Total Cardboard 6

		Contents Total Cardboard 6 ... of love O Happy Fault of… — Phil Lecks Niagara — Paul Goddard A Mutual Break-up Story — Liam Pieper Mr John Peters — John Mansfield One Way — Peter Volk Volk Poems — Peter Volk … of death Work vs. Life — Paul Cuttler Veteran — Alex Scott A Toast — Leah Muddle Be the Leaf Monster — Liam Pieper One of Those Things — Alex Scott … of madness Water Views — Jennifer Mills Section 16 — Phil Lecks Somebody Took My Clothes! — Paul Davis Sanity in Numbers — Dmitri Lineton Read an extract £3.00
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We try to walk quietly along the narrow gap between Bishopscourt and the fence but the coarse gravel crunches under our feet. Thick creeper growing up the wall brushes at my face. The thorns had scratched Felix's bare legs as he climbed out the window. I was protected by my habit, which, for my exile, I wear over my naked body. I am aware of dried ejaculant across my belly. I hold my sandals. Felix never wears shoes. He has hard, calloused feet, which I felt last night. ‘I liked the monkey.' I put a finger to my lips. We aren't clear yet. I imagine the Bishop snoring in his night-shirt and dreaming of Armagnac and chocolates or, perhaps, the place of the skull. The staff are already up, probably having a smoke in the wash house. But they see nothing. We are heading for the front gate. It is just before dawn. That cold, grey pause when objects are indeterminately drawn and darkling fears mingle with hope. I know Felix, though. Curly, black hair and sturdy, tanned legs and fine hair upon his cheeks. He's enjoying the adventure. He tip-toes, as if in a pantomime, as we draw near to the front of the house. No-one had noticed him in the crowd last night. I'm glad he came. How did he get invited? There had been a fête to celebrate the Feast of the Most Precious Blood. He liked the monkey because it wore a matelot's cap and smock and played a red piano accordion. It could also genuflect and cross itself at the appropriate moments during the Mass. Felix said he might like to learn to do that too. He grasps my hand and we dash across the Long Lawn. There have been morning showers upon the grass. We leave our doubled marks on crushed blades and pass quickly through the honey suckle arbour and enter the Garden of Contemplation. It is enclosed by tall boxhedges on three sides, still dripping with rain, and a stone wall at the far end. I see the oak door, solid, closed in the middle of the wall. It is never locked. The first evanescent glimmerings of sunrise quicken above the wall. I am eager to move on. ‘Let's stay here a while. I like it here.' He picks up a peacock feather and I sit on a marble bench to put my sandals on. Felix kneels on the flagstone surrounding the pool and tries to make out his reflection in the dark water. He spits in it. He strolls between the trestles covered in sodden white linen, marveling at the remains of the fête. Silver trays and crystal bowls laden with untouched pineapples, pomegranates, peaches and plums. The sweet smell of early putrefaction has not been washed away. He drinks claret from a forgotten glass and selects a pomegranate. He sits beside me, admiring the waxen fruit. He splits it open and offers me half. Daintily he picks out some crimson seeds, one by one, to eat. Replete, he places the unseeded hemisphere on the gravel and stamps on it. His foot is sticky red. He stares at the smashed fruit, bewildered. I feel anxious because She will arrive soon and I am not prepared. I am expected in chapel for Matins. I wonder what Felix normally does at this time of day? Roll over and eat chocolate donuts? Fondle himself? I will soon find out. Felix stretches and places his hands behind his neck. I kiss him under the arm and taste him. ‘You haven't forgotten, have you?' I plead. ‘I'm sorry. Just enjoying the garden.' He rests his head on my shoulder. Whisper. ‘I love you.' The promise is fulfilled. The Lady walks through the arbour and takes her seat on a marble bench. She wears a coronet of white rosebuds. She waits. We have to go. I dare not look at her as we make for the gate. Felix waves cheerily good-bye. I have my hand on the iron handle. I am about to finally leap over the wall. ‘Please. Before we go. What is your name?' I couldn't say. I hear slow, solemn hoof beats on the gravel behind me. My name was sprinkled on my infant forehead with the royal waters. Perhaps, Adam? The denizens of hell have no name. I look back. The Unicorn with the braided mane appears in the Garden and, tenderly, lowers his glistening horn into the lap of the Lady. Chantacleer crows. * * * ‘Bollocks. Absolute bollocks. What were you thinking?' says Bart. I put the uni paper down on the desk. He continues folding the Queer Soc newsletters. I look out the window, across the Quad. The window is grimy. Smeared, smoky, grey. I pause. Aware of sharp pubic cramp. Pituitary FSH. Secretion of estrogen. Corpus Luteum. Bloody time. ‘Publish and be damned? Anyway. It's about human nature.' He stops folding, looks straight at me. Patient, certain, emphatic. ‘You know there's no such thing, Eva.' Hmm. The window is really dirty. I smile to myself. Now I see through a glass darkly… I put the paper into my satchel. ‘Don't you want to know how it ends? Adam pays Felix and grabs a coffee and a taxi? No? No. They take a room in a boarding house with plastic roses on the table and a Sacred Heart print on the wall. Adam turns into an alcoholic, tedious insurance clerk and Felix batters him to death.' Get up. Go.