Our spaces are linked by the luminous umbilicals of music. Whatever your ills
I can help you for I am in sole possession of all the facts.
Wolfbane always told Tanya that he could read her fortune like a dirty
book. He’d spent years in dressing rooms spreading the cards, spreading
fishnet thighs, spreading his used love like custard. He could transplant her
hearts and flowers with just one touch. He could mesmerise.
Wolfbane pulled out a packet of Camels. Simba rolled an envious eye. In all
closed institutions the Snout Baron becomes the man of power, you don’t need
PP’s sociology degree to learn that.
“I’d be Pope of Dope,” explained Wolfbane, puffing smoke at Eamonn’s
pursed lips, “except that the Rastas rigged the elections, they sent up baffling
smoke signals in the Vatican City,and now Cardinal Jago’s stuffed all our best
shit up his arse. Spliffing rotten show, what?”
As he picked up verbal velocity, he spoke in changing tongues, the thin grey
voice of the suburbs, thicker black city rap attack, the burlesque military drawl,
his words leading him on all the way. “But I have a go, I go on and on keeping
every damn bloody body happy, waving the red rag of happiness, really putting
on a holiday showtime for the kids.” He tossed a fag at fumbling Cedric,
another into Eamonn’s lap, casual as a tourist feeding pigeons.
“Just look at them, Brother Nicholas. They’re waiting for me to make them
happy, aren’t they?”
He was turning to me for a moment, maybe I could talk him through to the
reality of my historic documents. but his audience was growing restless.
“You can’t gig here, Wolfbane. No back line, no power. “
Wolfbane peers out of the side of his face. Suspicious.
“You’re trying to rebuild your instruments. I’m trying to make a definitive
revision of my documents. To save my child . . . We need help from each
other.”
Simba had started tapping his feet, drumming fingers on a wooden chair. “I
need to use a new partner,” he confided, to the room at large. Even bulky
Cedric, normally so paranoid behind his moustache, terrified of smacks from
Nurse McNobody—who couldn’t control his habit of starting small artistic
dormitory fires—even Cedric the Uneasy had lurched up from the sofa,mumbling
something diffident about artistic catharsis. And distracted Eamonn
dropped his book, angry with the buzz, the rising murmur, the overdub of
Simba’s noise, the overload of afternoon heat, the chronic overdosing of
drugged casualties.
Wolfbane crouched and stared. Tanya’s eyes burned coldly. His entire
musculature, calves to neck, was trembling, vibrant.
Simba and Eamonn were breathing deeply, taking their rhythmic pulse…
Libros Libertad 