These Demented Lands Read Free

them a pleasing feel. But they had come to understand how childish it was, how little it mattered if they placed A or B inside their mouths and masticated it to a tight bolus. They never ate desserts cause their fragile pride wouldn’t allow them to speak out those silly names.
    While I’m on about it may as well mention what, to myself, I call The Correspondence Feeling. There’s the others I could explain: The Toffee Feeling, The Thin Hair Feeling, The Rudder Feeling, The Cheese Sandwich in the Back of the Car Feeling, The October Afternoon Feeling, Peeling the Tangie Feeling: all the ones that make me me. Aye, The Correspondence Feeling: I had it when we were out there swimming in the Sound and the Devil’s Advocate had set fire to the petrol tank . . . no, it started even before that, when my eye lighted on the orange-end glow of his cigar,
then
there was the petrol burning then the light of the campfire up the mountains: ‘flame, flame, flame’. Sometimes you see it on a city street: three strangers moving in differentdirections come adjacent, each has a yellow jacket on so you get this row yellow, then your eye follows along and a huge yellow juggernaut is passing beside so, when the light catches it,
all
is shimmery yellow on the pavement and reflected in the shop windows . . .
    When I materialised front-of-shop and declared, ‘I’m looking for The Drome Hotel, that one with the graveyard beside,’ The Harbour coughed and the telly-aerial repairers stared at me. I took the dried clothes to dress the girl and when we returned The Harbour cleared his throat again and goes, ‘Yonder is Brotherhood’s domain.’
    â€˜Brotherhood. Brotherhood?’ I says the name.
    â€˜That’s a right weird place out yon, we’d never dream of holing up in it.’
    There was a good bit silentness.
    The Tall went, ‘Who’s Brotherhood?’
    â€˜He arrived back here piloting on old PBY flying boat; all these French hippy chicks were on board; anchored offof The Outer Rim Hotel, the girls sunbathing up on the wings, diving off then swimming in for lemonades . . .’
    â€˜The Sanctions Buster we called him back then, account of his carry-ons down in Africa there; his Dad kept good health and was running The Drome as a decent . . .’
    The Harbour laughed and goes, ‘Brotherhood’s forgotten dream. Young men’s dreams that pepper out: of setting up an island casino at The Drome with
Folies Bergère
girls; punters choppered in.’ The Harbour snorted, shook his head in sort of despair, ‘What he’s got is as close as he can get to the pimp he wants to be.’
    The Tall and me looked at the Harbour in sort of appeal. I goes, ‘What’re you meaning?’
    â€˜You’ll be seeing . . . soon enough, soon enough.’
    We stepped outside under the rattling lampshade. The Harbour says, ‘You wonnie be needing your kitbag less you plan leaving us, and if that Devil’s Advocate doesn’t show soon we’ll be needing all heads we can get along the shores.’
    I went, ‘Far is it to The Drome?’
    â€˜Don’t think about it, lassie. Fifteen mile as crow flies. Over The Interior. Twenty-five round the coast road. On a Saturday night, now, you could get The Disco Bus that circles, gathering all the young ones for their dancing at The Outer Rim. It’s a hell of a sight, yon, on the way back, but none’s brave enough to get aboard; even High-Pheer-Eeon who swims over from Mainland on his hunting and scavenging missions was found locked in the boot at the garage one Monday morning: Turns out he’d been using the boots to move round the island for weeks, too feart to go upstairs.’
    I began to cross the Slip with the little girl’s hand in mine. ‘Now how do you get home?’ I goes.
    â€˜You ring the little lectric bell for The Kongo