Hymn From A Village (9 page)

Still had the watch chain and the shiny shoes, though.

It took 3 keys to lock up.

When he was done, he turned and bumped an old lady. Took off his hat and practically bowed before her, as aware as ever of rank, then marched off up the street.

I too, was done for the day.

I closed the shutters, lay down on my bed and blew smoke into the darkness.

***

I
’d fantasized about the moment on many occasions, tying the bastard up and having him begging for mercy, watching the piss puddle at his feet. Taking my rifle and the bullet that had Bernard’s name on it and shooting him right between the eyes.

It was never going to end that way, more’s the pity.

Instead I got up early on the Thursday, while bakers still worked their ovens and the sweepers cleaned the gutters.

I waited at the bank. Leant against the door.

Rousseau strolled up whistling some happy tune. Turned into me.

I waited for recognition to show on his face and then raised the gun.

The first shot was enough.

I bent down and placed Bernard’s bullet in the pocket of his waistcoat, then stood and popped another into his skull.

A little of his blood sprayed my leg, a little of his brain, too.

I waited for him to tell me to wipe myself clean.

The order never came.

F
ifty years to the day Rose has been walking on the planet. Not that she’s walked on much of it. Sheep farms in the summer. Back home the rest of the time.

Hasn’t been far.

Not that she’s needed to.

A huge fish in a small pond, you might say. Six foot four and eighteen inches round the biceps. The blokes on the station all kid on she’d crush any man who lay between her thighs, but they’ve all taken their turn at one time or another and all gone back for more.

She goes over to the pen. Tucks her golden locks into her polka-dot bandana. Hikes up her jeans and takes out the only sheep on the entire ranch that still has wool on its back. Turns it over like she’s tossing pancakes, grabs onto the fore-legs and drags it backwards through the swing-door.

The rest of the crew stand round in their wide-brimmed hats and their sleeveless shirts. They’re smoking to a man and look keen to get down to the pub.

Trapping one of the sheep’s legs between those enormous thighs of hers she gets to work, flat out like a lizard. She’s so busy trimming the fleece that she doesn’t see the crew tip-toeing around and getting into position.

As she makes the last stroke and turns off the switch, she gets up awaiting her round of applause.

Tom Brody, owner of the land, walks up to her with his hand outstretched ready for a shake. He doesn’t know that Rose is intending to crush his bones into dust. She doesn’t know that he’s not going to give her the chance.

He leans forward.

Instead of shaking, he pushes her hard in the chest.

She falls backwards over Shifty, who’s curled in a ball behind her.

The sheep gets up and runs for the door.

The other four guys pounce onto Rose and pin her down.

It’s not easy keeping the nation’s arm-wrestling champ floored, but they’re big men and are skilled in stopping wriggling creatures getting away.

“Happy birthday to you,” they sing like a choir of horny dingoes.

“Get the fuck off, you mongrels,” she shouts, but it’s all part of the fun.

She hears the sound of the clippers starting behind her. “Not the hair boys,” she shouts, “Not the bleeding hair.”

*

T
wo days later and Rose is back in the city. She loves the big nights. The rush of adrenalin and the buzz of the attention.

She watches from the curtain that separates her from the audience. Watches her opponent milk the crowd as she struts down to the stage.

A woman gets under the rope and steps in front of Mo. Next to anyone else, she’d look huge, but alongside Mo she looks small. Her huge cleavage is easier for Rose to look at than the landscape of scarring on her face. She gives Mo a pen then squeezes her breasts together till they look like two bald men kissing. Mo signs them like she’s a celebrity and the woman lifts her shirt so all her friends can see. They whoop and cheer like they’ve never had it so good, a flock of mutton in sheep’s clothing.

Word on Mo has travelled far, even up to the sheep station. Goes by the name of ‘The Maori Mountain’ and Rose sees for herself that it’s not all about the alliteration.

The way she plays the audience it’s more like a Miss Universe contest than Victoria’s arm-wrestling final, heavyweight division.

The Mountain steps up and flexes. Lets those at the front rub on oil, her muscles straining against her tattooed skin as if they’re trying to burst out.

“Blooming poser,” Rose says and then she sniffs hard at her bottle of salts. Like snorting urinals, she thinks.

The announcer looks over and she gives him the nod, making sure she’s hidden when the spotlight turns in her direction.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” (though it’s mostly ladies), “Undefeated in the professional arena,” (that since the age of eighteen), “The Queen of Victoria, the Maid of Melbourne, The Sheila of the Shears...”

“Christ, get on with it,” Rose says to the back of the curtain. She looks at the wallpaper. The cheap bastards haven’t changed a thing since she first appeared there.

She counts the fading flowers of the pattern while she waits to hear her name.

“A whole lot of Wrestling Rose Robbins.”

The floor shakes as the guitar booms in.

Ba da ba da ba da ba.

The shrieking and the booing begin, the shrieks winning on a split decision.

This is the part she hates. All the frills and nonsense. The only things that matter take place at the table. Even so, she does the sponsors proud, hitting the high-fives, punching the air, singing along to her theme-tune.

“She ain’t exactly pretty,” (her fans scream), “She ain’t exactly small,” (like the song was written for her), “42, 39, 56,” (in her dreams), “You could say she’s got it all.”

The sweat’s pouring down her face by the time she reaches the stage. Has something to do with the synthetic fibres of the wig, cheaper than the natural stuff, but not as forgiving.

“Nice look,” George shouts into her ear as he goes over and kisses her cheeks. “Might even buy you a drink after this is done.” It’s true. She looks good in the pink bob, like Louise Brooks after a few good meals.

“Might even accept,” she tells him, pulling off her silk cloak and handing it over.

She points to the words written on her t-shirt, ‘OFTEN LICKED, NEVER BEATEN’ and draws another cheer and a couple of boos for her effort.

Mo gets in her face.

Other than big, she’s everything Rose is not. She works out, does her nails, moisturises, conditions her pit-black hair and holds it in place with sprays.

Her dark eyes stare at Rose like she can see inside her skull.

It’s nothing Rose hasn’t seen before, but it’s better than most. Like she really believes she can win.

Rose knows better than to stare back. Instead she admires the tattoos that cover her arms. She’s seen their likes before on her travels. Thought about getting her own done till the artist pointed out it would just make her skin look older.

Kisses her ring for luck. Won it on a coconut-shy when she was still a virgin. The fake emerald leaves the taste of polish on her lips.

She tightens up her lifter’s belt and sits down at the table. Spreads her legs and takes hold of the post with her left hand. Flexes her fingers around it till the grip feels right, then sticks.

Mo does the same at the other side of the table.

George starts talking then brings the hands together.

Mo grips like enormous pliers, the vein on her arm pulsing like a snake.

First round it’s easy for Rose. She moves through the gears so fast that Mo hasn’t time to react. She’ll learn, one day, that strength without technique is like water without a bottle.

Second round, though, it’s all attrition. Stuck in the middle for a while, then inching one way then the other until a shooting pain works its way from Rose’s elbow to her shoulder. For a moment she loses focus. Thinks her heart’s giving up on her. Wishes she’d given up the smokes. Feels the back of her hand on the table and realises she’s not dying. Not tonight.

Round three’s the decider.

The pain has faded. A quick rub like it’s no big deal and they’re back at it.

Things aren’t the way they usually are. All Rose can do is defend, her wrist an inch from table’s top.

Only her hand-strength keeps the bout alive, her reputation solid. The rest of her body trembles with the tension and is crying out to submit.

Mo tries again to shift the lock. Digs her nails in to gain an edge.

Rose bites her lip to find a different kind of pain.

She knows she’s beat. There’s no way back. Just a case of going out with pride.

A stream of sweat peels off her nose to meet her eyes, stinging like pokes from a pair of chilli fingers.

Her left hand wipes them clear and snags her wig on return, only she’s too focussed to notice.

As if the Lord descends, she feels Mo’s pressure slacken and knows it’s time to act. Throws every ounce at one last stand.

Feels Mo’s arm push back and give. Hits the back of her hand to the table like she’s in a game of snap.

It’s all over.

Rose stands up and punches air.

Looks out to gather adulation.

Can’t believe there’s none of it around.

Instead it’s the hysterical laughter of playground shame.

Mo’s the same. Pissing her sides and pointing.

The only straight face she sees is George, his mouth down-turned like a falling, crescent moon. He puts the microphone to his face. Rose doesn’t hear it all, like her brain clicks on and off like alternating current. “...disqualified for taking her hand from the table...new heavyweight champion...the Maori Mountain.”

It’s all a blur, like a night out with the boys.

“Come on, Rose,” George says and puts an arm around her neck. “Let’s get you out of here.” He waves to the DJ who cues her up.

Ba da ba da ba da ba.

And even the guitar sounds like it’s laughing.

It’s only when she gets to the dressing room that she sees it, the bob of pink snagged onto her ring and hanging in the air like a distress signal.

Seated in her van, she looks in the rear-view mirror and gazes at her scalp.

Atop her sun-blasted, outback skin the cone of her scalp shines like an egg. All she needs is a tea-spoon and toast soldiers to complete the picture.

Feels another tear roll down.

Lets her fingers play along the hand-held shears she uses for the exhibitions. Waits to take the Maori Mountain’s crown.

“V
eil and evil.” This was the part Brandon enjoyed the most. “Same four letters. Ever noticed?”

The three women tied to the chairs that used to sit round his grandfather’s table offered no response. Just stared.

Ever since Granddad had gone into the home, Brandon had been using the house as a base. Seemed fair enough - he spent his week teaching brats who didn’t want to learn to pay for the old goat to stay there.

‘The Chamber’ he called it. He liked to hear himself say it out loud.

Brandon and his mates loved weekends. A couple of pints at the meeting followed by a trawl round town to do their bit to clean the streets.

Seemed like their lucky night when they saw three of them together.

When they bundled them into the van they made no attempt to struggle. Wasn’t so much fun without having to beat them into submission, but there was still time to get their kicks.

Billy was all for chucking them into the Ribble, leaving their fate to the undertow, but Brandon ordered them to head for the usual place.

Number 36 was in the middle of a red-brick terrace.

Newspapers taped to the windows stopped neighbours taking a nose.

The Chamber was upstairs at the back. Soundproofed and blacked-out, it was perfect.

“See, in Britain, we like to see people’s faces.” Billy had stripped down to his boxers. Sweat dripped from his armpits to his waist as he coiled a studded belt around his hand. He always undressed in front of their prey. Like it was part of a ceremony or something.

Brandon gave Ian a nod.

Ian pulled scissors from the bag, wandered over and cut the hijabs to the knees.

Brandon’s skull tingled at the sight of their skin. He itched to take them there and then. Waiting for their tears, for the begging and the squirms merely heightened the pleasure.

They never came.

“Maybe we’re not getting our point across.” Brandon picked up a blow torch and turned the valve.

Billy reached over and gave it a light. The flame hissed orange and blue.

“I’ll take off the niqabs then our mouths are going to get intimate.” He flicked his tongue up and down. Shook his shoulders with delight. “And Billy’s lips wouldn’t mind a friend tonight, eh?”

Billy licked the studs at his knuckles and smiled.

“Don’t co-operate and you’ll need those masks to hide the scars.”

Brandon stepped over to the first girl, noted the smell of spices. Decided to go for a curry afterwards.

He reached for the veil. Tore it from her face.

“Watch yourself with that bloody razor.” As Yusuf pulled his leg away from Arash he kicked over his mug of tea.

“Dickhead. Mum’ll be furious.” Arash took off his tee-shirt and rubbed the carped clean. “We’re supposed to be slick. Fuck would Naz say?”

“Sorry mate,” Yusuf said, “but you cut me.”

“Can’t take a nick from a razor, how the hell are you going to sort out these fascists?”

Yusuf, Zeeko and Ahmed sat in a line on the sofa watching the North End with the sound down. All three had their legs stretched out covered in shaving foam.

“We’ll take what they give,” Zeeko said. “They won’t be coming for any more of our women after tonight.”

Arash set about his work again, stripped away the leg-hair and sent them off to get showered and dressed.