Page 46 of Andalusia Dogs
Joanna struggled against the grip of the blond man, who’d slipped beneath the waters once more with only a firm hand gripping Joanna’s hair and another on her throat to announce his presence. Alex pushed Jago away just as Joanna broke free of the assault, retreating upstage and assuming a defensive posture on her haunches, hands outstretched like claws, keeping the man at bay. He slid smoothly from the waters, his naked body flopping at her side like a seal. She repositioned herself to give him space, but on dry land, some unseen force had sapped him of all energy. He dragged himself along the stage, willing each arm to pull and each foot to push him along like some ancient fish learning to use evolution’s first feeble attempt at limbs. When he at last flopped over on his back, his face was filled with pain. It was another face Alex knew. A body he’d held. A dick he’d sucked.
“Vicente,” he whispered. “Jago, we have to—"
“Alex, I beg you.” Jago grasped his hand again.
His mind raced, not knowing what to believe. In no universe would sweet Vicente ever do intentional harm to Joanna, or anyone, for that matter. He also wasn’t an actor, which meant that the awful rasping sounds now coming from his throat had to be real.
“We have to help him.” Alex didn’t know why he was still whispering. What was wrong with the rest of them? Not a gasp. Not a cry. Not one voice had been raised in compassion or concern. No reaction at all. He winced as Jago pressed hard into a tender spot on his wrist, silently shaking his head. On stage, he saw Joanna hovering over Vicente’s body as it gasped for breath. She gently rolled him to the water’s edge, where she dipped her hair, squeezing the liquid over Vicente’s body as if bathing unseen wounds. The movement seemed to steady his breath as she washed his chest, stomach, legs and exposed cock with her hair, dipping it in the water as she needed. When she was done, she rested one hand at the centre of his chest, the other between his legs.
“Doch mat. Kahven leth?”
Vicente’s lips were moving, but the voice was the one that had admitted them to the club.
“Gel-VASHtuq sverehistei.How does it taste now?”
That last part had been in English, which Vis also didn’t speak.
Joanna lowered her mouth to Vicente’s chest, dotting it with kisses that slowly made their way from its centre to one of his nipples. She bit him so hard, blood flowed. Vicente screamed. Alex was up from his seat and running toward the stage before Jago could stop him. A glimpse of the old woman sitting two rows down from them startled him so hard, he tripped down the stairs. Staring at him from her seat was a skeletal, rictus grin of approval, matched in death on the faces of the couple further down, and in the parents with their child. Six souls, long dead, skin shrunken to bones, organs long melted.
“Alex,” Vicente sobbed, reaching out to him. “Alex!”
“I’m coming, Vis!”
“Alex, you mustn’t!” Jago’s plea fell on deaf ears as Alex used a chair to pull himself to his feet.
“Joanna, what are you do—” He stumbled forward to the stage and plunged headlong into the water, going in over his head before he had time to draw breath. He dispelled his disbelief long enough to kick off his shoes and try to tread the strangely warm waters. Alex tumbled over and over in the dark, until he’d lost any sense of buoyancy, neither sinking, nor floating. He had to get to the surface. For Vis. For himself. Could he stand up? The waters couldn’t possibly be so deep that—
The sensation of hard stone on his bare feet jarred him. Standing up, he burst from the water, which now reached only to his knees. He flailed like a madman in the dry night air, mopping water from his face and eyes, looking down at his soaked clothes. He was standing knee-deep in the waters of the fountain, with the bronze image of the fallen Lucifer towering over him, a hive of daemonic faces laughing in unison. Otherwise, he was alone.
Dawn’s first rays reflected a glint of gold in the water. It was the ping pong ball Jago had tossed away earlier. Alex watched it abruptly sink to the bottom, releasing a small bubble as it went.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You look exhausted, lovely.” Without being asked, Victoria ducked behind the counter and poured him an enormous cup of black coffee. “I know you kids like your partying, but I need you sharp, understood?”
“I’m sorry.” He accepted the cup with rueful gratitude. “I’m okay, really.”
It wasn’t as if walking home had clarified things for him. The emerging dawn light had brought with it only more questions. He’d called Vicente and Joanna from the first payphone he’d found. A sleepy and annoyed Vis had informed him both of them had not only gotten home safely some hours prior but had been fast asleep. He’d mumbled an apology, and lacking a plausible explanation for his panic, had hung up.
That assurance that Vis and Joanna were in one piece had been the only thing keeping him from marching back to Jago’s apartment and demanding answers. That is, the only thing besides the fact that his questions made no bloody sense. Had any of it been real? If not, he couldn’t even be mad at Jago.
“What did you take?” Victoria asked as he sipped.
“Huh? Nothing?”
“I know the look, dear. No bother, just asking as a mother with a son not much younger than you. I have no idea whatthey’re passing around these days, and do you think he’ll tell me anything?”
Alex knew a lie was the clearest way out of this. “Just a joint. There might have been some coke.”
“Might have been?”
“I don’t know. I can’t afford that stuff.”
“For the record, that’snothow you should ask me for a raise.”
The door to the café swung open, admitting a handful of young people whose brightly coloured clothes clashed with their sombre dispositions. For a moment, Alex thought he recognised them.
“Good morning,” Victoria called, offering them a smile before tilting her head to signal Alex’s cue. She opened new a bag of potatoes and started peeling.
