SNOT
SNOT
A short story written in 1995. I admit, short-story writing isn't my thang.
But here is one of the rare ones ......
I
FRIDAY
It all began when he blew his nose and a good pint of thick orange snot spewed from his nostrils, filled his cupped handkerchief, overflowed his trembling fingers and pooled in a wide bright circle on the carpet.
Ben Sherikov sat for a long time, silent, unmoving, staring at the brown office carpet and the thick gelatinous pool which glinted spookily under white flickering strip-light.
That didn’t happen, he told himself with a shudder.
That just didn’t fucking happen.
But it had - and the evidence stared back at him: solid, real, accusing and orange.
Slowly, he reached for the tissues on his broad teak-finish desk and wiped the sticky mess from his fingers. Carefully, he wrapped his ruined handkerchief in tissue and dropped it tenderly into his bin. Then, glancing around at the office window to make sure nobody was observing his actions from the sanctuary of the mottled cream blinds, he got down on his hands and knees and began to scoop up the thick mess.
It took him a full fifteen minutes, and five large boxes of Helix Tissues. He got the stuff on his trousers, on his shirt, on his tie. There was a faint metallic smell in the air. The stuff burned his skin.
The - hell, he thought, say the word! - the snot was dense and coagulated in the manner of honey, or glue, and left a circle of ruined bare carpet in its jealous wake.
Ben stood with his hands on his hips for long long minutes, staring down at the oval patch of grey at his feet. "Shit," he said at last, and reaching behind him, poured a small glass of Bausch & Lamb Peach Schnapps. He downed the liquor in one, and hearing his office door open, shuffled to stand over the grey patch of guilt and accusation, before turning with a weak smile and raised eyebrows.
"Ben, man, we’re going into town for a pizza. You fancy it?"
Ben stared hard at Sylvester’s face - wide and smiling and good-natured, with its crop of curly blonde hair and shining eyes. Did he know? Screamed Ben’s mind. He must know! How could he fail to see it? Smell it?
Finally, he shuddered. "No," he managed, his voice barely more than a croak. He coughed, aware that grey accusations, an unfurled petal of snot-destruction, squatted under his boots. "I’m suddenly not feeling very hungry," he said.
"Come on, Ben, it’s Friday! Weekend’s here! It’s time to party! Eat pizza. Pick up chicks. Drink beer. Come on, man, don’t be a dreg."
Ben slumped into his executive chair and swivelled presenting the broad denial of his back. "Just go," he said, and listened as the door clicked shut and the outside office noises - the tap of techboards - chatter - the occasional hum of the coffee machine - faded and Ben was left alone with his thoughts.
What is it? What the hell is it?
Reaching over, he grabbed a few papers from his desk and screwed them up; then he dropped them tactfully over the orange mess in his little basket bin - which was full to the brim with tissues and hardened orange phlegm.
Scratching his chin, and his stubble, he edged his chair closer to his desk and switched on his PC. He watched the flicker of letters as the machine booted, but his brain would not operate, would not engage - all he could picture was a stream of orange disgorging from his own body, from his own face ... and he relived that strange, breathless, weightless feeling as his nose spat its unsightly contents onto the waiting carpet, spewed for his eyes to consume with horror.
He sat for long minutes, then reaching up he tenderly touched his nose with shaking fingers. There was no pain, no swelling, no indication of anything whatsoever amiss. Ben took several exaggerated deep breaths. He had no tightness in his chest. No shortness of breath. And he suffered from no illness, to the best of his knowledge ...
"Shit," he said again, and pushing away his chair he left his office and hurried across the wide carpeted aisles, past rows of techboard operators and towards the Gents and the mocking watching capering homunculus tattoo on the door.
He burst in, strode across the glittering tiles and stood before the mirror examining his face with painful, strained intensity. It stared back.
No deformity.
No swelling.
His nose looked just - fine.
Ben lifted his head, looked up his nose, but could see nothing amiss. A few hairs that needed trimming, perhaps. But no blood, no pain, no bucket of orange mucus ...
Suddenly, Ben realised that a suit was pissing into a urinal further down the chamber; coughing, Ben turned on the taps before him and washed his hands, then smiled and nodded in greeting as the suit left the toilet and afforded Ben his precious privacy.
Back to the mirror. He examined his face. Still nothing presented itself and Ben decided to take the ultimate test, the ultimate fear-filled challenge -
Reaching out, he tugged free a paper towel and braced himself, legs apart, paper towel held in cupped hands, his face targeted above a gleaming sparkling sink. Tense. Ready. Frightened.
He blew his nose.
Nothing ... nothing came out and Ben’s eyes searched the rugged paper landscape with two powerful emotions fighting for precedence in his spinning mind - one, he was so glad, so thankful that his nose hadn’t flooded the sink that he almost wept with joy. But in contrast to this sensation a feeling of strangeness, of detachment overcame him and he looked up into the reflected eyes, into his own bright blue eyes as if searching for answers, for explanations, for ... for anything.
Was he imagining it?
No ... He shook his head.
But was he?
He hurried back to his office, and closing the door with quiet care he pulled back his executive chair and fell to his knees before the circular grey patch on the carpet.
It sat. Large as life. Real as sin.
Ben ran his fingers over the grey surface and found that the whole patch of ruined carpet was hard, brittle almost. There was a smell, lingering but non-specific. The carpet fibres had been blitzed by his nasal napalm. Mutilated by his disgorging passages.
Ben spent the afternoon in a daze, and his PC sat uncomplaining on his desk with Space Toasters happily flapping their way towards a dark and depressing Infinity ...
"Something’s wrong," he muttered, and he was damn right.
The Mongrel stood outside the massive RedX Corporation buildings in the rain, twitching. The Mongrel usually twitched - on account of a wound he’d received during the Third Stone War whilst stealing a HTank; but now rain ran from his short, tufted brown hair and he waited with the patience of Fate.
There was a distant click.
Glancing up, The Mongrel saw the office light go out and he smiled, a grim smile, the sort of smile which can only appear on the face of a man who’s had two fingers blown off by a grenade. Bending his head against the elemental onslaught, The Mongrel pounded across the car park and dived into his parked Volvo.
Dripping, he slumped into his seat and placed his Nikon II on the mottled dash. He sat motionless, waiting, a grey and motionless gargoyle behind the steering wheel until the windows steamed up. Cursing, The Mongrel rubbed a circular three-fingered patch in the steam and watched a man hurry from the mammoth building clutching an umbrella and briefcase, and get into his own car.
The car sped off, tail lights flickering briefly as he stopped at the Gatehouse for clearance; then he disappeared in a cloud of fumes.
The Mongrel turned his own key and the Volvo stuttered, back-fired, then coughed into life. "Baby," gurgled The Mongrel, and followed the targeted car down the dark evening streets and away from the RedX buildings in a violent Series 7 cloud of exhaust poison.
Ben Sherikov drove home in a daze. He wasn’t thinking about the incident with his nose. He wasn’t thinking about anything.
Rain splattered his windscreen and the rhythmical whump of the wipers cleared his vision for a few moments with monotonous regularity. The motorway was busy, especially around junctions 7 and 8, but the hum of the lirridium engine soothed Ben, soothed his tired, overworked mind, soothed his fully firing morbid imagination.
It was nothing!
NOTHING! A bit of catarrh, was all.
A sudden horn brought Ben wide-eyed back to life, and he heaved the wheel right as his car swerved with a squeal of chunky tyres on Tarmac and he managed to regain his own lane; a driver waved his fist and sped off, cutting in front of Ben and disappearing down the busy carriageway.
"Suck it," muttered Ben, and decided he wasn’t feeling very well. He allowed his speed to drop. Down to 60. To 50. He eased into the ant-like slow lane and switched on the radio and opened the window to let in cool fresh air.
The radio droned a miserable drone of clashing guitars and banging drums, but the cold air smelling fresh with rain and what remained of the countryside surrounding the motorway brought Ben back to life ... his cold sweat subsided and he managed to relax a little.
But it was there, lurking at the back of his mind, a silent intruder stalking his dreams.
A pint of snot.
From his own nose.
What was it? What did it mean? Was he seriously ill?
"I’ll go see the doctor tomorrow," he said out loud, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. But then he remembered that the following day was a Saturday - and so he amended his declaration. Monday. Monday was good ... unless it happened again?
Yes, he thought. Monday. Monday’s a good day. Not too much work on. I can survive with a few hours off. RedX allow you off on a Monday without kicking up too much of a stink. They’re not such bad employers ...
The DJ laughed and chuckled Ben home, and he finally pulled onto his drive, killed the lights and switched off the engine. Rain filled his vision. The engine began to clickity click. The windows steamed up. But still Ben sat there until, with a deep breath, he gathered his briefcase and overcoat and umbrella, and stepping onto his drive hurried for the sanctuary of the porch and Elysium beyond.
Inside, the house was warm. Something baked in the oven and it smelled real good. "Nice day at work?" came Mary’s smiling face from the kitchen, and she kissed his cheek and took his coat.
"Not bad," he muttered. "Something smells fine?"
"Eel lasagne. And fresh bread."
"Excellent! I’ll just go and have a shower." Ben stepped over the purring Persian tom which dominated the hall rug and disappeared up the stairs.
"Justin phoned before, said he wants you to call him back," but Ben was already out of sight and Mary smiled to herself. "He said it’s important!" she shouted up at the disappearing legs. "About your venture into the software market!"
Still, no answer.
OK, thought Mary. Have it your way. She stooped, patted Ralph the Persian and returned to the kitchen to check on the lasagne, listening as water began its long dark descent down the drain. I’ve never known anybody who was so obsessed by cleanliness, she thought. But then: I’d rather have a clean husband than a dirty mongrel - any day.
The Mongrel pulled up in his battered Volvo and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Or rather, drummed his two remaining fingers and thumb on the steering wheel.
What now? he thought.
Was the Information correct?
It usually was.
Reaching into his glove compartment, he pulled out a Browning and ejected the mag; he checked the 13 bullets with an expert eye and then slid the magazine home with a click.
Straining through the gloom, he made out the house number and smiled to himself. Yes, he thought. It will wait. He accelerated gently away, the Volvo coughing and stuttering and leaving a dog - caught busy in the act of urinating against the Volvo’s rear tyre - in a cloud of dangerously poisonous fumes that left the dog ill for several days and wishing it had never set eyes on the battered Volvo in the first place.
Ben stared at the mirror but did not see his own reflection. Rather, he was seeing through his own eyes and his head was light, his tongue dry, his mouth a crisp tunnel.
He undressed, and leaving his clothes piled in an untidy heap he stepped under the hot stream of water and revelled in the heat and play of liquid across his lightly tanned shoulders. He allowed water into his mouth and found himself swallowing, gulping the water and he forced himself to stop. Why was he so damned thirsty?
"Have I been poisoned? Am I diseased?" But only the hiss of the water answered his gentle questions and for a while everything - his life, his marriage, his house - everything, seemed unreal.
Only when he stepped from the cubicle and into the steam-filled bathroom to towel himself down did some semblance of normality return; his thirst left him and his head cleared. Clarity of perception returned and he felt suddenly good, suddenly fit. He took several deep breaths and towelled his hair. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all? he mused. Maybe things were looking up?
Mary looked down at her sleeping husband. The strain had eased from his face leaving him young, fresh. But he smelt funny and she wrinkled her nose. What was it? What was that funny smell?
Moonlight glittered through lace curtains as Heavy Matrix hummed overhead, green chemicals glittering in the darkness.
Something smells bad, she thought.
Ben muttered restlessly in his sleep.
II
SATURDAY MORNING
Disorientation. All fours. Running. Crawling. A babe again. Incapable of speech. A need, a bright needle need piercing flesh his mind his brain ...
Ben’s eyes flickered open. Dawn light eased through net curtains and Ben stretched, yawning - and suddenly halted mid-yawn. His hand had touched something. On the mattress. Soft. Like a sponge.
Wide eyes travelled slowly down, drawn by invisible wires. A hole. In the mattress. Ringed with crusted orange.
Ben moved closer.
The snot had eaten through the springs.
"Bugger," he muttered, and gave a wary glance at his wife. What would she say? What would she do? Ben took a deep breath, calming his fluttering nerves. Mary was a rational, modern day matrix sort of wife. She’d handle it. Probably drive him to the hospital!
Ben chuckled, but the sound was hollow: bone devoid of its nourishing marrow. The sound held little humour.
"Snot?" she screamed, her face a bright demon. "What do you fucking mean fucking snot?" Ben ducked the heavy book which bounced from the wall leaving a dent in fresh Oyster. He scampered into the living room, naked, his penis swinging limp and lifeless, a pale worm in the early morning bacon smog. Mary followed, the hunter, the predator, fired with primal rage and out to eat her Mate.
There was a crash and Ben sprinted around the coffee table with Mary in close pursuit, then back out into the hall with a knife embedding in the wood behind him. It quivered, the plasti-handle humming softly.
Ben tripped, sprawled.
Ralph, the Persian, stared up in mild bemusement.
"How can snot eat through a mattress?" hissed Mary, her face more calm now, her breasts rising and falling as she leant against the doorframe.
Thank God she hasn’t got the stamina, thought Ben.
Or I’d be a real dead Ben!
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, pleading. Her face softened - and - yes, she would have melted into his arms if the Unthinkable hadn’t – unthinkably - happened.
A sudden wave of nausea, more violent than before, surged through Ben’s body; he convulsed, felt a huge sneeze welling within him like a tide behind a dam, a wave rushing towards the cliffs -
Snot spewed from his nostrils, thick and warm and bright orange and coating a suddenly mewling and thrashing Ralph the Persian mog in its hot bright sticky embrace.
Mary screamed, hands to face, standard hysteria.
Ben bucked and convulsed on his hands and knees, the last droplets of snot falling on the now bubbling cat which hissed and writhed under the orange goo before becoming one and sinking and merging with the melted concrete floor.
"Ralph!" screamed Mary. A knife in her hand.
Ben was weak, his head came up, his face drawn and grey, his eyes resigned. Death was here. In the bosom of his own sweet dear wife.
"I’m sorry," he tried to say, but his tongue was a stick fused with his palate. Mary loomed with knife bright in shaking hands and then she was gone, the door wide open, bright light falling on Ben as he lay shivering naked and snot-splashed on the floor.
Long minutes passed.
"I - need - a - doctor," he managed, and his foot lashed out, his ankle banging weakly against the door which swung shut with a tiny click.
Ben lay on his back, his eyes staring at the mound of tangled fur. Poor Ralph. He’d been a good tom. A fine tom! A little too pampered but - hell, he deserved a better fate than bubbling away in a mound of hot human snot and snot-melted concrete.
An hour passed. Two.
Gathering his strength, Ben got to his knees, then his feet. He was swaying, his head light, filled with dark anger and music and random snatches of conversation ... he staggered into the kitchen, grabbed the only bottle which was to hand. Whisky. He drank the bottle in one and lay giggling on the kitchen floor.
Mary sat in a broad wide white bright room, her hands clasped in her lap, still shaking. The police had found her story of great interest. And via a succession of comm calls, so had the military.
"Tell me again," said the huge man, placing his gun on the white desk with a barely audible clack, "about the snot."
"Who - who - who are you?" managed Mary.
The police man grinned, scratching at his stubble with his two remaining fingers. "They call me The Mongrel. Because I’m a bit of a bitch," he said.
The afternoon found Ben Sherikov seated within the confines of his living room. He’d managed to find a pair of shorts with which he fought a violent battle before struggling into their genital hug. He sat in his armchair, a 2 litre bottle of RedX Heroin Tonic beside his elbow from which he took the occasional swig.
Fact.
Snot kept pouring from his nose.
Fact.
His wife had run away.
Fact.
Because he had snotted over the tom cat and killed it.
Fact.
He needed a doctor.
A doctor ...
Ben eyed the comm warily, like a cat eyes a hedgehog: in desperate primal need to kill, but aware of the spikes.
One call. Emergency. One call.
He surged to his feet, his skin enjoying the simple comfort of soft carpet, and padded out into the hall. He stepped gingerly over Ralph’s remains and picked up the comm. He stared at it for long minutes before reaching out and with tentative fingers punching the numbers to connect.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Ivers?"
"Good afternoon. Before we continue, have you got your Customer Charge Number?"
"Yes," said Ben. "It’s bleurghh."
"Pardon?"
There was a click, and Doctor Ivers was left staring at the blank comm in confusion.
Ben had a look on his face, but it was not confusion. It was far from confusion. It lingered in the realms of terror and pelted apples at the windows of disgust.
He had snotted over the comm, which, in the tradition of things which got covered in heavily acidic orange snot, bubbled away into a gooey mess and dripped onto the carpet leaving Ben with only a half-comm in his fingers. He shuffled away, so as not to get it on his toes.
"Is my own body rebelling against me?" he screamed at the melted puddle.
I’ve got to get out of here, he thought.
I’m going crazy!
He staggered to the door and reached for the handle. Bright light shone through the glass. It touched his skin, leaving him feeling drained and weak.
He turned the handle.
Opened the door -
Light flooded the hall and Ben gagged, nausea tearing through him, violent bursts of colour swamping his mind as he fell to his knees and felt his whole body shrivelling, drying up, his skin wrinkling and blistering and tearing great gaping black putrid wounds in his blackened flesh and he gasped, eyes watering as he pleaded with God and pleaded with the Devil to help him save him find him save him from this terrible all-consuming pain ...
The door clicked shut.
Slowly, the pain subsided.
Gasping, Ben pushed himself to his knees and examined his skin. Pure white. But his thirst, his terrible thirst ... he staggered back to the living room, treading on poor Ralph as he zig-zagged his erratic route to the bright calling bottle of RedX Heroin Tonic. In a gulp it was gone, and Ben continued to the kitchen where he stood, his spine twisted, his mouth over the cold water tap for long, long minutes until he thought he would burst.
Only then did he sink to the floor, burping and happy, feeling light-headed but the thirst had gone and this was good.
I cannot leave, he thought.
I cannot leave my house. It has become a prison.
It has become my own private Hell.
III
SATURDAY EVENING
There was a knock at the door. A blob moved outside and Ben shouted, "Let yourself in," from the safety of the gloom-filled living room.
Justin Sullivan opened the door and peered around the portal. "Ben? Ben mate, it’s me, Jus. I’ve brought that guitar for you."
"Come on in."
Jus frowned. Ben sounded strange.
Different.
Jus stepped in, an electric matrix guitar in one hand, a small amp in the other. He kicked shut the door and trotted into the living room which was shrouded in almost complete darkness.
"What you doing in the dark, Ben? Turned into a vamp, eh?" He laughed. Ben did not.
"Nice to see you."
Ben slid past Justin, who dumped the guitar and amp on the carpet and followed Ben to the twilight kitchen; the blinds had been drawn and the only eerie light came from the green chemicals of the hob.
"What you doing?"
"Cooking," said Ben.
"Yum," said Jus. "Can I skag some? I am starving mate."
"If you like," said Ben, stirring something in a pan.
"What is it?" Jus peered forward, but could only see what looked like thick soup.
Ben lifted a spoon. There was a dull glint of orange. He fed the thick contents into his mouth where it spooled between his teeth, thick strands of gelatinous goo, black and orange and smelling bad.
"What the hell is that?"
"Snot," said Ben, dropping the spoon.
"What?"
"Ashes to ashes. Snot to snot. Ha ha."
"What?" Justin took a step back, suddenly wary of Ben, suddenly fearful of the gloom and the atmosphere and the smell, the bad smell and this person who he had thought was his friend …
"Like this," said Ben, his head dropping forward, his face contorting into impossible shapes; and then he was coughing, wheezing, coughing again and Jus looked on in horror as a thick pool of orange spewed from his friend’s face, thick and orange it flowed free and down and flowed across the kitchen floor and ate through his shoes.
"Ahh!" screamed Justin, hopping back and kicking off his snot-covered shoes. "It’s burning, ahhhh, it’s fucking burning me!"
"Yes," nodded Ben. "It does that."
Justin ran, across the living room and up the stairs; only when cold water jetted across his feet did he allow tears of relief to fall free. The pain was incredible and Justin stooped to watch blisters and thick orange bubbles rise across his skin.
With a grim face he descended the stairs.
"I’m sorry," said Ben, appearing in the gloom.
Justin smashed a right straight into Ben’s face, hammering his friend back against the wall where he slid to the ground with a curious smile on his face and blood seeping from his split lip.
Without another word Justin left, limping down the drive as the London light began to fail and darkness crept spider-like across the tall gaunt buildings.
Behind, Ben cradled his head and wept.
IV
SUNDAY: 2:30 AM
Andy, Jake, Sonia and Sharon were drunk. They staggered up the pavement. Sometimes they staggered up the road. They sang. They chuckled. They roared. Onwards they marched, until Jake suddenly halted and, swaying with the look of eagles, said, "Look at little dog?"
"Eh?"
"Eh?"
They peered into the gloom - but it was gone, scampering under a bush and away towards the SynthoPark and the trees and grass beyond.
"A dog?"
"‘Ello?"
"Hotel?"
There was a roaring of laughter, a great guffawing which reverberated from cold wet Tarmac and on they continued until Sharon stopped.
"What’s this?"
"What?"
"Something - ugh - it’s stuck to my boot!"
They crouched around on the floor, their chuckles forgotten as Sharon’s
feet began to burn and her throat began to screech ...
Heavy tyres churned mud. Matrix engines screamed, gears clashed and the five Truks crunched to a halt. Men, many men, disgorged from the silent blank black tombs and spread out with SMKKs ready.
Mongrel signalled and soldiers hit the earth:
Waiting.
Flicking off the safety on his Browning, Mongrel grinned and holding the gun in his good hand gave a high, clear whistle. Signalling the advance.
He was free.
He leapt, twisting through the air to land on all fours, perfection, twirling, dancing. The grass was cool under his claws. The breeze cool against his hot, fevered skin. His eyes were bright - incredibly bright - and his tongue lolled
and he giggled.
Ben giggled.
He scampered across the park, leaping again, singing in a high soft voice, a croon of perfection, soft notes, gentle notes.
Occasionally he would stop and snot on the grass, marking his territory, watching the plasti strands bubble. Then he would leap and dance once more into the darkness.
They would come for him.
He giggled.
He knew they would come for him.
How could they let one so perfect live?
How could they let one so perfect be free?
They would come with heavy boots and heavy guns and screaming voices but he was ready, he, Ben Sherikov, had made his peace. With God? With Satan? He knew not. But his inner demons were laid to rest ...
Suddenly, the night exploded.
Brilliant white light shot out from many sources, pinning Ben to the grass like a butterfly to a board by its shredded pulped wings; he held up his arms to ward off the light which paralysed him as harsh crackles rang around the park and SMKKs fired warning screams into the air and Ben cowered, helpless but giggling and snotting in the middle of the park.
"Cage him," said The Mongrel, watching as the heavy steel nets were brought into position. Then he turned, and as a snarling spitting giggling Ben Sherikov was trussed up in thick wire he placed a hand on Mary’s arm in a moment of rare tenderness.
"You did the right thing," he said.
"Did I?"
"Yes." The Mongrel’s eyes were bright with conviction. "He is dangerous."
"And you’re not?" She encompassed the whole gathering with her scathing stare. "With your guns and bombs and War?"
The Mongrel shrugged, and watched as Mary ran off into the darkness, sobbing. One part of him wanted to go after her, to comfort her. But the stronger part, the military slice returned to the task in hand and he helped load Ben Sherikov into the Truk and he happily put in the boot and fist and the stomp, and the engine roared and the wheels churned mud and they were gone and away ...
V
TUESDAY EVENING
A cold TV.
White light, split by colours as naked troopers danced a jingle and hands clapped and laughers laughed and politicians spewed verbal skag from lips tainted with poison.
Adverts.
Crisps.
Sex.
Guns ...
And a new TV series ... Exploration ... The UNKNOWN ...
Mary Sherikov sat in the damp bare apt, her hands cold in her lap, her mind blank, her eyes cold and shadowed and fevered. She waited. She waited with simian patience.
"And now," gleamed the sparkling whiter-than-white teeth of the host, Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman, as he capered across a stage which had been erected for the occasion, "here we have ..." pause for applause "the one and ONLY BEN SHERIKOV WOOOOO!"
Screams.
Women fainting.
Jolly Joker jumping and cavorting in his Jolly Jokeman way.
There was a soft hiss as Mary let out her contained breath. She could feel her heart beating in her breast. Loud. Too loud.
Ben was led across the stage in manacles. He was subdued and naked, and his body bore the brunt of medical experimentation.
"Can we explain the SNOT?" cackled Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman. There was a hush from the audience and the lights dimmed. Jokeman’s teeth sparkled like laser-rimed diamonds.
"Can we explain the MADNESS?"
A spotlight flared, illuminating the bright green and red costume of The Jokeman, and into the circle stumbled Ben Sherikov, blind, dumb, disease-ridden, poxed, and full of snot.
The TV died to a point of white and disappeared.
They’ve turned him into a freak, Mary thought. I can watch no more.
She wandered wearily into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Whisky. She downed it, and found that her hands were shaking. With a rattle she dropped the glass into the sink and suddenly a strange sensation came over her. She felt light-headed. Drunk. Her knees were weak, and a strange gushing seemed to scream through her face, through her nose. And she stared down at a wide bright pool of purple snot which melted the washing bowl and ate through the stainless steel sink.
"Oh no," she whispered.
West London. A high apt. Away from the dregs of dirty festering human scum below.
Justin Sullivan sat on his fancy carved wooden toilet seat, his bubbled, weeping feet in a bowl of salt water, his head in his hands.
"Ow," he said.
"Ow. Ow!"
The orange snot blisters had popped, seeping orange pus to mingle with strong brine, and Jus knew he had to go to the hospital. The wounds were serious. Much, much more serious than he had at first realised.
Why hadn’t he gone earlier?
Why o why o why?
"Shit o shit o shit," he said.
Reaching for the tube of Savlon, he emptied the tube into his palm and smeared the soothing white over his tortured mandibles. For a second - a cool soothing cool calm pure white second - the pain went. Justin sighed.
But then it returned, an angry flare, a needle stab of boiling intensity which made him weep into his hands and chew his lip and tug at his hair.
I curse you Sherikov, He thought, again picturing the TV scenes as Ben was dragged through the screaming crowds who hurled debris at his prone, prancing form. He was a freak. A circus demon, tainted, taunted, chained by his throat and led by the prancing jeering Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman.
"I curse you."
Suddenly, he felt a pain in his chest and he could not breathe. He had never felt so bad, and he tried to speak, tried to suck in precious air - but could not. His hands went to his throat. Probing. Panic welled in his breast. He surged to his feet, his pained feet forgotten, the red-hot searing pain forgotten as he stuffed his fingers down his throat, trying to breathe, trying to swallow, trying to suck and blow and trying merely to stay alive ...
Tracheotomy, he thought.
The Army. Training. Stab a ball-point pen through your throat -
Breathe -
He stumbled from the bathroom, fell to his knees with bright lights glittering in his mind. He was losing it. Losing it fast ...
And then he coughed.
A heavy, singular cough.
As the pain cleared, Jus looked down at the solid yellow ball of phlegm, even now making the carpet sizzle as it sat proud and squalid, like a broad toad on a water-lilly.
During the following week, across London peps and dregs alike began to snot and cough and snot their way into a miserable existence they could never have dreamt possible. Faster than the plague, it spread. More contagious than the common cold. From London to the Home Counties. From the Home Counties to Manchester. From Manchester to Glasgow ... from London to Paris to Berlin to Florence to New York to Beijing …
Nobody escaped.
And above the world as this deadly virus spread, Mankind suddenly realised that He was cursed, and that God was Laughing and it was a Long Laugh and the Humour was Black and there was No Cure and No Help and No Redemption and the Pit and the Void Welcomed Unwary Travellers - with a cool pint of SNOT.
In a straight glass.
