Snuff Fiction

6

I awoke one morning to find that I had lost nearly ten per cent of my sense of colour, sound and smell. The wallpaper seemed to have faded overnight and the noise of the day appeared duller. The normally rich and wholesome tang of frying lard, rising through the cracks in the kitchen ceiling to enter my bedroom between the bare boards, had lost its fragrant edge. But I noticed another smell, creeping out from under my sheets. The brimstone reek of sulphur.

I stumbled from my bed and blinked into the wall mirror. My ruddy if disease-scarred countenance looked pale and drawn and eerie. Fuzzy whiskers fringed my upper lip and large red spots had blossomed on my chin.

My attention became drawn to my pyjama bottoms. They were sticking out oddly at the front. I undid the knotted string and let them fall.

And beheld the erection!

Shafts of sunlight fell upon it. Up on high the angels sang.

‘My God,’ I said. ‘I’ve reached puberty.’

Well, I had to try it out and so I did.

Five minutes later I went down for breakfast.

My mother eyed me strangely. ‘Have you been playing with yourself?’ she asked.

‘Certainly not!’ I replied. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

My father looked up from his Sporting Life. ‘I think it was the loud shouts of “I’ve come! I’ve come!” that gave it away,’ he said kindly.

‘I’ll bear that in mind for the future,’ I said, tucking into the lard on my plate.

‘By the way,’ said my father. ‘President Kennedy’s been shot.’

‘President who?’

‘Kennedy. The President of the United States. He’s been assassinated.’

‘My God,’ I said, for the second time that day.

‘It’s a bit of a shock, eh?’

‘It certainly is.’ I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I didn’t even know they had a president. I thought America was still a British colony.’

My father shook his head. Rather sadly, I thought. ‘You’re getting lard all over your barnet,’ he observed. ‘You really must learn to use a knife and fork.

‘And a condom,’ he added.

I set off to school a bit late. I thought I’d give puberty another go before I went. This time without the shouting. My mother banged on the bathroom door. ‘Stop jumping up and down in there,’ she told me.

School for me was now St Argent of the Tiny Nose, a dour establishment run by an order of Holy Brothers chosen for the smallness of their hooters. It was an all-boys school, very hot on discipline and nasal training. Smoking was forbidden in class, but the taking of snuff was encouraged.

I had somehow failed my eleven plus and so while the Doveston, Billy, Norman and just about everybody else in my class had gone on to the Grammar, I had been packed off to St Argent’s with the duffers of the parish.

I didn’t feel too bad about this. I had accepted early in life that I was unlikely to make anything of myself and I soon made new friends amongst the Chicanos and Hispanics of Brentford’s Mexican quarter who became my new classmates.

There was Chico Valdez, leader of the Crads, a rock’n’roll outlaw of a boy who would sadly meet an early end in a freak accident involving gunfire and cocaine. ‘Fits’ Caraldo, leader of the Wobblers, an epileptic psychopath, whose end would be as sudden. Juan Toramera, leader of the Screamin’ Greebos, whose life also came to a premature conclusion. And José de Farrington-Smythe, who left after the first year and went on to theological college.

He later became a priest.

And was shot dead by a jealous husband.

Our school reunions were very quiet affairs.

I was greatly taken with Chico. He had tattooed legs and armpit hair and told me that at junior school he had actually had sex with his teacher. ‘Never again,’ said Chico. ‘It made my bottom far too sore.

Chico initiated me into the Crads. I don’t recall too much about the actual ceremony, only that it involved Chico and me going into a shed on the allotment and drinking a great deal of colourless liquid from an unlabelled bottle.

I know I couldn’t ride my bike for about a week afterwards. But you can make of that what you will.

The Crads were not the largest teenage gang in Brentford. But, as Chico assured me, they were the most exclusive. There was Chico, the leader, there was me, and there would no doubt be others in time.

Once we had ‘gained a reputation.

Gaining a reputation was everything. It mattered far more than algebra and history and learning how to spell. Gaining a reputation made you somebody.

Exactly how you gained a reputation seemed uncertain. When questioned on the subject, Chico was vague in his replies. It apparently involved gunfire and cocaine.

I arrived in school as Brother Michael, our teacher, was calling the register. He had been scoring lines through the names of those boys slain in last night’s drive-bys and seemed quite pleased to see me.

I received the standard thrashing for lateness, nothing flashy, just five of the Cat, put my shirt back on and took my seat.

‘Chico,’ I whispered from behind my hand, ‘have you heard the news?’

‘That your mother caught you whacking off in the bathroom?’

‘No, not that. President Kennedy’s been shot.’

‘President who?’ whispered Chico.

‘That’s what I said. He was the President of the United States.’

‘Just another dead gringo,’ said Chico and he thumbed his teeth.

And that was the end of that.

We got stuck into our first lesson. It was, as ever, the history of the True Church and I think we’d got up to the Borgia Pope. We had not been at it for more than ten minutes, however, before the classroom door opened and Father Durante the headmaster entered.

We rose quickly to our feet. ‘Bless you, Holy Father,’ we all said.

‘Bless you, boys,’ said he, ‘and please sit down.’

Father Durante approached Brother Michael and whispered several words into his ear.

‘President who?’ said Brother Michael.

Father Durante whispered some more.

‘Oh,’ said Brother Michael, ‘and was he a Catholic?’

Further whispered words went on and then the Father left.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Brother Michael, addressing the class. ‘Apparently President Kennedy, who is, before you ask, the President of the United States, has been assassinated. Normally this kind of thing would not concern us. But it appears that President Kennedy was a Roman Catholic and so we should all express our sorrow at his passing.’

Chico stuck his hand up. ‘Holy sir,’ said he.

‘Yes, what is it, Chico?’

‘Holy sir, this gringo who got snuffed. Was he the leader of a gang?’

‘He was the leader of a mighty nation.’

‘Whoa!’ went Chico. ‘Kiss my ass.

‘Not here,’ said Brother Michael. ‘Was there anything specific you wished to know about the president?’

‘El presidente, huh? How did the motherf—’

But he didn’t get to finish his no doubt most pertinent question.

‘You can all take the rest of the day off,’ said Brother Michael.

‘Spend it in quiet contemplation. Pray for the soul of our departed brother and write me a five-hundred-word essay on the subject:

What I would do I became the President of the United States.’

‘I’d get a better bodyguard,’ said Chico. ‘Go with God,’ said Brother Michael. So we did.

I caught up with Chico at the school gates, next to the barbed-wire perimeter fence. He had learned to swagger whilst still young, but I was yet a shuffler.

‘Where are you off to now?’ I asked.

Chico flipped a coin into the air and then he stooped to pick it up. ‘I think I’ll go and hang out at the Laundromat,’ he said. ‘I love to watch the socks go round and round together with the soap-suds. Don’t you get a kick outa that?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. Not really, I thought.

‘So, what you gonna do?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘As I’ve just reached puberty this morning, I was hoping to have sex with a long-legged woman.

Chico looked me up and down. ‘You want I introduce you to my mother?’

‘That’s very kind, but she is a bit old.’

‘You feelthy peeg, I cut your throat.’ Chico sought his flick knife, but he’d left it in his other shorts.

‘Don’t get upset,’ I said. ‘I’m sure your mother’s a very nice woman.

Chico laughed. ‘You never met my mother then. But you get the wrong idea. It’s OK. I don’t mean you have my mother. I mean my mother get you a girl.’

‘Why would she do that for me?’

‘Because that’s what she do. She run the whorehouse.’

‘Chico,’ I said, ‘your mother is a wholesaler. She runs a warehouse.’

‘Curse this dyslexia,’ said Chico.

The sun went behind a cloud and a dog howled in the distance. ‘I tell you what,’ said Chico, perking up. ‘I take you to my aunty’s place. She runs the House of Correction and don’t tell me that ain’t no whorehouse.

The House of Correction was a proper whorehouse. Well kept and properly run. You had to take your shoes off when you went in and you weren’t allowed to jump on the furniture or tease the cat.

The House of Correction was semi-detached in a leafy Brentford side street. Those who remember the final shaming of America’s last president would recognize it from the pictures posted on the internet at the time.

Chico’s aunty, who ran it throughout the 1960s, was one of those big-bosomed Margaret Dumont kind of bodies, the like of which sadly we won’t see again.

The front door was open and Chico took me in. His aunty was seated in what was appropriately named the sitting room. She was on the telephone.

I thought I caught the words ‘President who?’ but given the law of diminishing returns this was probably not the case.

I was greatly impressed by the scale of Chico’s aunty and by just how so much flesh could be contained within so little clothes. She glanced down at our stockinged feet and then up at our stockinged faces.

‘Why are you wearing those?’ she asked.

Chico shrugged. ‘It was the gringo’s idea,’ he said.

‘You lying bastard.’ I pulled off my stocking. ‘You said we had to come in disguise.’

‘Only if you’re famous,’ said Chico’s aunty. ‘Are you famous?’ I shook my head.

‘Don’t get nits on my carpet.’ ‘Sorry.’

‘And you’ve got lard in your hair.’

‘The gringo wants a long-legged woman,’ said Chico.

‘I’ve just reached puberty this morning,’ I explained. ‘I don’t want to waste any time.’

Chico’s aunty smiled the kind of smile that you normally see only on the face of a road-kill. ‘Can’t wait to try out your pecker,’ said she. ‘Think that the entire female species is nothing more than walking pussy, gagging for you to ram it right in.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite that way,’ I said.

‘But, in essence, I’m correct?’

‘Oh yeah. In essence.’

‘You’d better open an account then. How much money have you got?’

I dug about in my shorts. ‘About half a crown,’ I said.

Chico’s aunty tut-tut-tutted. ‘You won’t get much for half a crown,’ she said between the tuts. ‘Let me have a look at the tariff.’ She took up a clipboard and examined it with care. I noticed how her finger ran from top down to the bottom. ‘Chicken,’ she said, finally. ‘For half a crown, a chicken.’

‘A chicken?’ I said in horror.

‘It’s not just any old chicken. It’s a Swedish chicken. Specially trained in those arts which amuse men.

‘I don’t want to have it away with a chicken,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I’ve heard that joke.’

‘What joke is this?’

‘The one where the bloke walks into a brothel and he doesn’t have much money and the fellow in charge talks him into having it away with a chicken and the bloke is desperate and so he does, but the next day he’s walking along the street and he thinks, Hang about, I’ve been done here, I could have got a chicken cheaper in Sainsbury’s. So he goes back to complain and the fellow says to him, “All right, I’ll let you have something for free to make up,” and he’s shown to this darkened room where there’s all these other blokes looking through a one-way mirror at this incredible orgy going on. And he has a good look too and then he says to this other bloke there, “That was incredible, wasn’t it?” And the other bloke says, “If you think that was incredible you should have been here yesterday—”’

‘There was a bloke in there with a chicken,’ said Chico’s aunty.

‘Oh, you’ve heard it too.’

‘No, I was only guessing.’

‘Well, I’m not having sex with a chicken,’ I said. ‘And that’s that.’ Chico’s aunty grinned another cadaverous grin and set her clipboard aside. ‘I was only testing,’ she said. ‘Just to see whether there was any decency in you. I’m pleased to see that there is. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

Chico’s aunty called for tea and this was presently brought. I was quite amazed by the teapot. All sheathed in leather it was, with spikes on the handle and studs all round the top.

‘For very special clients,’ she explained.

Chico swaggered off to the Laundromat to watch the socks go round and I spent a pleasant hour in his aunty’s company. She told me a lot about women and put me right on a great many things. Women are not sex objects, she told me. They are people too and must be respected. No does not mean yes, even if you’ve had ten pints of beer. You should never fart in front of women. Always wait until they’ve had their turn.[4] And countless other things, which I must say have helped me a lot over the years in what dealings I’ve had with the opposite sex. I do not believe that I’ve ever been a selfish lover, nor have I ever been disloyal. I have not elevated women, but neither have I degraded them. I have treated them as people and I have Chico’s aunt to thank for that.

She charged me half a crown for the consultation and I considered it cheap at the price. She kissed me on the cheek and I left the House of Correction never to return.

I lounged about outside for a while, wondering just how I would spend the balance of the day. I had just made up my mind that I would go and join Chico and watch the socks go round and round when the door of his aunty’s opened and the Doveston came out.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘what have you been up to?’

‘Business.’ The Doveston winked. ‘Business with a woman?’

‘Yep,’ said the Doveston, straightening his tie.

I sighed and looked him up and down. ‘What are all those feathers on your trousers there?’ I asked.