

INT. FRONT ROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL - LATER

Earle crosses his legs, red-faced as he holds in piss. Inspector Morse plays but Earle’s uncomfortable, unable to enjoy it.

He runs to the bathroom but can’t bring himself to open the door. He shuffles on either foot, praying for a distraction or relief.

EARLE (under his breath): Fuck

He jogs to the kitchen

INT. KITCHEN, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL - LATER

Earle heads straight to the sink and zips open his flies. As he’s about to let loose he sees Mrs Salmon’s favourite china mug in the basin; a picture of the whole Salmon family stuck to the side. Christmas ’06. His mother’s festive face staring back, he can’t do it. He has no choice but to run back to the bathroom.

INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT

Earle’s nose practically touches the door. The sound of splashing has grown more violent. It becomes louder and louder. He closes his eyes and counts one, two, three…

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle kicks open the door. His face goes green at the sight. The eel in the bath has grown in size, it’s plumper, longer.

DOCTOR EEL (3) rises from the basin. Its body leans back onto the bath tub. Its beady eyes grow with the sight of Earle. He speaks with a voice of a human who’s smoked a thousand cigarettes.

DOCTOR EEL: If you’re going to piss, just piss.

Earle is frozen.

DOCTOR EEL: Have you got a sock for a bladder, boy? Piss!

With no time to be confused, Earle runs to the toilet. Doctor Eel wears a wry smile.

EARLE: Don’t look!

Doctor Eel chuckles. He looks.

EARLE: I don’t want you seeing -

DOCTOR EEL: It’s this kind of insecurity which starts world wars.

EARLE: Stop-

DOCTOR EEL: What are you scared of?

Earle finishes with a shake, zips up his flies and turns to Doctor Eel. He’s frozen, transfixed.

EARLE: You.

DOCTOR EARLE: Shush.

Dr Eel’s ‘s’ phonics are similar to that of a snake.

DOCTOR EEL: I need you to do something for me.

EARLE: What? I-

DOCTOR EEL: Take a seat.

Earle obediently takes a seat on the toilet. He holds his heads between his hands. He becomes agitated.

Earle stands and lunges for the cabinet.

DOCTOR EEL: Sit down, Earle.

Earle desperately scrambles the cupboard for pills.

DOCTOR EEL: That medicine was only made for house wives to nap on.

Earle is frantic as he scours for something, anything.

EARLE: Gotta be something in here-

DOCTOR EEL: We could help each other, you and I.

Earle rubs his eyes, unbelieving.

EARLE: What? What do you mean?

DOCTOR EEL: Fanta. The orange kind.

EARLE: I don’t have it, why did you need it? I-

DOCTOR EEL: To drink it, you moron.

Earle is beside himself, unable to take the sight of a talking eel. He returns to the cabinet, though he knows nothing can help him there.

DOCTOR EEL: Bring Fanta. Get coke.

Earle stops pacing. Ears pricked.

EARLE: Cocaine?

DOCTOR EEL: Wiz, beak, gak, cool pub stuff… You heard, boy.

Earle slaps himself across the cheek. And again. And again; is he awake?

EARLE: For me?

Doctor Eel whips his tail across Earle’s face. He drops to the floor. Damp with bath water.

DOCTOR EEL: I’m waiting…

Earle nods his head obediently.

EARLE: I’ll… I’ll get it.

Earle bolted through the empty streets under the purple moon’s glow. His feet ran without thought, his mind was excited and scared for what was ahead. He could have pulled the plug from the plug hole, Dr Eel might have sucked through the grating. But he pretended to not know why he didn’t. He pretended he didn’t know why his feet unconsciously thundered onto the concrete at 1am. He pretended he didn’t know why his hot breath excitedly steamed in front of him. He told himself it was for Dr Eel, that he had to get him the fizzy pop. It was all about the fizzy pop. That this wasn’t for him– whatever came after was the treasure he deserved, rather than he desired, needed or relied on. The treasure was why he kept running, that’s what he told himself.

He arrived at Shep’s Newsagents; it’s neon lights flickered as if panicked. Earle yanked at the doors but they were locked. His heart sunk; this was a town which ran on one of everything. One pub, one shop, one bus, one club… This was his only chance. He was in the minority who thought these limits were a problem, for everyone else, the Sugar of Sugar-On-Sea ran through their veins. Earle always felt his stomach churn when someone said they belonged to a place or a town, especially Sugar-On-Sea. He felt uneasy around the people who saw their home town as an extension of their identity, their non-breathing other; they loved it like it could love them back. For Earle, this belonging was oppressive. Sugar-On-Sea told him when and what he could drink, shop and buy. Earle didn’t belong to Sugar-On-Sea; it owned him. He didn’t’ have the capital or belief he could ever escape. Sugar-On-Sea held him close as it would its doll. It’s nails pressing into Earle’s side, it’s arms pushing down onto Earle’s chest so his air and energy flooded through his nostrils as if he was a sorry, punctured air bed. Earle squeezed the sides of his head so his facial features crumpled into a fleshy scramble. His mouth an oblong at length to stop him from screaming into the night. The screaming would have felt good, he thought - but he’d only be more dejected when no-one asked if he was okay. Admittedly his screaming would be down to the Fanta shortage– but they wouldn’t have known. That was as sweet as it got in Sugar-On-Sea.

With no shop that wouldn’t have taken him until dawn to walk to, Earle banged on the door and rattled the windows. Shep needed to wake. He knew he was in there, Shep slept under the counter. He had a bad run last summer. Shep didn’t believe in daylight savings. When the clocks went back, his time stayed the same. Drunk ramblers from the pub would arrive for their midnight snack but with the shop shut on winter hours; they couldn’t get the cheesy, beige treats they had pinned their nights upon. Drunk enough the whites of their eyes turned yellow, these ramblers were hungry enough in turn to smash the windows. One shop. There was no other option. They looted Shep’s until there was not a single pot noodle left on the shelf.  Everyone told Shep to move the arms of his clock but he refused; what right did we have to dictate time? Time is something beyond us. Just because a man says it’s 3pm, what makes it 3pm? It’s just numbers and symbols and sand falling through the hour-glass. No-one could see why Shep was that bothered, no-one else cared. They just wanted their frozen pizzas; and for a half a year they could get it. Shep called it keeping with tradition, he wanted time like the old days. Proper time. Good old-fashioned time. But his nostalgia was boring, as thought by everyone else who smashed his front windows and took him for all that he had. Earle thought it was unfair back then, the ramblers should just stock up and let the stupid old man live in his stupid old time but as he rattled the doors that night he really wished he had brought a sledge hammer.He banged and banged and to his surprise Shep’s eye popped up between the advertisements stuck to the window. His eye blinked and stared. Earle spotted it and begged. He begged and begged for the Fanta, He just needs some Fanta and then he’d be away from Shep’s door. Shep’s eye winked. To Earle’s even bigger surprise, the door lock wound open and a hand yanked him inside. It was pitch black apart from the refrigerator’s white light. Earle could hear Shep scuttling from side to side; creature-like. He was old but he was fast, creepy fast. The kind of creepy which whips the air like the threat of a cat of nine tails. Earle was scared; as anyone would be. His fear deepened as he feared something unseen. Everything’s scarier when the fear exists only in the mind. With no warning, Shep lunged from the darkness; two cans of Fanta in his boney hands. Earle snatched them before Shep could change his mind. Earle threw his pennies onto the floor, and though rude, he’d sure Shep would hoover them up. Shep knew every inch of that shop floor, even with the lights off. Earle asked why Shep opened for him, and not the ramblers last summer. Shep simply hissed that he knew Earle wouldn’t break the window. He knew Earle understood the motion that when the lights are off in paradise, sometimes you just have to ask nicely. To himself, Earle thought that sounded nice but in all honestly, he had no clue what the fuck the stupid old man was on about. Lights on or off, he just needed the orange Fanta. He needed the treasure.  

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle pours a can of Fanta into the bath. Dr Eel vibrates in the bubbles.

Earle grimaces as Dr Eel’s flesh pulsates. It expands into muscle. Ripples of pecks and abs appear down its spine.

DR EEL: Another!

Earle pops another can.

EARLE: Take it a little slower maybe-

DR EEL: Did I ask you how I should swallow?

Earle begins to pour.

DR EEL: I only take that advice from hookers who’ve made it to fifty with their vulva attached.  

Earle’s lip curls. Dr Eel aggressively flexes. A threat.

EARLE: That’s not very nice... I was only trying to help-

DR EEL: You’re as wild as the inside of a washing machine.

EARLE: I mean there’s just one can left, okay?

Earle pours the last can into the bath. Dr Eel glugs the Fanta bathwater. He shrieks in ecstasy.

Dr Eel relaxes into his new muscular body. Refreshed and renewed.

Earle closes his eyes; uncomfortable being an observer to Dr Eel’s private moment.

DR EEL: Is that your sex face?

[sadmudzines]

RUNE’S TEA-TIME CRIME

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

INT. MASTER BEDROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

A dressing table – its mirror lined with filament lamps. The warm glow illuminates the outline of a woman’s face. This is RUNE SALMON (59) in a peach silk dressing gown. Her pursed lips poke from a sludgy layer of green face mask.

Rune wipes the face mask from her cheeks with her bare hands. She scrapes them on the edge of the dresser. Rune takes a white powder and chooses a blue eyeshadow from a make-up box. She applies the powders simultaneously to her face until her complexion is pale and bruised.

She drops her gown to the floor. Beneath she’s wearing a ripped white shirt. The pattern of blue bells. The buttons have been torn off. Her flies are undone. Rune stares at her reflection. She frowns at the rip on her right shoulder. She pulls at it until the threads tear further. Satisfied, she stops and smiles at her work.

She returns to the make-up box and pulls out a vile of red liquid. She hovers it above the back of her head and squeezes. Red pours into her hair. She rubs it in so her hair matts. With her hand still dirty with the blood-like liquid, she carefully imprints hand marks onto the mirror, chair and carpet. Her tongue sticks out in concentration. She turns to look at a TV screen: a crime scene. A young woman lies bludgeoned on the floor. The same blue bells on her shirt.

Rune lies on the carpet. She cricks her neck in unison with the woman on the TV. She shuffles her high-heeled shoe from her foot so it still hangs on her big toe. Her body distorts in an almost ‘Z’ shape. Rune closes her eyes.

Mr Salmon arrives home, the blood drains from him. He runs to his wife. He stutters, he can barely spit out her name, his mouth only repeats out ‘R’s. He jumps to her side, pads her face, her chest… Red spreads across his own hands… He starts to sob, heavy and growling. He lies beside her, holding onto her crooked hand until…

Rune turns her head. And flashes a warm smile as if she was just waking up in the morning. Good day husband?Mr Salmon recoils. What the bloody hell are you playing at? Rune looks content, a satisfaction that you could only achieve from the deepest of sleeps. Just having a bit of me time. Mr Salmon’s face reddens as red as fake blood across his hands.

She tilts her head and studies the dead woman’s body shape. She lies on the floor in unison with the woman on the TV. She shuffles her high-heeled shoe from her foot so it hangs from her big toe. Her body distorts in an almost ‘Z’ shape. Rune closes her eyes.

Mr Salmon arrives home, his face pales when he sees Rune. He runs to his wife. Stutters. He can barely spit her name. His mouth only repeats ‘R’s. He jumps to her side, pads her face, her chest. Red spreads across his own hands. He starts to sob, heavy and growling. He lies beside her, holding onto her crooked hand until…

Rune turns her head. And flashes a warm smile.

RUNE: Good day husband?

Mr Salmon recoils.

MR SALMON: What the bloody hell are you playing at?

Rune looks content, a satisfaction that you could only achieve from the deepest of sleeps.

RUNEJust having a bit of me time.

Just having a bit of me time.

Mr Salmon’s face reddens as red as the fake blood across his hands.

From then on, this became routine for the Salmons – maybe three or four times a week. Mr Salmon would come home to a new crime scene, Mrs Salmon in another morbid arrangement. He didn’t want to tell her that he found it rather macabre; that he wished she could have taken up snorkelling or crochet instead. He didn’t want to moan that dinner was now at least 45 minutes late to the table and the blood she used (a syrupy homemade mixture) made his meat and potatoes taste of fruit pastels…. She was happy, for the first time in a long while and, despite his innate construct, he did acknowledge how modern society dictates a new set of rules where a woman doesn’t have to cook for her husband, she doesn’t have to live by another’s clock and if a woman wants to cover herself in blood, rip her finest blouses and keep a suitcase of hammers, belts and knives under the bed then hell, that’s fine by him in this mad world we live in.

Mrs Salmon’s passion became a fascination then obsession. It became less a memorial and more of a fantasy. Mr Salmon wondered if this compulsion of hers was about being frozen in time. Was it about being forever young, just as those girls with the stockings around their necks? Or perhaps it was more of a sexual thing? A kick he could never give? He wondered if it was because she thought she was special? That she yearned for a man to single her out over all the other girls? Mr Salmon never asked these questions. He was too scared of the answer.

Mr Salmon knew not to call out now when he arrived home. He’d seen “death” so many times in Rune’s tableaus that death wasn’t real anymore. It was entertainment… He’d usually play along with Rune’s theatricals until his stomach grumbled or he had a skittles meeting. One evening Mr Salmon came home, he noticed the flicker of her pink bed side light. It was erratic like a moth was ricocheting under the lampshade. But as the nights before, he’d wait until fifteen minutes past tea time and then call. But when he called for food this time, Mrs Salmon didn’t stir and wipe the fake blood from her fingers. This time there was no answer. When Mr Salmon went to investigate he found no Mrs Salmon. The stage had been set; the mirror smashed into sharp pointed shards but no limp body of Mrs Salmon. Just blood, belongings churned from their drawers. He could only huff, the call of the mediocre man whose hunger wasn’t enough stimulation to peel back the plastic lid of his own ready meal; where could Mrs Salmon be? He went to lick some of the blood which had splattered across the dressing table. Usually Mr Salmon liked the taste of Mrs Salmon’s fake blood (if it didn’t mar his savoury offering). He would lick the spoon when she was making it. It tasted sweet. She always added flavourings when she didn’t have to, that was the kind of palatable lady she was. But this time when he licked his finger, it tasted metallic. Iron-y. He tried another sample and again it wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t cherries or strawberries or raspberries. It tasted of metal. Instead of his finger, he next licked with his tongue – just to be sure. The red spread around his mouth. As he licked his lips it dawned on him that perhaps this wasn’t fake blood. He didn’t know if it was Mrs Salmon’s blood or not. He thought it would be much easier if everyone’s bloods tasted different, a personal flavour - then that way he’d know for sure. He thought if Mrs Salmon’s blood was to have a flavour it would be violets, parma violets. Stuffy, dusty but floral. His mind drifted like that for a while, like some people do when in shock, like people do when their world has changed forever and they haven’t quite caught up with it. The times where it would be too much to cry or wallow. People just stare and observe whilst thinking about what their favourite sitcom show is. Disconnecting to cope. Mr Salmon poured himself a brandy and sat on the bed. Staring and observing; where the bloody hell did she go? What’s he going to watch tonight? He’s finished Game of Thrones. He hopes she’s okay, at the very least because he doesn’t know how to work the oven by himself.

[sadmudzines]

HANG-CREAM

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

Aoife Salmon sits next to Douglas on the night bus back from London. It’s a long way home on any given day, but tonight it feels eternal. The windows wet as the cold meets human breath. Old and creepy souls sit on the navy seats, wearing fleeces and playing Candy Crush until their fingertips go numb, their eyes blinded by the garish flashing lights… Aoife rubs her hand on the harsh fuzz of the seat, it gives her a carpet burn but she keeps going. The movement somehow fills this gap between them, the silence. Douglas hasn’t spoken since the tube line stopped and the rest of the world began. His face is cool and grey under the neon of the bus lights. She continues to anxiously rub her hand until it’s too fiery to maintain. A panic rises inside of her; is this it forever? Silence on the bus? She thinks about pushing him off of the seat or at least she wishes he’d fall off. If he did, then they’d have something to talk about. She’d hoist him up and maybe they’d kiss and maybe muse over what caused him to fall off the seat. A dead rabbit the bus drove over? Or did the driver have a stroke? Is he still having a stroke? Her insides burn as she wishes him to say anything out loud. Any grumble or belch that would burst this silence which has become physical. It felt to Aoife as if it had sides, a floor, a ceiling… She pushes down the feeling that silence meant the end. She thinks back to when they first started dating. The stupid talk. She knew he was only talking to get her to fuck, but she didn’t mind that now. Talk or fuck, anything but nothing. She thinks back to how he used to show her videos of his latest hobby (coffee making, drone flying, sail boating…). Videos of him doing a thing. She’d sit and smile, nod along as if she was interested in what he had to say. It didn’t matter if she was interested, she’d be someone he’d care about showing and that was enough, even if she didn’t care for coffee making, drone flying, or sail boating. The silence, the pressure; it builds, it builds, it builds until…

AOIFE: My Uncle Salmon-

Douglas startles. He looks up from his interlocked hands.

AOIFE: I had an Uncle Salmon.

Douglas eyebrows crease.

DOUGLAS: Where’d he go?

Aoife’s exhales, her shoulders lower. Finally. Conversation.

AOIFE: He died-

DOUGLAS: I’m sorry-

AOIFE: Don’t be. He died before I was born, before my Mum was born, before her Mum was born. He worked at HM Greenbutter.

DOUGLAS: The prison?

AOIFE: Community-run.

Moonlight hits the tips of the waves.

The bus wheels rattle on the road.

AOIFE: He was a hangman.

Douglas feigns interest. Aoife scrambles to keep his attention.

AOIFE: In the twenties. It was more normal then. Everyone knew someone that had been croaked by Uncle Salmon.

Douglas snorts.

AOIFE: He lived above a pub, he wanted to be around people, living people. He complained that everyone he met at his day job was already dead. The walking dead, the sleeping dead, the talking dead. The drinkers in the pub wouldn’t drink with him. They said they could smell the dead men’s last breaths on his skin. He bought them ales but they’d just take the free drink and down them from a distance… It was a curse he thought, but his dad was a hangman, and his grandad was a hangman, and his great grandad was a hangman. He didn’t know what else he would do. He didn’t have a wife; his rough hands would put girls off. He sometimes dreamt of being a sailor but he reckoned he’d still have the same problem, the rope scraping away at the skin of his palms… He hated his rough hands. They were like sand paper. He despised his hands. His hands were his only way of saying hello. The hangman wasn’t allowed to speak to those who stepped up to his platform. He desperately wanted the men who were going to hanged to like him. He wanted the last man they spoke to, to be one they could remember into the darkness. A friend. A warm touch is all he wanted, he wanted to be loved and to give love-

DOUGLAS: How could you love someone who was tying a noose around your neck?

AOIFE: Would you rather love or hate in your final minutes?

DOUGLAS: I’d be pretty fucking pissed off-

AOIFE: He didn’t want to use his hands anymore… They were too rough on the dead men’s skin. They flinched. He thought for ages what he could do. A hug might appear too threatening, as if he was going to squeeze the air out of them. There was no option left but to kiss them. He decided he would kiss each man who stepped up to his gallows, he’d kiss them on the cheek. He’d wet his lips and kiss each one before their necks cracked. In his mind, they were already dead without that one last touch, that one last warm connection to the living. A person only lives through the reactions and touches of others – to live is to have someone else feel your heartbeat. 

Douglas crumples his forehead in thought.  

AOIFE: Some didn’t like it. They’d spit or struggle. Some just stayed still… There was one though. The One. It was August and it was really, really hot, so hot Uncle Salmon had to wipe the sweat from his top lip with a handkerchief. A man walked the steps to the top of the wooden frame. Uncle Salmon gently lifted the man’s hood and kissed him on the cheek. The man turned his head and kissed Uncle Salmon right back, on his lips. The man’s tongue dipped into Uncle Salmon’s mouth, hot and wet. They kissed and kissed… Until it was time. The only person who’d ever shown Uncle Salmon love, the only person Uncle Salmon ever felt loved him was to be dead. Uncle Salmon had to kill him. The trapdoor swung open and that was it. Uncle Salmon’s soul mate gone forever. 

The winning bleep of a passenger’s Candy Crush curses the moment. 

DOUGLAS: Why are you telling me this? 

Aoife shrugs. 

DOUGLAS: Use more hand moisturiser?

AOIFE: No, we’d all kiss less if everyone used more hand moisturiser.

DOUGLAS: So, we should kiss more?

AOIFE: I’m not trying to say anything.

DOUGLAS: Then why tell that story?

AOIFE: To fill the silence.

DOUGLAS: It’s a sad story.

AOIFE: The Salmons don’t have many happy ones.  

Douglas turns to the front of the bus. He licks his lips in concentration. Aoife Salmon thinks about her uncle, then she thinks about what Douglas is thinking. She hopes he was thinking about Uncle Salmon, what Uncle Salmon did next, if he was a good sleeper or if his hands became smooth after capital punishment became so out of fashion…. She hopes he’s not thinking about her choice in story and what it meant about her. It really didn’t mean anything to her, she just wanted something to say. And for him to say something back.

DOUGLAS: I think we should break up.

[sadmudzines]

BYE-BYE

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

EXT. OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – DAY

Decaying plaster falls away from the façade of the four-storey hotel. Flecks of gold break through the poorly-applied thick brown paint.

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The Salmon’s lived on the top floor of the Ocean View Hotel. It was odd not just by look but by name. Far from over-looking a sprawling and glistening ocean, it stood at the edge of an estuary; the final destination for London’s sewage. A muddy, earthy smell hung beneath the vinegar of the fisherman’s huts. Salt carried by the sea wind battered against the concrete pavement of the river-cum-sea-edge. The concrete crumbled; too tired to hold on. The Salmon’s worried that one day the pathway would exhaust and that would mean their home would disintegrate with it. The house and humans equally weary, it was a tall order for all of them to remain upright.

The once gold Ocean View Hotel was now brown. The outside didn’t weather, but was instead painted by Mr Monty Salmon. The gleaming gold annoyed him, it got under his skin. He couldn’t enjoy its glow as it reminded him of the glittering brightness he didn’t have. It reminded him of hope, and on the end of this glorified English sewer pipe, there wasn’t much space for hope. Time drained it. He often had his blue days, and on this one particular darkest of navy blue days, he picked up a tin of brown paint and painted the whole hotel – just to stop it from shining, to stop all sparkles of hope. Mrs Rune Salmon disagreed with him wholeheartedly; she believed hope did exist in their miserable little town of Sugar-On-Sea for every day the tide went out it always came home. She’d watch it, chart it. There was always hope as the water always returned. Another day, a new tide, a new promise. The day it doesn’t come home is the day all hope is lost, Rune would say. 

One cold evening the Salmon’s daughter Aoife yelled out that the water wasn’t there. It had been there but now it had disappeared. The water decided not to return. She screamed until her brother Earle and father Monty were also out of their beds. The water, the water, the fucking water’s all gone….The Salmons ran down to the muddy edge to feel the waves for themselves, untrusting their eyes would give them the reality they wanted. When they got to the edge, their hearts sunk; there was no ripple in sight. Instead, they were greeted by a party. A party on the flat of the mud. Twenty or thirty people. A real vibe. The twenty or thirty people held tiny beans of ecstasy between their fingers and swigged from short tumblers with cocktail umbrellas and glacier cherries. They stood under string lanterns and atop of Berber rugs to protect their bare feet from the sludge. An electronic beat filled the moments between the breeze. The twenty or thirty people, they whined their neck from side-to-side and clasped their jaws tight, releasing an energy sustained by the last half they took. They were tired, but they didn’t want to go to bed. This was a thing. This was a thing they had forced themselves to be excited for. They didn’t want to forget tonight, although they knew they would. Their brains and memories would be soup by sunrise. The twenty or thirty people were suddenly interrupted: oi, you lot! The party turned in perfect unison as if they stood on a microwave plate. Their eyes met all four Salmons standing on the edge. The music zipped to a silence. A long time went by before anyone said anything. The open air brushed across their arm hairs; sorry did we wake you?

The Salmons stared back, the hurt of the uninvited painfully clear. The party shared an awkward look and scratched the backs of their heads. They tried to hide their swinging jaws, but their good time only became more envious as they covered their mouths with the palms of their hands. Monty stepped forward, he repeated himself, not knowing how else to communicate. He’d always say things again and again until he got the answer he wanted: why didn’t we get an invite? Why didn’t we get an invite?  One of the party nervously broke from the crowd, He hiccupped; sorry Salmons, we didn’t know you liked to get down. 

Monty stepped forward onto the soggy plain: what did he mean?The man from the party hiccupped again and answered: you painted the bricks brown. He pointed up to the top floor of the Ocean View Hotel: you hadgiven up hope way longer before the rest of us. Rune poked Monty between the ribs. I told you so. Mr Salmon flushed red. 

Not now, not now, not now! He tried to edge closer but the sinking mud was doing right by its namesake. Mr Salmon was held in place

The hiccupping man became the swaying man; like one of those plastic tubes with fringe for fingers blowing in front of a car garage. He smirked. The party cheered to which he told them to calm; this is the last party of our world; the tide has gone and no fish can swim. We’re the golden yolk go-getters. We haven’t got the time for Monty’s miserable cockerel call of piss. The clock is ticking down and the sky blackens into liquorice. There was nothing left to do but drink, dance and get high; to chat breeze, laugh and cry. They couldn’t bear for Mr Salmon to spoil their last moments before the world came to its end; to remind them of a time when they felt hope when he always had none.

The other Salmons stepped out onto the muddy water in solidarity for their patriarch. Mrs Salmon, always the lover of parties, whispered into Mr Salmon’s ear: I hate you.

Someone turned the volume up on the music. The squeaky voice screamed: a daiquiri for meeeeeee. Then in a moment which was as quick as the flap of a dove’s wing or the speed of a drum kit’s high-hat; it was all over. They thought it would be like a black hole, they dreamt of the sky swallowing them whole but it was the ground that gave way first; it was the sand that become liquid. The party and the Salmons were sucked under. No water to swim, no tomorrow to sleep into, no hope to bet on.  

They didn’t know what happened next. No-one did. They were mush, everything was mush.