Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,68

Serial Killer some weeks back. Probably still have it.”

“Why don’t you stock Needle?”

“‘Who wants Needle? They’re naff.”

“I mean, the early albums. With Nemo Skagg.”

“Who’s he?”

“Someone who isn’t dead yet.”

“That’s his problem then, isn’t it.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. You’re a piss artist. Now bugger off.”

Chase caught Nemo Skagg’s arm and tugged hard. “Come on, mate. There’s nothing here.”

And they slunk out, past life-size posters of James Dean, mesmerizing walls of John Lennon T-shirts, kaleidoscopic racks of Marilyn Monroe postcards. Elvis lip-synched to them from the backs of leather jackets. Betty Page stared wide-eyed and ball-gagged from Xotique’s window of fetish chic. Jim Morrison was being born again in tattoo across the ample breast of a spike-haired blonde. A punker couple with matching Sid and Nancy T-shirts displayed matching forearms of needle tracks. Someone was loudly playing Buddy Holly from the stall that offered painless ear piercing. A blazing skull grinned at them from the back of the biker who lounged at the exit, peddling his skinny ass in stained leather jeans.

Outside it was still a pleasant September late afternoon, and even the exhaust-clogged air of Ken High Street felt fresh and clear to Chase’s lungs. Nemo Skagg was muttering under his breath, and the shakes seemed to have returned. Chase steered him across traffic and back toward the relative quiet of Ken Church Street.

“Off-license. Just ahead.” Nemo was acting now on reflex. He drew Chase into the off-license shop and silently dug out two four-packs of Tennent’s Super. Chase added some sandwiches of unknown composition to the counter, paid for the lot, and they left.

“Just here,” said Nemo, turning into an iron gate at the back of the church at the corner of Ken Church and Ken High Street. There was an enclosed churchyard within—a quiet garden with late roses, a leafy bower of some vine, walkways and benches. A few sarcophagi of eroded stone made grey shapes above the trimmed grass. Occasional tombstones leaned as barely decipherable monuments here and there; others were incorporated into the brick of the church walls. Soot-colored robins explored wormy crab apples, and hopeful sparrows and pigeons converged upon the two men as they sat down. The traffic of Kensington seemed hushed and distant, although only a glance away. Chase was familiar with this area of Kensington, but he had never known that this churchyard was here. He remembered that Nemo Skagg had once owned a house somewhere in the borough. Possibly he had sat here often, seeking silence.

Nemo listlessly popped a can of Tennent’s, sucked on it, ignored the proffered sandwich. Chase munched on cress and cucumber, anxious to get any sort of food into his stomach. Savoring the respite, he sipped on his can of lager and waited.

Nemo Skagg was on his second can before he spoke. “So then, mate. Now you know.”

Chase had already decided to find a cab once the evening rush hour let up. He was certain he could not manage the tube after the afternoon’s booze-up. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“You’ve got to be dead. All their heroes are ghosts. They only worship the dead. The music, the posters, the T-shirts. All of it. They only want to love dead things. So easy to be loyal to dead things. The dead never change. Never grow old. Never fade away. Better to drop dead than to fade away.”

“Hey, come on.” Chase thought he had it sussed. “Sure the place has its obligatory showcase of dead superstars. That’s nostalgia, mate. Consider that there were ten or twenty times as many new faces, new groups, new stars.”

“Oi. You come back in a year’s time, and I promise you that ninety per cent of your new faces will be missing and well forgotten, replaced by another bloody lot of bloody new sods. But you’ll still find your bloody James Dean posters and your bloody Elvis jackets and your bloody Doors CDs and your bloody John Lennon T-shirts, bullet holes three quid extra.

“Listen, mate. They only want the dead. The dead never change. They’re always there, at your service, never a skip. You want to wank off on James Dean? There he is, pretty as the day he snuffed it. Want head from Marilyn Monroe? Just pump up your inflatable doll.

“But. And this is it, Ryan. Had James Dean learned to drive his Porsche, he’d by now be a corpulent old geezer with a hairpiece and three chins like Paul Newman or Marlon Brando. Marilyn Monroe would be a stupid old cow slapping