All nightmare long, p.30
All Nightmare Long, page 30
Meloy snorted, probably at the word “minor”. Scumbags like this wore their crimes with pride. But Stylist was getting there.
“Hooked up with the Morris Mob four years ago. Couple of banks, then moved on to posh homes around Kensington and Chelsea. The gang’s calling card was to anally rape the woman of the house in front of her husband and children.”
“Bitches loved a good butt-fuckin’.”
“Right.” Stylist slammed his flattened left hand against Meloy’s ear. It might not pop his eardrum—odds were even that an impact like that would do any lasting damage—but from the noise he made, it obviously smarted.
“You’re gonna fuckin—”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ cut your hair,” Stylist said. “I’m going to finish what I have to say, pronounce my sentence, and then take out my comb and give you a new hairdo. Because that’s what I do. And . . .”He leaned in closer, breathing into the man’s right ear. “I just know you know what that means. You’ve got friends I’ve worked on, I’m sure. You’ve seen.”
“You don’t scare me,” Meloy said, his voice loaded with the lie.
“Oh, I’m not here to scare you. I’ll leave that up to Cthulhu Girl, or Downside. That’s their territory. My aim has always been self-improvement.” He snipped the scissors, their sharp snick! ringing through the room. “Now, if I can finish?”
“You’ll be finished, fucker.”
Stylist slapped Meloy’s ear again, but he was frowning. Unsettled. Usually by now they’d be begging.
“The Morris Gang disbanded when Morris was killed by The Plumber. Ewww. What a mess that was. Did you ever see what became of your boss? I’m sure you did. The pictures are all over the net. Huh. Plumber. Bless him, he always does enjoy the notoriety. He’ll get himself caught and cancelled one day.”
“Not before you, hair man.”
Stylist decided to ignore the quips. They were bravado, nothing more.
“Since then you’ve been on your own. If it’d stayed at burglary I’d have probably left you alone, let one of the newer, younger Vees sweep you up.”
“The newer Vigilantes can suck my—”
Stylist struck the same ear again. It sounded wet. “Maybe you’d have even avoided anyone’s attention for a few more years. But on those raids with the Morris Mob, the rapes became more important to you than the robberies.”
“Yeah,” Meloy drawled.
“My sentence is rearrangement,” Stylist said. He withdrew his comb, wielded the scissors, and made the first cut. He felt the intimate brush of just-snipped hair falling across the back of his hand and then away to the floor. It always felt so alive. Sometimes, he thought he heard it scream.
“Do-gooder,” Meloy said. “Weakling. Trim away. Cut away. Leave me like one of them. But you...your number’s up, hair man. Your name’s been called. You and all of you stupid fuckin’ Vees who think you’re ’normal’. Ha!” Meloy started laughing again as Stylist continued cutting, channelling himself through the comb and scissors, everything he was and had, and everything he wanted for Guy Meloy. He felt the criminal’s hair falling away, and even in the darkness he was aware of the shape forming before him. The man’s hair was being crafted into an impossible design, bearing the weight of his crimes and creating the gravity of guilt. And from now on, it would always be this way.
But Meloy remained defiant.
“And your family, hair man.”
Stylist paused, the silence shorn of scissor whispers.
“They know where your family live. Your boy, your girl.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
Meloy sniggered. Stylist cut some more, lessening the man and making a permanent scar of his hair.
“They look at you and all your friends, and laugh. And...plan.”
“Who are they?” Stylist asked again. He snicked the scissors close to Meloy’s right eye, trimming eyelashes.
“And your wife.” Meloy’s tone fell, heavy with something other than fear. “Her, with her gorgeous arse just waiting for me to fill—”
Stylist felt a rush of blood, pulsing from his heart and deadening his senses. He shifted his right hand, casually, without effort, and felt a spray of heat across his wrist and forearm. “Who are they?” he asked yet again.
“Gleeful . . .” Meloy muttered. But then he started gasping in surprise at what had been done.
Stylist took two steps back to avoid the blood, and watched as Meloy bled to death through his nicked carotid artery.
“Damn,” he whispered. The dying man’s blood was a shadow amongst shadows as it pulsed from the wound, splashing against the wall and dirty flood. Already there came the patter of rat-feet. Meloy tried to speak, but shock had stolen his voice. “Damn.” Stylist did not like loss of control. What he did was defined by control—careful cutting and combing, forming an idea that would be borne forever by the shape he made of a client’s hair—and losing it was not a good sign.
But the scumbag had said that about his wife.
Stylist swept the clippings, tipped them into a small bag he produced from his pocket, turned to go, and he could still hear the sounds of Guy Meloy’s slow death behind him. He didn’t care. One scumbag or another, it was all a case of extremes.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Stylist said as he emerged into the cool night air. A familiar mantra. A phrase he lived by.
Making his way home through the city, smelling its corruption, sensing its violence, and catching sight of one other fleeting shadow that might or might not have been someone he knew, Stylist was happy to let the inhumanity that dwelled within sweep away the guilt.
Extract from Once Were Vigilantes, by Max Gold, London Council Press
Stylist (active London, England: July 2022-?)—One of the minor Vees, using arcane knowledge to alter the people whose hair he cut through subtle shifts in brain patterns, a slow release effect loaded into permanent, untouchable hair styles, and tools—scissors, a comb, a brush—whose origins are still unknown. It is believed he also ran a barbershop in London, and while there have been rumours of his identity, there was never a definitive exposure. When The Gleeful Ones came to the fore, it is rumoured that The Stylist either went to ground, or fled the country.
Conflicting reports also suggest that he was one of the first Vees murdered by the Gleeful Ones for disagreeing with their philosophy.
His street was dark and asleep when he arrived. It was almost midnight. Glancing up, he saw the shadow of one of the airships passing slowly and silently overhead, distinguishable from the clouds only by its uniform shape. He slipped into an alley between two abandoned houses and lifted a loose fencing board, crawling through into the dilapidated shed on the other side. Here he removed his mask and boiler-suit. Stylist had never been one for elaborate costumes, feeling that Vees who needed to make a statement with how they dressed did not really understand their purpose. He dropped the clothing into a tub, poured in a measure of dry-wash, then crawled back out into the alley.
By the time he stood beneath a streetlight once again, Stylist had become Jason Hamm.
Fifteen houses along the street stood his own home. The lights were out, and inside it was quiet, but for the gentle hum of the TV and games console the kids had left on. Jason tutted, moved across the living room, and then sat heavily on the sofa. Breathing hard. Feeling blood drying on his wrist and hand. Seeing Meloy’s shadow struggling into death, and hearing him saying, They know where you live. Your boy, your girl. And your wife.
Jason had always promised himself that the minute his activities threatened his family, he would stop. Throw away his tools, try and forget the thing inside him that fed Stylist, powered his creations. But squeezing his eyes shut now, the truth he had always known forced itself to the fore—that the choice could never be his.
He crept upstairs and showered, then went into his children’s room. Holly and Sean still insisted on sleeping in the same bedroom, and while they were young enough, Jason hated to dissuade them. At nine, Holly was three years older than her brother. The time would soon come when they bickered more than played, argued more than laughed. Jason and Janie wanted to grab onto every minute of the present as shield against the future.
Jason sat on the beanbag by the door and, illuminated by the weak nightlight, watched his children sleeping. Holly had her cuddly tiger clasped tightly beneath her arm, and her long hair partly obscured her face. She snored, very softly. Sean had thrown off his covers, as usual. His face glimmered with beads of sweat. He mumbled and twitched. Jason wondered what both of his children were dreaming of, and hoped that it was good. Everything he did was to make their lives safer, and their dreams better. Everything he did was for them.
He stood and kissed them both goodnight. Then he crossed the landing to the smaller room he and Janie used as their bedroom, slipped in between the covers, and snuggled up to her warmth.
“Hmm, where’s the cake?” she asked, sighing in some dreamy satisfaction. Jason laughed softly. Her dreams, as well. His family was everything to him, and the thought of any danger befalling them . . .
He touched his wife’s long, luscious hair, running it through his fingers, closing his eyes, sensing the power in her hair and knowing that he would never, ever touch it.
He fell asleep surprisingly quickly, and as ever his dreams were sharp.
“Bunch of roses,” he said. “Red ones. Thirteen.”
“Unlucky for some?” the woman asked.
“Not today.” Jason smiled. Florist nodded, glanced past him at the shop doorway, then scanned a CCTV camera display she kept beneath her counter.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you want?” She never had been the friendliest of people.
“I’m not just allowed to visit?”
“Fuck’s sake. A barber visiting a florist. Anyone looking for patterns...”
“You’re just paranoid.”
“Huh. You know there’re searchers out there. Wanting to expose us, end us.”
Jason shrugged, then sniffed a rose. It was beautiful. But Florist could make it un-beautiful. Some of the bouquets she sent out carried aromas to intoxicate, confuse, cripple, wipe memory, or kill. The beauty of her gift was that anyone who suspected her of being something more than she projected would have their suspicions erased. Jason had often believed her to be one of the most dangerous Vees he knew about. Whereas he could play with fate, Florist could deal in memory.
“What do you know about ‘gleeful’?”
“Huh?” She continued arranging, trimming, sizing stems. But in a very deliberate way. Her movements had shifted from natural to forced.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jason said, and he turned to leave.
“Stylist.”
He turned back, raising one eyebrow. Using such names in public, in the open, was so foolish that...But she had caught his attention. And she held out one yellow rose, aiming at him like some beautiful gun.
“What?”
“There is nothing gleeful,” she said. And she lowered the rose and nodded at the door. “Customers.” A man and woman entered, laughing over some secret, and Florist’s smile lit up the shop as she welcomed them in.
Jason left and walked along the busy street, passing greengrocers and jewellers, betting shops and furniture showrooms. People jostled and bustled. Cars grumbled by, the line of traffic hardly moving any faster than pedestrians.
He looked up at the clear blue sky, empty of airships at the moment. Maybe the Councillors had a conference, in which case they would be parked and floating above the ruins of the Houses of Parliament. Or perhaps there was simply nothing of interest in this suburb of London today.
“Bullshit,” Jason muttered. An old woman looked at him suspiciously, and he smiled at her. She shook her head and hurried away. “There’s plenty of interest here,” he said, looking back at Florist’s shop and the colourful explosion of blooms spilling across the pavement. His blood was chilled. “Plenty.”
Extract from Once Were Vigilantes,
by Max Gold, London Council Press
Stylist’s modus operandi has been gleaned from several victims, none of whom wish to be named or photographed. All describe a “tingling in their mouth and nose, an explosion of stranger senses and memories, unconsciousness, and then waking somewhere else”. Abandoned buildings were his favourite haunt, and it is suspected that he had prepared such sites—there was always a chair present, adequate plastic bindings, and in some cases a mirror in which the victim could view the cutting. The styling would take place (an experience described by separate victims as “odd”, “unsettling, like someone trimming my personality”, and “seriously fucking whacked, man”). Following the trim, Stylist would collect the hair trimmings using a small pan and brush, and then leave the victims to effect their own escape. Some remained bound and trapped for many hours or even days, and on release they were changed people. Lessened. Criminals mostly, but there are alleged cases of mistaken identity. And of course, there are those whom Stylist murdered.
Later, in the small office and kitchen behind his barbershop, Jason was in preparation. The hair from a hundred heads, finely chopped, mixed, breathed upon, and imbued with the breath of the thing inside that drove him to do what he did, and gave him the means. It carried memories and dreams, fears and nightmares, and when sprinkled into someone’s face, stunned them with sensory input. No normal person could withstand the sudden rush of imagery and remain upright. Many drugs worked on the muscles, but Jason knew that the brain was the centre of the body. He chopped and chopped again, mixing and processing until it was unrecognisable as hair, more as a powder. Dampening it as he went to prevent any escape to the atmosphere, he then separated the compound into small, pinch-sized folds of foil. He hid these away in a dozen cracks between floorboards and brick walling, keeping one in his pocket as always.
Standing, tapping the foil packet, and wondering what the hell was going on, the bell above the door chimed him back from Stylist to Jason Hamm.
He walked through into his barbershop and stopped. Staring. She was probably used to people staring.
“I’d like a haircut, please,” she said, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Gorgeous, there was also something about her that instantly set Jason on edge. She wore tight jeans and a white tank-top vest. Straight, shoulder-length blazing red hair. Three earrings in each ear, another in her nose, and tattoos reached from the neckline and arms of her top, like a many-limbed thing wanting out. Jason wondered at the full splendour of the ink.
“This is a barbershop,” Jason said. “I’m usually only visited by men.”
“Oh, barber!” the woman said, waving the words away. Her smile was sweet, enticing. “You’re a hair stylist, aren’t you?”
And there it was.
“I can cut your hair if you want,” he said.
“I want.” She walked to the single barber’s chair and lowered herself down, releasing the lever that dropped the chair to the floor. “Oh, whoops,” she said. “You’ll have to raise me up again.”
Jason stood behind the chair and rested his foot on the bar. Pumping, the chair rose in jolts, and each time he pumped the woman’s breasts moved beneath her vest. She watched him in the mirror, watching her. The smile never slipped from her lips, but neither did it fully form.
“You cut, I’ll talk,” she said. “Oh, and don’t even think about using any of your stuff on me.”
“Who are you?” Jason asked.
She stared at him in the mirror. Now, the smile did drop. “I said I talk.”
Jason nodded, and started brushing her hair.
“He was a scumbag, but he was useful to me.”
Jason knew that she was watching him, so he raised an eyebrow. He could not take his eyes from her burning, blazing hair.
“Meloy.”
“Who?”
She sighed. “He’s not why I’m here, though. Not really. I’m here because I suspect he might have been a little...gleeful with his talk. Before you killed him.”
“Killed who?” Jason tried to affect shock, but simply catching her eye in the mirror melted him a little. His face relaxed, and he offered a half-smile. Okay. Fair enough. So what’s the game?
“Loose talk costs lives, Jason. Meloy lost his, but there are lots, lots more whose value is much higher. If he made you think there might be...something going on, then cast that thought from your mind.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were green. They know where they live. Your boy, your girl. Snip. He trimmed quarter of an inch from the hair above her ears. He heard every hair parting, every one falling. He cut it as Jason Hamm.
“Loose thoughts cost lives, too. And what Meloy might have been hinting at...what he might have let slip, if you didn’t cut his throat too early . . .”She paused, forcing him to look at her. “Eh? Too early?”
Jason shrugged, giving nothing away.
Snip.
“Well, it wasn’t his to let slip. It was ours to tell.”
“Gleefully?”
She frowned, just slightly, betraying some internal conflict.
“Meloy threatened my family.” He smoothed her hair, closed his eyes for an instant, and felt the thing inside that made him other move to the fore. He held the hair between his fingers aslant, so that it caught the light and seemed to burn like ancient fire. Opened the scissors. Breathed out the thought, She will forget who I am and where my family and I live. Started to—
“Don’t you fucking dare.” The voice was so different that Stylist dropped the scissors and Jason stepped back in shock. The woman’s hair rose around her head as though a strong breeze swept through the still barbershop, and as she stood from the chair, the tattoos on her shoulders and upper arms squirmed awake. They writhed in exotic rhythm, stroking sensuous tendrils across her pale skin.
She turned, lifting the vest up over her head in one fluid movement, exposing the designs splayed across her body. Enticing, hypnotic, the tattoos moved in synch with the woman’s flesh as she closed on him and placed a hand on each shoulder.
“You’d try to cut me?” she asked. “You’d try to change me?” She ran one hand through her hair, giving freedom to the thing that was her skin. And . . .
