14: Norman

Wig boxed up, gown packed away, false eyelashes peeled off. Blanche du Theydon Bois smeared cold cream into her thickly-foundationed face and Norman Chadwick wiped it off.

After the makeup was gone -- and it took awhile -- Norman looked at himself in the tiny mirror and sighed.

"For fuck's sake, girl. What do you think you're doing?"

He had no answer.

He hurled the last remnants of his act into the ridiculous steamer trunk he had to cart around everywhere, locked it shut. Checked his civvies -- there were always a few stray flakes of glitter but, on the whole, he'd pass -- and struck out into the bar. This was usually the worst part.

"Great show tonight, Norm."

"Thanks. Is the cab on its way?"

"Five or ten minutes. Have a drink in the meantime? On the house."

Such generosity.

"Why not? G & T, please."

"Coming right up."

"Bit quiet tonight, eh?"

"Yeah. You know how it is. Rainy, weekday. No-one wants to go out. Here you go."

"Ta. Thank God for the weekend, eh?"

"Damn right. We'd never break even otherwise. I dunno, sometimes a good show will pull in the punters, but mostly it seems they'd sooner be home in front of the TV with a six-pack of Special Brew."

"Feel that way myself, sometimes."

"Mmm."

Norman swirled the ice around in his gin and tonic.

"That John chap wasn't bad. Do you know him?"

"Not to talk to. Comes in from time to time, not really a regular."

"Nice arms. Muscly."

"Yes. Not one of your great personalities, though, far as I can see. Gives off an odd vibe. Like he's always pissed off about something."

"There's a lot to be pissed off about."

"Maybe."

"Not like it matters, anyway. Can't exactly chat him up now."

"No. He's long gone. Won't see him again for weeks, I shouldn't think."

"Story of my life."

"Story of all our lives, Norm. Is that your cab?"

The autumn night was cold and hard, a fine prickle of icy rain falling through the sodium streetlamps' orange glare. As the taxi meandered through its endless, shifting outskirts, the city became an alien landscape before Norman's eyes: blurry, hostile, painted in garish, unnatural colours. Perhaps that last gin was one too many; perhaps that last line was. He felt like he was in an ultra-violent video game and someone else had the controller.

As one depressing suburb segued into another, Norman found he no longer had any idea where he was. The driver could be taking him around every forgotten backwater of London -- and a few backwaters of completely other cities. At one point they seemed to be travelling in open countryside, great rolling thickly-wooded hills on all sides, just a flimsy thread of tarmac and orange streetlights showing the way. At another, they were driving through the aftermath of a terrible riot, roads lined with the burnt-out shells of cars, smoke everywhere, hanged bodies dangling from the lamp posts, handwritten signs around their necks reading TRAITOR. Harsh trumpets sounded, and there was the thundering of many hooves.

"Left here, please. Then the first on the right."

Jesus, I need to sleep.

"Just by that red Volvo."

As Norman dragged his trunk out of the cab, something glittery caught his eye. A little sparkle amid the fallen leaves. He paid the driver and pocketed the receipt. Manhandled the trunk up to his front door.

A little sparkle amid the fallen leaves. He had no idea why it tugged so at his attention, but it did. He couldn't ignore it. Leaving the trunk in the hallway, he stepped back out into the street.

Cold rain spattered down, each drop a tiny icicle in the making. The pavement was covered, the gutter filled, with sodden, yellow leaves. Norman couldn't even remember what he was looking for, where it might be. He scanned the scene disconsolately for a moment.

There it was again. Sparkling.

This time there was nothing to distract him. He dropped to his knees on the pavement, soaking his jeans, and swept the leaves away. Dug around in the running gutter, sure now that there was something there. His chilled fingers touched it, fumbled, lost, grabbed it once more. Plucked it out.

Then he was back in his hall, slamming the front door behind him. Feeling vague. He couldn't quite remember what he'd been doing in the previous minutes, it had all become a frigid blur; but at least he was home.

He dropped the little diamond earring onto the dining room table and went to run himself a nice hot bath.
Posted by matt at November 15, 2004 04:02 AM