Let me tell you a joke. The quickest and cruelest of all. It goes like this; everybody dies.
And afterwards?
Well, I don’t know.
Judgement is not the business of the living.
We didn't bring anything into this world; we definitely won't take anything with us. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Praise God.
Those born of women don’t live very long and are not very happy. We grow and are cut down like flowers; we flee like shadows and don’t stay.
In the middle of life we are in death; who can we go to for aid but you, Lord, who are right to be angry that we have done wrong?
Yet, holy Lord, all-powerful God, kind and holy Saviour, don’t give us the bitter pain of eternal death.
You know, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; don’t close your kind ears to our prayers, but spare us, holy Lord, all-powerful God, kind and holy Saviour, good judge forever; don’t let us, in our last hour, turn away from you.
Κύριε ἐλέησον
Χριστὲ ἐλέησον
Κύριε ἐλέησον
As God in his great kindness has been happy to take the souls of our dear dead brothers and sisters, we give their bodies to the ground. Earth turns to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Yet I will show you something strange. We will not sleep, but we will all be changed; in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the last trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised free from sin and decay. For this rotten body must become the body which cannot be harmed. Then this saying will have come true; Death is defeated. Death, where is your sting? Grave, where is your victory? Praise God, who has given us this victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Monday, 22 March 2010
X of Wands
Billy took the C-Train out of Lucky Town and crossed the South China Sea at six hundred miles an hour, while the God-Rocket hissed through the skies and headed up and out for Lady Luna, in geosynchronous orbit over the Mare Tranquillitatis.
Billy didn’t relax until he disembarked, on the first dry land station. He had a large suitcase in one hand, and wore the insignia of the 3rd Lunar Marine Corps on the back of his polycotton bomber jacket.
He flashed his travel-card at a taxi driver and took a ride along the coast to his wife’s house, fifty miles south. The house was made of ecologically-farmed logs, and looked like it grew out of the forest, projecting over the beach.
Billy climbed out of the car, nodded at the driver and walked up the dirt path to the front door, let himself in and whizzed up a bowl of instant noodle soup. He checked the fuel level in the car, packed clothes for himself and his wife into the boot, and waited for her to come home.
Billy didn’t relax until he disembarked, on the first dry land station. He had a large suitcase in one hand, and wore the insignia of the 3rd Lunar Marine Corps on the back of his polycotton bomber jacket.
He flashed his travel-card at a taxi driver and took a ride along the coast to his wife’s house, fifty miles south. The house was made of ecologically-farmed logs, and looked like it grew out of the forest, projecting over the beach.
Billy climbed out of the car, nodded at the driver and walked up the dirt path to the front door, let himself in and whizzed up a bowl of instant noodle soup. He checked the fuel level in the car, packed clothes for himself and his wife into the boot, and waited for her to come home.
I – The Magician
I called her up the night before and got the answer phone. She was probably out, dancing. I said; “All that I have is all that I am, and that would be yours, if it wasn't sacrificed to the cause.” It was better that way because things got confused when I spoke to her.
We didn’t sleep we checked our weapons and went over the plans. Then it was morning and Giacomo gave us the last little words before we strapped up and went out into the world. Down Hope Avenue to the great gates with the pictures of the moon and the God-Rocket. Then the gates exploded and we ran through and the guards who were on our side started shooting the other ones. It was strange to go down the corridors I had seen so many times in photos and videos and architects’ plans.
Everything went to plan until we made it down the last set of staircases and went through the door into the room. Giacomo said it was a large stone room but when I arrived the walls were made of flowers and there was very little space. And I was the only one left.
The man we had come to kill was facing me across a table. He was wearing a red coat and he kept his right hand behind his back. “Hello, Jamie,” he said. “You’ve got me cornered now.”
“Where is everyone? What have you done?” I asked.
“Jamie, I haven’t done anything. What have you done? I was only trying to help.”
“Oppressor,” I spat.
“Well, it’s a shame we can’t get along. I’ll have to send you away again, Jamie. Bad luck.” Then his right hand came out and there was a brilliant light.
This is all I can remember.
We didn’t sleep we checked our weapons and went over the plans. Then it was morning and Giacomo gave us the last little words before we strapped up and went out into the world. Down Hope Avenue to the great gates with the pictures of the moon and the God-Rocket. Then the gates exploded and we ran through and the guards who were on our side started shooting the other ones. It was strange to go down the corridors I had seen so many times in photos and videos and architects’ plans.
Everything went to plan until we made it down the last set of staircases and went through the door into the room. Giacomo said it was a large stone room but when I arrived the walls were made of flowers and there was very little space. And I was the only one left.
The man we had come to kill was facing me across a table. He was wearing a red coat and he kept his right hand behind his back. “Hello, Jamie,” he said. “You’ve got me cornered now.”
“Where is everyone? What have you done?” I asked.
“Jamie, I haven’t done anything. What have you done? I was only trying to help.”
“Oppressor,” I spat.
“Well, it’s a shame we can’t get along. I’ll have to send you away again, Jamie. Bad luck.” Then his right hand came out and there was a brilliant light.
This is all I can remember.
X of Cups
They closed down the factories, and cleared us off the piers; my wife and I stood arm-in-arm, both of us in tears. The soldiers took the terraces, and put curfew in place; they gave the traitors walkie-talkies and armbands.
We gathered in the Dog and Diogenes to discuss revolution. Then suddenly there were jobs. You could earn thousands a week as a guinea-pig for the Projects, or test new equipment for the Lady, and later, for the Moon itself. It might be dangerous, but there was money, and purpose, and we were all together for once.
Nobody wanted revolt then. It was a new dawn, a new age.
God, what a thing it was, to be alive after catastrophe and war, and see men living in the skies, aiming their carbon-fibre Babel at the stars.
We gathered in the Dog and Diogenes to discuss revolution. Then suddenly there were jobs. You could earn thousands a week as a guinea-pig for the Projects, or test new equipment for the Lady, and later, for the Moon itself. It might be dangerous, but there was money, and purpose, and we were all together for once.
Nobody wanted revolt then. It was a new dawn, a new age.
God, what a thing it was, to be alive after catastrophe and war, and see men living in the skies, aiming their carbon-fibre Babel at the stars.
III of Wands
To C. Hope this finds you in good health. I have been sentenced to die by the Commissioner, for my work in freeing the prisoners. You may have read this in the Guardian. I am no longer a fugitive – they found me a place to stand and watch the ships come in, where Her agents can’t touch me. That’s right, I’m somewhere in the South China Sea, but I can’t say exactly where.
Oh and thank you for the evenings. Tell your grandmother I enjoyed playing mancala. I hope you keep your job with the Ministry. I never wanted to hurt you, but some things must come above the love by a man for a woman. And good luck, my dearest. Good luck.
If it helps you then forget about me. I have done enough. And anyway, my lungs are shot. I know I should have given up the cigarettes but there it is. At least I can die without worrying for my family anymore – you heard what happened to them, I’m sure.
Oh and thank you for the evenings. Tell your grandmother I enjoyed playing mancala. I hope you keep your job with the Ministry. I never wanted to hurt you, but some things must come above the love by a man for a woman. And good luck, my dearest. Good luck.
If it helps you then forget about me. I have done enough. And anyway, my lungs are shot. I know I should have given up the cigarettes but there it is. At least I can die without worrying for my family anymore – you heard what happened to them, I’m sure.
X – Wheel of Fortune
They treated them like animals. That was the idea. After a buzzword-stuffed proposal to the Commissioner, the call went out and thousands prostrated themselves for the chance to be humiliated. Eight were unlucky.
The ‘set’ was a guinea pig hutch, sized to accommodate its human inhabitants. There was a series of plastic tunnels, large enough to walk through, a communal water-bowl, and a trough filled with a tasteless nutrient-rich mix, the only food the inhabitants were served. They slept curled up in straw and newspaper.
Every few days, the hatch to the outside world was be opened, and masked men in black would enter and take the inhabitants forcibly to a small cage, while the straw and newspapers were removed, and fresh bedding supplied. Then they were taken back to the hutch and locked in.
They were clothed in cotton smocks; each inhabitant was given one smock at the star of the ‘experiment’, and wore this throughout the four month period.
The inhabitants were injected with a sterilizing agent in order to encourage the participants to, in the words of the sub-commissioner, ‘rut like rabbits’. They were also given names chosen by the public; any inhabitant who addressed another by their ‘outside’ name would be punished.
'Guinea Pigs.'
It was touted as the greatest social experiment since the Holocaust.
The ‘set’ was a guinea pig hutch, sized to accommodate its human inhabitants. There was a series of plastic tunnels, large enough to walk through, a communal water-bowl, and a trough filled with a tasteless nutrient-rich mix, the only food the inhabitants were served. They slept curled up in straw and newspaper.
Every few days, the hatch to the outside world was be opened, and masked men in black would enter and take the inhabitants forcibly to a small cage, while the straw and newspapers were removed, and fresh bedding supplied. Then they were taken back to the hutch and locked in.
They were clothed in cotton smocks; each inhabitant was given one smock at the star of the ‘experiment’, and wore this throughout the four month period.
The inhabitants were injected with a sterilizing agent in order to encourage the participants to, in the words of the sub-commissioner, ‘rut like rabbits’. They were also given names chosen by the public; any inhabitant who addressed another by their ‘outside’ name would be punished.
'Guinea Pigs.'
It was touted as the greatest social experiment since the Holocaust.
VII of Cups
Back in Canaan again. Haunted by visions day and night, Ralph saddles up his old motorbike and rides through the desert like a turbocharged Moses. He sings 'Hallelujah' and then all those theme-park three-chord staples, and fancies himself a poet until the visions come again. Falling tower, hordes of bats and bloodstained fakirs with horns in their hands. A host of bright blue bees descends and he shrieks.
The Holy Land is so quiet at night he feels like the last man on earth. He looks up at the moon and wishes he could light a cigarette or drink a fifth of firewater. Vicki texts him and asks when he’ll be back. Then he remembers she’s joined the great army of liberty and it’s another vision and he weeps.
He finds it hard to go on like this.
Ralph is not a traitor but he’s going to send all the soldiers in Canaan to dusty death.
The Holy Land is so quiet at night he feels like the last man on earth. He looks up at the moon and wishes he could light a cigarette or drink a fifth of firewater. Vicki texts him and asks when he’ll be back. Then he remembers she’s joined the great army of liberty and it’s another vision and he weeps.
He finds it hard to go on like this.
Ralph is not a traitor but he’s going to send all the soldiers in Canaan to dusty death.
V of Cups
That odd-looking kid with the NOFX t-shirt who loaded the groceries in your corner store, and the hooded Norwegian gunner, they must have told you something. And the mass jailbreak, did that give you a clue? All those long-stay convicts, docile for twenty years, leaving in ones and twos over a week in June. The people of the boundaries and the outer limits. Soldiers, police, renegades and reprobates.
Buskers flocked to street corners; jugglers, trombonists, preachers, poets and men with dancing monkeys in hand-embroidered waistcoats. The paving stones were frying-pan hot in the early afternoon, and at night it was warm enough to sit outside in a t-shirt, drinking iced vodka-and-coke.
Friday. About six in the evening. Sitting in a corner café, ogling a couple of girls too young to flirt with, when the sky turned black. There was a flash of light in the east, and the sun was gone.
“Terrorists!” he said.
But they weren’t terrorists; they weren’t even murderers, though it was hard to tell the difference in the dark. By the Sunday, 5th Avenue was in flames, and a thousand
drug dealers hung crucified on lamp-posts.
Buskers flocked to street corners; jugglers, trombonists, preachers, poets and men with dancing monkeys in hand-embroidered waistcoats. The paving stones were frying-pan hot in the early afternoon, and at night it was warm enough to sit outside in a t-shirt, drinking iced vodka-and-coke.
Friday. About six in the evening. Sitting in a corner café, ogling a couple of girls too young to flirt with, when the sky turned black. There was a flash of light in the east, and the sun was gone.
“Terrorists!” he said.
But they weren’t terrorists; they weren’t even murderers, though it was hard to tell the difference in the dark. By the Sunday, 5th Avenue was in flames, and a thousand
drug dealers hung crucified on lamp-posts.
IX – The Hermit
Nobody likes sex. The current contrary misconception stems from a great deal of pornographic films where the women and the men are invariably ‘up for it’, and the woman cannot wait to partake in fellatio, anilingus, digital penetration or the like. I myself, however, prefer the more realistic style, which is harder to find, as the majority of the populace seem determined both to perpetuate and partake in the continued fiction that people do, in fact, like sex.
This more realistic style of pornography is far superior; it shows neither party delighting in sexual intercourse. Typically, the female is least happy about the prospect, and the male is the aggressor, no doubt deluded by the culture of sexual amity promulgated by lying pornographers. As the female struggles, the male’s anger and violence tend to increase, as he is no doubt infuriated sex is not the delightful consensual experience the media have convinced him it will be.
(The violence should, of course, be directed towards society as a whole rather than towards the woman, but given that anti-social aggression on a large scale, perpetrated by a lone and morally sound individual against the depraved and deceived populace, tends to result in conviction, whereas rape often does not, we social guerrillas must confine our activities to the latter).
My own personal experiences of sexual intercourse have been exclusively of the kind described above. My first sexual experience was at the age of twenty-one, when, mind hopelessly addled by societal brainwashing, I decided that a woman wearing provocative attire would be amenable to the prospect of oral sex without further delay, in the back of my newly-acquired white van. She resisted strongly, and having had slight experience of realistic pornography, I decided to take charge of the situation. Sadly, I was unable to achieve congress with her until I rendered her unconscious, by which time I had already ejaculated with the immense feeling of power I gained – a far more fulfilling sensation than the rather paltry orgasm I managed when I penetrated her naked, comatose body.
This more realistic style of pornography is far superior; it shows neither party delighting in sexual intercourse. Typically, the female is least happy about the prospect, and the male is the aggressor, no doubt deluded by the culture of sexual amity promulgated by lying pornographers. As the female struggles, the male’s anger and violence tend to increase, as he is no doubt infuriated sex is not the delightful consensual experience the media have convinced him it will be.
(The violence should, of course, be directed towards society as a whole rather than towards the woman, but given that anti-social aggression on a large scale, perpetrated by a lone and morally sound individual against the depraved and deceived populace, tends to result in conviction, whereas rape often does not, we social guerrillas must confine our activities to the latter).
My own personal experiences of sexual intercourse have been exclusively of the kind described above. My first sexual experience was at the age of twenty-one, when, mind hopelessly addled by societal brainwashing, I decided that a woman wearing provocative attire would be amenable to the prospect of oral sex without further delay, in the back of my newly-acquired white van. She resisted strongly, and having had slight experience of realistic pornography, I decided to take charge of the situation. Sadly, I was unable to achieve congress with her until I rendered her unconscious, by which time I had already ejaculated with the immense feeling of power I gained – a far more fulfilling sensation than the rather paltry orgasm I managed when I penetrated her naked, comatose body.
VIII of Pentacles
And there, on the edge of the city, between the woods and the terraced houses: the gypsy camp, draped in mist and dying sunlight.
Dave sat on a fallen tree near the riverbank, guitar on his knee, playing while Marisa sang. Some of the others gathered around, to ogle Marisa, listen to the music or just avoid the washing-up. Marisa liked singing songs by Shakira. Dave didn’t mind; he could play anything he wanted on the guitar when he was alone in his caravan. He shared with a couple of girls who were on the game, and they were often out at work.
It was long after dark when his caravan-mates came back; Dave slung the guitar over his back, like a soldier with his rifle, and greeted them with a smile and cheap vodka.
“Les étoiles meurent,” Kacey said (her full name was Kazandra). “Regarde le ciel; les étoiles meurent.”
“What?” Dave said. “You can’t see the stars from here, there’s too much city.” But he wondered; could he not see the stars because of the city, or because they really were dying?
Dave sat on a fallen tree near the riverbank, guitar on his knee, playing while Marisa sang. Some of the others gathered around, to ogle Marisa, listen to the music or just avoid the washing-up. Marisa liked singing songs by Shakira. Dave didn’t mind; he could play anything he wanted on the guitar when he was alone in his caravan. He shared with a couple of girls who were on the game, and they were often out at work.
It was long after dark when his caravan-mates came back; Dave slung the guitar over his back, like a soldier with his rifle, and greeted them with a smile and cheap vodka.
“Les étoiles meurent,” Kacey said (her full name was Kazandra). “Regarde le ciel; les étoiles meurent.”
“What?” Dave said. “You can’t see the stars from here, there’s too much city.” But he wondered; could he not see the stars because of the city, or because they really were dying?
VII of Wands
Let’s split you bastards. Let’s really hit the fucking road and rocket out of this dead dog city, this whole dead dog fucking cultural paradigm. Let’s wake up ten miles from the nearest wifi point, no a hundred (or would we have to be in the sea?) and ride the tides of fate. In the day we can hide out from society, and at night get really pissed and blissed and skate across rainbows like living gods (all the old ones are dead).
We can live in a hut made of banana-skins and wood, we can cut the air open with razorblade flints and drink the juice of the sky. What can’t we do, sir, madam, what would you have us cease and desist? How would you shut us down if we ripped the button from the console, if we unplugged ourselves and hopped around juiced on pure fucking reality? Touch that, you bastards, touch that and tell us how to sing then.
Oh it’ll never happen. We’re trapped. Our prison is inside, somewhere between the eyes and the mullet lies the death of freedom. Shit yes brother, shoot my skull open and let me out.
We can live in a hut made of banana-skins and wood, we can cut the air open with razorblade flints and drink the juice of the sky. What can’t we do, sir, madam, what would you have us cease and desist? How would you shut us down if we ripped the button from the console, if we unplugged ourselves and hopped around juiced on pure fucking reality? Touch that, you bastards, touch that and tell us how to sing then.
Oh it’ll never happen. We’re trapped. Our prison is inside, somewhere between the eyes and the mullet lies the death of freedom. Shit yes brother, shoot my skull open and let me out.
Ace of Pentacles
“Whatcha gonna do with all that ass inside them jeans?” is rarely a good chat-up line, but it worked for Harry.
“I’m gonna get you love-drunk, on my hump,” was the response.
A little background first; Harry had been besotted with Tina for weeks. She was cool, intellectual, handsome if not pretty and mixed with the ‘in’ set; more than that, she was perennially single, although not altogether celibate.
It would take a bold man to woo a woman like that, Harry had said to himself on more than one occasion, and one armed with all the weapons of love. He rehearsed little bon mots and acid cultural observations to sway her, but never found a chance to use them. After a while, he resigned himself to chasing some other, more attainable woman, and he succeeded with a perfectly nice girl called Perry.
Perry didn’t last; no more than a couple of months. One night, middling drunk, Harry ended up in a bar, and spoke to the girl next to him; “Whatcha gonna do…” etc. It was Tina; they went home and had eight months together after that.
“I’m gonna get you love-drunk, on my hump,” was the response.
A little background first; Harry had been besotted with Tina for weeks. She was cool, intellectual, handsome if not pretty and mixed with the ‘in’ set; more than that, she was perennially single, although not altogether celibate.
It would take a bold man to woo a woman like that, Harry had said to himself on more than one occasion, and one armed with all the weapons of love. He rehearsed little bon mots and acid cultural observations to sway her, but never found a chance to use them. After a while, he resigned himself to chasing some other, more attainable woman, and he succeeded with a perfectly nice girl called Perry.
Perry didn’t last; no more than a couple of months. One night, middling drunk, Harry ended up in a bar, and spoke to the girl next to him; “Whatcha gonna do…” etc. It was Tina; they went home and had eight months together after that.
Queen of Cups
The dog was ten feet high. She didn’t notice it until she started washing up the breakfast things, and saw it stock-still in her garden. It looked like a Great Dane, grey with black blotches, unblinking, didn’t even look like it was breathing. She called the local police station, told them there was a giant dog in her garden, didn’t mention just how huge it was but told them it was big and she was scared.
Until then, she locked the doors, shut the windows, headed upstairs and watched through the bedroom window, coffee cold in her hand. She nibbled at an Oreo and the cops came ten minutes later. That was when the dog turned and ran, barking like gunshots.
She didn’t know then how lonely you could be. The phone rang and the office said there’d been an accident; she dropped the coffee and ran out to her car, drove all the way to the city hospital and they said he’d gone, sorry, he’s gone, and then all the forms and finances and so on.
That night she dreamt of being fucked by a giant dog. It was ejaculating in her tousled
hair when the towers fell.
Until then, she locked the doors, shut the windows, headed upstairs and watched through the bedroom window, coffee cold in her hand. She nibbled at an Oreo and the cops came ten minutes later. That was when the dog turned and ran, barking like gunshots.
She didn’t know then how lonely you could be. The phone rang and the office said there’d been an accident; she dropped the coffee and ran out to her car, drove all the way to the city hospital and they said he’d gone, sorry, he’s gone, and then all the forms and finances and so on.
That night she dreamt of being fucked by a giant dog. It was ejaculating in her tousled
hair when the towers fell.
X of Swords
A life in photographs. Here is the infant Sanjeev in sub-fusc; smiling with uncertain eyes, against the college walls. And then, here he is, blurred and serious, pushing through a crowd. This other one, just here, this is his first love and look how she smiles.
A corner away lies sorrow.
Here he is again, black-tied and bright-eyed, entering his final year while the world battens down its hatches. Here is a grin in a cafe, a scowl across a quad, a guffaw from the chair in his room; sharply attired, he descends into the City to join the serried pinstripes.
Five years pass. God falls. The bloodied shores call with bugle and fife. Here is the infant Sanjeev in combat fatigues, and the waves wash his corpse.
A corner away lies sorrow.
Here he is again, black-tied and bright-eyed, entering his final year while the world battens down its hatches. Here is a grin in a cafe, a scowl across a quad, a guffaw from the chair in his room; sharply attired, he descends into the City to join the serried pinstripes.
Five years pass. God falls. The bloodied shores call with bugle and fife. Here is the infant Sanjeev in combat fatigues, and the waves wash his corpse.
IX of Swords
They called him the last escapee, but he was just another god in leather and black, running from the shadows and the song.
I was living in a garret in Battersea; it was a spring morning, and the light was like opals and pearls in the air.
I checked the news on the BBC website when I switched my computer on, and there was the story. It was worse than the day Diana died, they all said afterwards, half the golden girls and boys hauled out in black bags.
Alex never meant to make it out alive; all he wanted was another place, somewhere brighter and full of air. He picked a bad day to run. They hounded him, the men with guns and the freelance Fourth Estate. All he wanted was, well, never mind. They shot him down whatever the dream.
I was living in a garret in Battersea; it was a spring morning, and the light was like opals and pearls in the air.
I checked the news on the BBC website when I switched my computer on, and there was the story. It was worse than the day Diana died, they all said afterwards, half the golden girls and boys hauled out in black bags.
Alex never meant to make it out alive; all he wanted was another place, somewhere brighter and full of air. He picked a bad day to run. They hounded him, the men with guns and the freelance Fourth Estate. All he wanted was, well, never mind. They shot him down whatever the dream.
Knight of Cups
It’s not enough to save the world when they skies are turning black; you have to take the world apart and put the good things back.
After the city fell, I left the country and found another, with brighter beaches and shorter skirts on all the girls. In a bar I met a man named Gunther, who had worked in the financial services sector and later as a property developer. He had committed suicide long ago, and if you could convince him, he would let you poke your finger through the bloody hole in his skull.
Later I drank until I fell down and walked home across the sands.
After the city fell, I left the country and found another, with brighter beaches and shorter skirts on all the girls. In a bar I met a man named Gunther, who had worked in the financial services sector and later as a property developer. He had committed suicide long ago, and if you could convince him, he would let you poke your finger through the bloody hole in his skull.
Later I drank until I fell down and walked home across the sands.
Ace of Cups
He didn’t die in slow motion. They were no choirs to sing him down. He didn’t gasp or stare. He was there until he wasn’t.
The blood stayed on the sheets.
Be of good cheer. I expect, right until the pistol bucked in the other man’s fist, he thought he would live forever. Maybe even afterwards.
The blood stayed on the sheets.
Be of good cheer. I expect, right until the pistol bucked in the other man’s fist, he thought he would live forever. Maybe even afterwards.
XI – Justice
“Wibble-wobble, wibble-wobble, jelly on a plate!” he screamed as he murdered the murderer. He twisted the knife and bellowed and babbled at the just-corpse up on the meat-hook. Later we dined in the Gourmet Burger Kitchen on the Clapham High Street; I had a cheeseburger and he had the buffalo burger, and we both drank Budvar.
“Why did you say that?” I asked as we walked to the Tube station.
“Why did I say what?” he asked and took a packet of Marlboro Lights out of his pocket, offered me one, and we both lit up and smoked.
“That thing about jelly. Back in the meat-locker.”
“Oh that. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, seriously. I have to put that on the assessment.”
“Okay. But do you mind if I tell you in a less public place?”
“Sure. That’s no problem.” Then we took the Tube to Dulwich and walked back to Dave Jackson’s house and sat down on the sofas in the front room and opened a bottle of Grolsch each.
“So, this jelly business,” I said.
“Yeah. Well, when I was thirty, I had a beautiful wife called Sophie. She was the love of my life. We lived together in a flat in Cardiff, and one day, while I was playing poker with my friends, I got a call from Sophie, telling me to come back to the flat. She sounded terrified, absolutely terrified, so I made my excuses and got back as quickly as I could.
“They put a gun to my head as soon as I opened the door. There were four of them, Beaumont, Maricourt, St-Just and Alphonse de Fontaine. Beaumont was the one who had the gun and Maricourt tied me up. St-Just was just laughing and Sophie was tied up in her underwear on the sofa.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Alphonse had his hands on her breasts, and he was… he was fondling, jiggling them, and singing that jelly on a plate song.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Then they took turns to rape her and cut her throat afterwards and left me tied to the chair until the police came.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I can still hear her screaming through the gag,” he said. “I can still hear that bastard singing.”
“But he’s dead now,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“Why did you say that?” I asked as we walked to the Tube station.
“Why did I say what?” he asked and took a packet of Marlboro Lights out of his pocket, offered me one, and we both lit up and smoked.
“That thing about jelly. Back in the meat-locker.”
“Oh that. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, seriously. I have to put that on the assessment.”
“Okay. But do you mind if I tell you in a less public place?”
“Sure. That’s no problem.” Then we took the Tube to Dulwich and walked back to Dave Jackson’s house and sat down on the sofas in the front room and opened a bottle of Grolsch each.
“So, this jelly business,” I said.
“Yeah. Well, when I was thirty, I had a beautiful wife called Sophie. She was the love of my life. We lived together in a flat in Cardiff, and one day, while I was playing poker with my friends, I got a call from Sophie, telling me to come back to the flat. She sounded terrified, absolutely terrified, so I made my excuses and got back as quickly as I could.
“They put a gun to my head as soon as I opened the door. There were four of them, Beaumont, Maricourt, St-Just and Alphonse de Fontaine. Beaumont was the one who had the gun and Maricourt tied me up. St-Just was just laughing and Sophie was tied up in her underwear on the sofa.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Alphonse had his hands on her breasts, and he was… he was fondling, jiggling them, and singing that jelly on a plate song.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Then they took turns to rape her and cut her throat afterwards and left me tied to the chair until the police came.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I can still hear her screaming through the gag,” he said. “I can still hear that bastard singing.”
“But he’s dead now,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
XVI – The Tower
This is where they burn the corpses. The redbrick chimney hits the sky like Satan’s gore-caked phallus, jizzing smoke into a weeping sky.
Who is burning?
Rachel Danver was, for a time, reckoned the most beautiful woman in Europe; Jack Danver was an accomplished violinist who played with several international orchestras; John Danver was a successful businessman and property developer who featured regularly in Rich Lists.
Flames flickered over the capitals of the West; horses died and children moved through the echelons of crime from theft and thuggery to rape and murder. Rachel Danver’s coke habit ramped up; every socialite worth their Bolivian Marching Powder stuffed cotton up their nose to stem the constant bleeding, and outside their walled districts blood lapped against the kerbstones.
The bells clanged in the steeples, the sirens howled like demented dogs; the Swiss Guards opened fire every day on an army of vagrants and the dispossessed. Jack Danver, barricaded in the Teatro dell’Opera, decided to escape. He found some old work clothes backstage, pulled them on and fled through the sewers. What happened to him next was not pleasant, and involved a great number of rats.
John Danver had lost all his money thanks to vast gambling debts, a ruinous prostitution habit and the crash in the Argentinean copper market. He fled his home, shacked up with a fortune-teller in a squat in Pompano Beach, and by the time the fires started he had led gangs, shot rivals and made his way to the head of the feral Miami communities.
Rachel was killed when her apartment in Paris burned as she lay overdosed on cocaine; John was captured by a rogue military unit and tortured to death. What do these three have in common, besides their parentage? They begged, pleaded, sobbed and wept for death before the end. And their bodies were burned.
The Vatican fell, in the end; Paris burned and Miami slunk into anarchy.
If the cherubim and seraphim kept a tally of prayers, they would have noticed that everybody seemed to be praying for one thing.
Not deliverance; not quite.
Who is burning?
Rachel Danver was, for a time, reckoned the most beautiful woman in Europe; Jack Danver was an accomplished violinist who played with several international orchestras; John Danver was a successful businessman and property developer who featured regularly in Rich Lists.
Flames flickered over the capitals of the West; horses died and children moved through the echelons of crime from theft and thuggery to rape and murder. Rachel Danver’s coke habit ramped up; every socialite worth their Bolivian Marching Powder stuffed cotton up their nose to stem the constant bleeding, and outside their walled districts blood lapped against the kerbstones.
The bells clanged in the steeples, the sirens howled like demented dogs; the Swiss Guards opened fire every day on an army of vagrants and the dispossessed. Jack Danver, barricaded in the Teatro dell’Opera, decided to escape. He found some old work clothes backstage, pulled them on and fled through the sewers. What happened to him next was not pleasant, and involved a great number of rats.
John Danver had lost all his money thanks to vast gambling debts, a ruinous prostitution habit and the crash in the Argentinean copper market. He fled his home, shacked up with a fortune-teller in a squat in Pompano Beach, and by the time the fires started he had led gangs, shot rivals and made his way to the head of the feral Miami communities.
Rachel was killed when her apartment in Paris burned as she lay overdosed on cocaine; John was captured by a rogue military unit and tortured to death. What do these three have in common, besides their parentage? They begged, pleaded, sobbed and wept for death before the end. And their bodies were burned.
The Vatican fell, in the end; Paris burned and Miami slunk into anarchy.
If the cherubim and seraphim kept a tally of prayers, they would have noticed that everybody seemed to be praying for one thing.
Not deliverance; not quite.
IV – The Emperor
‘James IV, Emperor of the Mountains, hated the moon. He spat at the heavens every time he left his yurt. Each morning he walked the seventy-eight steps to the stone throne like the three Jameses before him and hunkered down and issued decrees and pardons.
Surrounded by bearded goats, bearded yaks and bearded mendicants, and courtiers with chin-bristles down to their nipples, he was the last remnant of a dead civilisation, a grotty reminder of hate and discord. Now a glorious noocracy drove men and women up into the stars, away from the warstained scabs of the past.’
I wrote all that down and looked across the bed at Dom. My head ached with dreams. He’d sleep all night, and drive all day, engine throbbing beneath us as we scored a path down the Atlantic coast. At the violet hour we’d stop, have shellfish and wine in the nearest village and sleep wherever there was a room.
Tonight, the attic room of a cheap auberge. I could hear the sea when I put my pen down, and for a while that shut out the bleating of James IV and his goats. I thought about trying to sleep, but it was already half five, and Dom liked early starts. I went downstairs in my nightgown and out into the little cobbled square. There was a war memorial in the centre and I read the names.
It was quite cold in the evening, though it was already May. A breeze off the Atlantic lifted the corners of my nightgown. I shivered and watched the sea for a while, and read the names of the boats.
‘James IV was old. He dragged arthritic fingers through his greying beard, and clutched the painted sceptre, hammered out of rusty scrap iron. Behind him, the snowless crags stared down on his stony throne.’
“What are you doing?” Dom asked.
I turned round and saw him, in jeans and t-shirt. “I had an awkward dream,” I said.
“Come here,” he said, and took me in his arms.
“I can’t stand the goats anymore,” I said to Dom.
“It’s okay,” he said, and stroked my head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about goats anymore. We’re okay now, sweetheart. We’re okay.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.
Surrounded by bearded goats, bearded yaks and bearded mendicants, and courtiers with chin-bristles down to their nipples, he was the last remnant of a dead civilisation, a grotty reminder of hate and discord. Now a glorious noocracy drove men and women up into the stars, away from the warstained scabs of the past.’
I wrote all that down and looked across the bed at Dom. My head ached with dreams. He’d sleep all night, and drive all day, engine throbbing beneath us as we scored a path down the Atlantic coast. At the violet hour we’d stop, have shellfish and wine in the nearest village and sleep wherever there was a room.
Tonight, the attic room of a cheap auberge. I could hear the sea when I put my pen down, and for a while that shut out the bleating of James IV and his goats. I thought about trying to sleep, but it was already half five, and Dom liked early starts. I went downstairs in my nightgown and out into the little cobbled square. There was a war memorial in the centre and I read the names.
It was quite cold in the evening, though it was already May. A breeze off the Atlantic lifted the corners of my nightgown. I shivered and watched the sea for a while, and read the names of the boats.
‘James IV was old. He dragged arthritic fingers through his greying beard, and clutched the painted sceptre, hammered out of rusty scrap iron. Behind him, the snowless crags stared down on his stony throne.’
“What are you doing?” Dom asked.
I turned round and saw him, in jeans and t-shirt. “I had an awkward dream,” I said.
“Come here,” he said, and took me in his arms.
“I can’t stand the goats anymore,” I said to Dom.
“It’s okay,” he said, and stroked my head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about goats anymore. We’re okay now, sweetheart. We’re okay.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.
III of Cups
Hit the boombox and hit the fucking streets, he told me. There was a car waiting outside, and I crawled into the back with Marie, while he sprayed our flat with gasoline and set it alight. We left the cul-de-sac at high speed, and he asked why we hadn’t hit the fucking boombox. Then he turned on his music.
So there we were, foully hungover, with a dead man in our burning apartment, pelting down the Boulevard Ste-Germain at eleven in the morning, with Abba on the stereo and the volume turned up to eleven. It had been a good party, a lovely flat and a pleasant life in the city. Now back to the wilderness.
“How’s John these days?” I asked as we crossed the river.
“John went down with the Leviathan,” he said.
“Fuck. He owed me booze,” I said.
Jasmine had fallen asleep. She used to drop off listening to Abba when she was younger, she said later.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Let’s go south. To Bilbao,” he said. “They’ll never catch us.” Not every party ended in us fleeing the country. Only about one in ten.
So there we were, foully hungover, with a dead man in our burning apartment, pelting down the Boulevard Ste-Germain at eleven in the morning, with Abba on the stereo and the volume turned up to eleven. It had been a good party, a lovely flat and a pleasant life in the city. Now back to the wilderness.
“How’s John these days?” I asked as we crossed the river.
“John went down with the Leviathan,” he said.
“Fuck. He owed me booze,” I said.
Jasmine had fallen asleep. She used to drop off listening to Abba when she was younger, she said later.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Let’s go south. To Bilbao,” he said. “They’ll never catch us.” Not every party ended in us fleeing the country. Only about one in ten.
King of Swords
There are days when I think everyone is happier than me; and there are days when I feel happier than I had thought possible.
For ten years I lay in chains, and then the sunlight came.
Six years passed, and I found myself tied to the rest of them. There was no sunlight, only a different set of shadows. I took the train to the banlieues on my afternoons off, and walked in the open spaces where the sunlight fell. When it rained, I sat in cafés and smoked, popping sugar cubes into my coffee-cups until they were nothing but syrup.
When I met Gracie, I described my life as a poetic experiment; I don’t think she knew how to react. I never saw her again. She was beautiful; or at least, had big tits.
After a brief period of fearless, searching moral inventory, I moved on to the more expensive vintages, and worked through them to the heights of d’Yquem. This was about the time I started taking the 601AB to Clichy-sous-Bois, and I dreamed of the way out of the caves every night.
For ten years I lay in chains, and then the sunlight came.
Six years passed, and I found myself tied to the rest of them. There was no sunlight, only a different set of shadows. I took the train to the banlieues on my afternoons off, and walked in the open spaces where the sunlight fell. When it rained, I sat in cafés and smoked, popping sugar cubes into my coffee-cups until they were nothing but syrup.
When I met Gracie, I described my life as a poetic experiment; I don’t think she knew how to react. I never saw her again. She was beautiful; or at least, had big tits.
After a brief period of fearless, searching moral inventory, I moved on to the more expensive vintages, and worked through them to the heights of d’Yquem. This was about the time I started taking the 601AB to Clichy-sous-Bois, and I dreamed of the way out of the caves every night.
IV of Pentacles
God never saved anyone. He was a liar and a fraud and only in it for the money. My brother died a rotting death; his skin turned green and yellow and black in the end. God never helped him. Jesus didn’t float down and bless him with release. He lay for five days, a lifetime of pain thrust into every screaming second.
If I could have killed him then, I would. He wasn’t human when they found him, just living waste.
He’d been cynical about the war, about soldiering, about bloody everything, the last time I met him, before they sent him downriver. But there was nothing else he could think of doing, he said, given the situation.
And what was the situation in the end?
If I could have killed him then, I would. He wasn’t human when they found him, just living waste.
He’d been cynical about the war, about soldiering, about bloody everything, the last time I met him, before they sent him downriver. But there was nothing else he could think of doing, he said, given the situation.
And what was the situation in the end?
Page of Wands
I can fall in love as many as six or seven times a day. But, you see, there are so many beautiful women in the world, that to love someone who isn’t perfect seems such a waste.
I walk down every street I see every day I can, and every day in every way I’m growing more unpleasant. I must be. I look into the eyes of a hundred women and see nothing.
I wonder if Jesus had this problem.
My memories stick to one another; I remember in gobs and lumpy strings, things which were years apart.
South in winter, the mountains are grey and snowless. There I can play God with the rabbits, and watch the spiders leap through the grass. The saints are inside, tucked up safely in their golden cells. Sometimes Sara calls, and tells me the children are running out of shoes.
My God, but I was beautiful once. I had everything. I could walk down any street and there would be somewhere to stop, some warm smile to crawl inside.
Show me the way to go home.
I walk down every street I see every day I can, and every day in every way I’m growing more unpleasant. I must be. I look into the eyes of a hundred women and see nothing.
I wonder if Jesus had this problem.
My memories stick to one another; I remember in gobs and lumpy strings, things which were years apart.
South in winter, the mountains are grey and snowless. There I can play God with the rabbits, and watch the spiders leap through the grass. The saints are inside, tucked up safely in their golden cells. Sometimes Sara calls, and tells me the children are running out of shoes.
My God, but I was beautiful once. I had everything. I could walk down any street and there would be somewhere to stop, some warm smile to crawl inside.
Show me the way to go home.
VI of Pentacles
The snow was white and the sky was bright. He looked down the slope and pushed off.
For five days he had been skiing; his wife had taken the day off, exhausted from the cheese-and-wine party the night before, and he had left with the dawn to criss-cross the snows. He’d left a note on her bedside table.
At lunchtime he called her to check in, sat outside in a café, drinking strong black coffee and eating a large ham and cheese baguette.
Two days later they took the flight back and watched France fall beneath them.
He woke early the next morning, even though it was Sunday; he sat watching the news in the cloud-greyed light. Three thousand miles away men were dying in the sand and he was drinking orange juice in his M&S pyjamas.
For five days he had been skiing; his wife had taken the day off, exhausted from the cheese-and-wine party the night before, and he had left with the dawn to criss-cross the snows. He’d left a note on her bedside table.
At lunchtime he called her to check in, sat outside in a café, drinking strong black coffee and eating a large ham and cheese baguette.
Two days later they took the flight back and watched France fall beneath them.
He woke early the next morning, even though it was Sunday; he sat watching the news in the cloud-greyed light. Three thousand miles away men were dying in the sand and he was drinking orange juice in his M&S pyjamas.
V of Swords
There are no last-minute reprieves. No ringing telephone has ever undone the straps on the chair. So – this is the choice. You can die or you can walk out with fire in your belly.
In the cold and clear and bright sunshine he took the back alleys through the riverfront terraces to the centre of the city. That took an hour. It was the happiest hour of his life.
Only the night before, hadn’t she said she wanted him? And before that, hadn’t the gang, the gang, hadn’t they given him the seal of approval? He was a high-flier now, the chimes were sounding and every tree held a grinning Jesus.
Five minutes’ taxi ride from the train station, he faced down destiny; he took care of business, man, he sealed the deal. If God ever smiled, he must have smiled at that. It was over, and all of his friends would live; while they lived, they would live. That was that. That was life. To live in sun and shadow. And to die there.
God yes.
In the cold and clear and bright sunshine he took the back alleys through the riverfront terraces to the centre of the city. That took an hour. It was the happiest hour of his life.
Only the night before, hadn’t she said she wanted him? And before that, hadn’t the gang, the gang, hadn’t they given him the seal of approval? He was a high-flier now, the chimes were sounding and every tree held a grinning Jesus.
Five minutes’ taxi ride from the train station, he faced down destiny; he took care of business, man, he sealed the deal. If God ever smiled, he must have smiled at that. It was over, and all of his friends would live; while they lived, they would live. That was that. That was life. To live in sun and shadow. And to die there.
God yes.
Page of Pentacles
Croydon bore me; Coventry wrought me; Hull refined me; for twenty years I spun and changed. I was living in a rented room on the ring-road when things started. The newsman said it was a matter of years, not decades. All the phones rang. The girl in the room next to me crammed to try and ‘save the world’. There were dozens like her.
I saw policemen beating Somalis in the streets; in Haringey a six-year-old strangled her little brother while her mum was in Primark. The jobless homeless lifeless loveless sat on every kerbstone, in every alcove.
I didn’t know who I had left.
Then the June massacres, then the Architects, the Chevaliers, the war, and all the time I gazed out of my window at the beautiful bleach-blonde girl in the ice-cream parlour with Topshop glasses in her hair.
I saw policemen beating Somalis in the streets; in Haringey a six-year-old strangled her little brother while her mum was in Primark. The jobless homeless lifeless loveless sat on every kerbstone, in every alcove.
I didn’t know who I had left.
Then the June massacres, then the Architects, the Chevaliers, the war, and all the time I gazed out of my window at the beautiful bleach-blonde girl in the ice-cream parlour with Topshop glasses in her hair.
Queen of Pentacles
She put her arms around him and suddenly there was God everywhere. He let her kiss him, and wondered when he could get away from her and go home.
It was late that night when he left the club. She had assumed that he’d hang around for her, in case he got some; she came back from the bathroom and there were men and women all around, half-naked and sweating, lights and music, but nobody she wanted in her bed.
That was it, then. She went home, met a guy from her halls (she hardly knew him) and they were both drunk and ended up in bed together. She didn’t remember the event, but she woke and the desk was in a different place, the walls and window were wrong and oh, there was this man stumbling through the door, holding a glass of water, in a pair of stripy blue boxer shorts, with a sheepish grin and untidy brown hair.
After the world moved on, after cities fell and railroads rusted, she found the first man again; he was living on mushrooms in a forest, and his teeth were yellow from rot. He didn’t recognize her, or, as it turned out, the right kind of mushrooms.
It was late that night when he left the club. She had assumed that he’d hang around for her, in case he got some; she came back from the bathroom and there were men and women all around, half-naked and sweating, lights and music, but nobody she wanted in her bed.
That was it, then. She went home, met a guy from her halls (she hardly knew him) and they were both drunk and ended up in bed together. She didn’t remember the event, but she woke and the desk was in a different place, the walls and window were wrong and oh, there was this man stumbling through the door, holding a glass of water, in a pair of stripy blue boxer shorts, with a sheepish grin and untidy brown hair.
After the world moved on, after cities fell and railroads rusted, she found the first man again; he was living on mushrooms in a forest, and his teeth were yellow from rot. He didn’t recognize her, or, as it turned out, the right kind of mushrooms.
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