Summer 2016 b

“Have you got anything on under
that overcoat?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Good, take it off
and squat over there. Get down on your
right knee with your left hand on your
left knee and hang your other hand
down by your side. Twist your neck to
look over your left shoulder.” He tilted
his head to the side and looked up at
her standing behind him. “Now don’t
move. Stay like that until I say” He
nodded. Suddenly bright lights seared
the darkness pinning him in their glare.
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at him from
all around. He tensed his muscles then
relaxed, breathing slowly, moving his
eyes to look from one face to another
as far as he could. He was used to this.
The lights on him were hot but he didn’t
sweat, his mouth was dry but he stayed
still, not tempted by the glass of water on
the ground near his dangling hand. He was
not young or old, neither fat nor very thin.
Mr Ordinary, he was balding slightly, with
two day’s growth of grey stubble and dark
hair on his chest, belly, groin and forearms.
His penis and testicles hung exposed between
his thighs.
Maybe that was because he rememberedcoming
here years ago when he was young
and wild, running with a pack, a gang. That
had been a bad night, out of control but
it was so long ago and he had long since
put it from his mind. The stare unsettled
him somehow, drilling into his skull like a
dentist, it was giving him a headache. He
blinked and dry swallowed, suppressed a
cough and breathed in more deeply, shifted
his weight slightly. “Can’t you keep still?”
A loud brash voice, probably some banker
wanker. His neck reddened in anger, he
swallowed again, his jaw twitching as he
clamped his back teeth together.
Relax, let your thoughts empty, concentrate
on not moving, mentally massage your
thigh muscle as it aches, meditate away the
pain in your foot, relax. It usually works
but not tonight. Tonight, in here of all
places, his mind is on the tear, racing from
shadow to shadow back into the past, back
to that night when he was here before. Now
his skin feels chilled and clammy, his cock
and balls feel shrivelled, only the hand dangling
at his side feels alive, heavy, tingling
with energy and menace. He feels the pulse
in his wrist and his fingers twitch as if curling
around something long and thin. Face
blank, his eyes stare unfocussed back over
his shoulder, back into the past.
his gaze away but it is dragged back
against his will. The light seems to have
drained from the room so that all he can
see is the outline of heads and shoulders
crowding in towards him. The contours
weave and shift, dancing around him to
the chaotic beat of dry insect rasps and
wet amphibian flops. His vision swims
and swirls of light like sparks from a firework
swarm across his eyes. He wonders
if he is going to faint and then everything
clears as if someone has lifted a blanket
that was suffocating him.
He relaxes, the tension ebbs from his
muscles and he feels back at home in
his skin. “Ten minutes left.” The woman
says, the sounds around him quicken,
more urgent, frantic. On the home
straight now, he tells himself, confident
he can pass the test again, last them out,
stare them down. That cocky feeling that
comes with knowing he is still on top,
better than any of them, just like the old
days. After all they never caught him did
they, never even guessed. How many was
it? Seven? Eight? He’s lost count. After
the first one who cares anyway and the
first one was right here and none of these
tossers has any idea even after staring at
him for more than an hour. It makes him
feel so good his cock is getting pumped.
Hall of Mirrors
by
Michael Bailey
Their noises were surprisingly loud,
scratching, rubbing, rasping, tapping, the
sound of water and glass, metal and wood,
heavy breathing, low moans and mutters.
Their eyes flicked away then back again
to stare as intensely as the lights, hard unblinking
stares, probing his body, peeling
his skin, raking at his hair. No problem. He
was used to it.
An hour and a half, he’d done longer that
than countless times, staying silent and
motionless as they searched for him. He’d
been cramped and cold, wet with sweat and
rain and worse. This was a cakewalk compared
to some stinking ditch or car park.
Funny really, so many hours spent hiding
from the searching eyes and now here he
was exposing himself, like he was thumbing
his nose at the world.
He found that he kept coming back again
and again to one pair of eyes that locked
onto his own, opened unnaturally wide in
an expressionless face. Not someone to
play poker against, he thought. It was hard
to look away from them, impossible not to
look back as soon as he did. He shivered
slightly despite the lights as a thin trickle
cold sweat ran down his ribs.
A roar of motors, racing, over-revving,
tyres squealing then boots smashing on wet
concrete. Running, running, heavy leather
and iron crunching small stones, splashing
oily water, slipping. The smell of exhaust
and fear, adrenaline sweat and excitement,
beer breath, whiskey and cheap aftershave,
tobacco and wet hair, wet clothes. He cannot
close his eyes, he doesn’t need to, he
only sees flashes of shapes in the shadows,
broken street lights and bricks in the road,
the wet slick of rain on the tarmac, pools
of piss and vomit, sodden trash, tangles of
wire.
Outside, in the room, his body is still except
for the slow breathing, the film in his
head is in black and white, flickering images
like an old news reel of a long forgotten
Bank Holiday down on the coast. He wants
to shake his head but the muscles of his
neck keep still, twisted so he gazes back
into the path of those penetrating eyes.
They pull at him, devouring him, travelling
from his head to his shoulders, chest, waist,
cock and along his legs to his feet. They
consume his hunched shape, his tension,
the arm hanging loose, the hand closing.
He searches for the eyes, those eyes but
they are too strong to keep looking at now,
he shifts
“Thank you, time’s up” She says just in
time. He casually picks up his overcoat
and holds it in front of him as he stands
and stretches. He eases his shoulders and
looks around the room. It’s like being in a
hall of mirrors, he can see his body from
all angles, crouching as if ready to spring,
looking back as if ready to run or to spin
around. Some of the pictures distort him
making him unbalanced, awkward, grotesque.
They always do. Some make him
look fine like a dancer or an athlete. A
couple tell the middle-aged truth accurately.
One is still turned away, the one in front
of those intrusive eyes. As he takes a step
towards it the noise in the room quietens.
Now everyone is looking with him as the
board turns and the picture comes into
view. His shape is there, his crouched
body thin, naked, raw. The face looking
back is young, savage under long lank
hair. The figure is drawn in stark crisp
outlines as if lit by a searchlight or a forensic
photographer’s flash. It is colourless,
black and grey defining skin, muscle
and hair. Colourless except where, in
the hand, the silver glint of a cutthroat
blade is distorted by a wide smear of
fresh bright blood.
15
Image © Michael Bailey