Clockwork Redux

Untitled Part 6

They scream.

The whore's eyes fly open and she puts her hands on her child, feeling all over her body. All the time, she's howling-"Taylor! Oh sweet Jesus-Taylor!" and the kid shrieks "Mama!" so high, so wild.

And the mother stretches open her cramped arms and wraps them around her daughter and squeezes, and Taylor squirms up to kiss her chin, to cling there with her mouth. And he stands there feeling so fucking superfluous.

He clears his throat. They look up at him, their faces pressed together, and for the first time he can see how alike they are. It's as though he reached back into his head and pulled out the girl he knew. Sat her on the sofa with her worn-out elder self, just for the novelty of it.

"I got you some noodles," he mutters, holding out the carton. "They, uh, didn't age so good, but-"

She snatches it out of his hands and makes it fucking disappear. Taylor helps, snatching sand-coloured strands and shoving them into her mouth.

They don't bother with the fork. Hell, they almost eat it by accident.

When the carton is empty, the woman puts it down and wipes her mouth with her forearm. "Oh, God. Oh, wow. Thank you so, so much. You c'n stay here as long as you want. You can sleep here, I don't give a shit. That tasted so....I can't even describe it."

"You was hungry, Mama," Taylor says. She pats her on the head and rams her head into her sternum. She even smiles. Imagine that. "Everything tastes good when you're hungry."

"Well, baby, I know that. But I guess it don't work across the board. I mean, I look like a corpse that got pickled right now, but that don't mean I think your filthy little self is clean." She scoops Taylor up into her chicken-wire arms and heaves to her feet. "Let's give your ass a bath."

She glances over her shoulder at him and grins. Her teeth are as yellow as his own. "This place is yours, man. You saved my kid, you saved me....what in the Hell could I do in return?"

He shrugs. Her eyes are so wide, like she's hopped up on acid. Crazy pinwheel black holes, and the child's the same. Buggy black mirrors shining flat in their faces, looking at him, freaking him out. He turns his head.

"I think I'll sleep here. On the couch," he mumbles to the grubby wall. The skirting board is dented. "You gotta spend some time with her. You guys haven't had it so great for a few days now. You should kinda-y'know-take it easy."

"Seriously," she says. "Who are you?" She shifts Taylor across to her other arm and disappears into the little hallway. A few minutes later, he hears the hissing rush of the tap running, and the indistinct burbling of their conversation.

He doesn't know who he is. The guys call him Joker, and it rankles. They call themselves after clowns, too, but it's different for them. They saunter out of the apartment and step back into their real names, their own lives.

He doesn't know what the mother's called, either.

A thought grabs him and breaks his neck: maybe she remembers him. Maybe she knows his name. He could tell it to him, and he could wrap it around himself and it will be as though nothing has changed or been lost.

"I'll do it tomorrow," he mutters. He collapses on the sofa, kicks off his shoes, and hunches into the cushions. The springs poke him in places, as rigid and sharp as the fingers of a child.

----

Someone else teaches him her name.

The guys come over the next morning, unannounced and uninvited. Chuckles thumps his military fist on the door and gives him a choice: either he lets them in, or they'll spill the details right there in the hallway.