Love Shack (Cuckoo)
Love Shack (Cuckoo)
David feels good today.
Love Shack by The B-52s has been stuck in his head all day, on repeat – a holdover from breakfast.
Half humming, half singing to himself, he swaggers past reception, making his way through the lobby as the cleaner sets her Henry to work on the carpet.
David has decided to leave work early.
“Thank fuck it’s Friday!” he yells over at the receptionist, on his way to the exit.
Confusion covers the young woman’s face, but David assumes that she just hasn’t heard him properly over the deafening drone of the god-damn hoover; his voice swallowed by the vacuum.
No big deal, really.
David feels good today.
He saunters home, soaking up the pleasant mid-afternoon sun.
Forgetting himself, David rolls his shirt sleeves up to the elbows, removing earthy scabs from a plethora of the lacerations wrapped around his forearms, climbing up to his blistered knuckles like a failing root system. Intertwined with scar tissue and laced with unsavoury debris.
With a wince, he re-covers his arms.
A thick miasma of fresh pus and blood oozes out from the newly opened wounds and soaks into the freshly washed cotton.
Whoops, David tells himself, She won’t like that.
Now is not the time for photosynthesis either.
Turning over a bulky set of keys in one hand, David tries to call Her via the landline.
The call rings out to voicemail.
No surprise there, She must not have heard it going.
Who has a landline in 2020 anyway?
Well, good question that.
Funny you should ask.
David does.
It was there when he moved in.
He chooses not leave a message.
Everybody loves surprises, right?
***
David makes a minor detour from his idle commute to swing through a Tesco Express.
Here he purchases a bouquet of Sweetheart roses, a large ‘Finest’ pizza, a decent bottle of red wine, and a pack of ribbed & dotted condoms.
He smiles at the pretty cashier, who glances at the condoms, then at the discolouration on David’s sleeves, then back at the condoms.
Openly chiding him, she smirks, showing him a piece of grey, half-digested gum sat in her mouth.
“Feeling lucky tonight?”
A wry question asked straight to his face.
David maintains eye contact; the smile stays put.
“You might be next” he replies jovially, without flinching “If you play your cards right!”
The cashier recoils in revulsion. He hopes she knows that he has a semi.
After what feels like an eternity, a security guard finally intervenes in a manner that is firm yet (performatively) civil, attempting to avoid an escalation.
The cashier watches on as yet another pervert freak is escorted from the premises, chewing on her disgust.
Outside, David’s boss vibrates furiously in his pocket.
He wants to know why David isn’t in the office right now.
Wants to know who the Hell David thinks he is.
Says the company should never have taken him on in the first place.
Says he should have known David was bad news from his fucking record.
Tells him to never come back.
Oh well, better keep all this to myself – would be a shame to let it ruin date night.
***
Arriving at his new front door, David fumbles around with a keyring, trying not to drop the flowers while conducting a careful one-handed search for the laser-cut slab of nickel and silver that will get him inside.
The split-ring is stuffed with keys to his former homes. David treats them like souvenirs or trophies, collected during former lives and made defunct by the passage of time. Ancient memories locked safely away and passed cautiously between custodian bags, jackets, trousers. Kept safe until the very end.
This is move number three since New Path.
Now it’s time to settle down. To get things right.
The shaggy coir doormat has a message for him:
Welcome Home.
After finally finding the correct one, David enjoys the curious satisfaction derived from sliding a key into a lock and feeling the mechanism turn on command.
He steps inside and double-locks the door (remembering the security chain, of course).
The man wanders lackadaisically down the long, narrow hallway bisecting his new apartment, in no particular hurry to do anything.
“Honey, I’m home!”
No response.
A trashy pop song drives out through the closed door at the other end, polluting the tranquil air like a noxious fart in a crowded elevator, or tear gas in a kettled anti-government protest.
The volume must be turned high at its source.
It’s real loud.
David chuckles and shakes his head; She doesn’t know he’s here yet.
The Master Bedroom hides behind the first door on the left.
Upon arrival, David perches himself on the Queen-size bed in the centre of the room.
He examines an image placed on the bedside cabinet, encased in a stylish, matte-black frame. Wafer-thin walls dance to the bass and its rhythms.
Grounded, his toes conduct the palpations transmitted violently underfoot.
The photograph – currently obscured by a thin dust film – is almost a decade old and far from disposable.
Opposite the bed stands a full-length mirror.
David studies his profile carefully; the smiling young man in the shot feels completely alien to him.
This was obviously taken on the best day of Her life.
Abrupt, frenzied panic reverberates round David’s skull as his brain starts a game of mental pinball without handing him the controller.
Where am I?
What the fuck am I doing?
Why am I like this?!
Suddenly, the music stops.
Silence.
The walls stand still.
David gives his reflection a little pep talk:
Deep breaths now buddy.
It’s Date Night, remember?
Don’t let the little things ruin your mood.
It works.
When the racket restarts like musical chairs, accompanied again by movement, he reaches calmly for the empty glass vase that he came in here for.
David slips back into the hallway and strolls leisurely towards the music.
Towards Her.
Sweat produced by the day’s earlier tension hangs heavy on tired skin.
Better freshen up a little.
In the bathroom sink waits a straight razor encased in a pool of yesterday’s dried-out, crusty blood. Bollucks.
A hulking, unsightly pile of crimson and tissue is sat slumped in the newly-stained bathtub.
Should have cleared that up last night.
David pulls the shower curtain shut.
The walls continue to shake like a coke fiend left stranded at a dying house party without any gear; but here the excitement has only just begun.
He cleans the blade with water, then his face with soap.
Takes a swig of mouth wash.
Applies some of the cologne left out by the taps.
The lotion still stings a little, despite the mask of thirty-six hour stubble now guarding his face. David’s head jolts reflexively, turning his attention to the set of women’s clothing slumped beside an over-flowing wicker basket in the corner of the room.
A musty-smelling work uniform.
While attempting to stuff it back in with the rest of the laundry, he discovers a large, wayward tear in the blouse fabric.
Let’s just pretend I haven’t seen that.
Instead of calling attention to it, he transfers the roses into the vase and puts the leftover plastic into the waste basket beneath the sink.
When he exits the room the blade leaves with him, but the nylon screen silhouette stays exactly where it is.
***
Finally, David approaches the entrance to the living room-kitchen at the end of the hallway.
With one ear pushed up against the closed door, music rattles through his rakish, mumbling grin. THE LOVE SHACK IS A LITTLE OLD PLACE WHERE
Stepping back a little, he follows along.
WE CAN GET TOGETHER
The noise drops off as David fixes his tie, takes a long, deep breath, and waits patiently for the refrain to land.
Wait for it.
A steady beat begins to reveal itself.
Wait for it.
Anticipation drips from forehead onto floor.
Waaait foooor iiiiiiiiiit.
A whisper beckons him:
Bang, bang, bang, on the door, baby…
and David raps his fingers gingerly against the lightweight door – in sync with the music and giddy with glee.
KNOCK A LITTLE LOUDER SUGAR
He complies with his fist.
I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
The strikes grow (BANG BANG) heavier and heavier (ON THE DOOR BABY).
Call and response (BANG BANG) as he feels deep bruises forming (ON THE DOOR) and his throbbing hand.
(YOUR WHAT?!)
Craaaaacked knuckles… busted!
First comes deranged, incomprehensible shrieking, then:
LOVE SHACK, BABY, LOVE SHACK!
a mutilated hand bursts through cedar
LOVE SHACK, BABY, LOVE SHACK!
like a newly born Xenomorph.
LOVE SHACK, BABY, LOVE SHACK!
Spewing blood. Everywhere. Blood.
LOVE SHACK, BABY, LOVE SHACK!
Sweet release.
As the noise evaporates, David’s composure returns like a magic trick devoid of universal appeal.
One for the Circus of Horrors, perhaps?
Embracing the silence, he slides through the ruined door:
“Did you miss me?”
Yet again, no fucking response.
What is up with her today?!
David prepares a small glass of wine for himself and stores the pizza in the fridge.
Glaring right at Her, he places the vase on the kitchen worktop and begins to arrange the flowers.
The stem tips are trimmed with the bathroom razor.
Tap water collects at the bottom of the vase.
The pre-packaged plant feed is mixed in with the liquid.
Drops of deep rouge dissolve into the solution.
A few extra nutrients won’t do them any harm.
In the corner, a woman in her early thirties sits bound to a chair.
Naked and quivering.
Gagged with yesterday’s underwear held in place with a strip of masking tape.
Petrified.
David sighs as he moves stray hairs tenderly from Her face, leaving streaks of his re-coagulating blood on Her thighs.
“Come on now baby, what’s the matter with you?!”
Fraught, muffled tears stream out from Her eyes like seeker missiles, or homing pigeons carrying urgent messages addressed to the outside world.
Mayday, mayday.
Can anybody hear me?
Anyone at all.
Distress signals search the airspace for anyone but David until a sudden, familiar, sound pulses in the air like electromagnetic dread.
His smile returns immediately as he starts to mumble along once again.
IF YOU SEE A FADED SIGN BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD THAT SAYS…
She’s doomed.
This is their second night together.
David feels good today.