Pass the Parcel (Parlour Games Book 1) by Delilah Des Anges

Author:Delilah Des Anges [Des Anges, Delilah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of D Publications
Published: 2011-01-31T22:00:00+00:00

Section 7.5

The scratched, almost smashed clock casing over the metal gates that stood open before the automatic doors read "10:00am" in yellow tape letters. On either side of the doors, standing open like a whore's cunt, two black-clad

MPPs in full riot gear stood patiently staring at nothing very much, and a third twirled a loudhailer by the cable dangling from his belt. Zachary Salem sat hunched up in ball on the grassy bank opposite Plymouth rail station with his boots muddied and his arms wrapped around his bright-green, oil-streaked knees, and stared down at the MPPs with an expression of hatred so caustic that it was a good chance that anything wandering into his line of sight would evaporate in a puff of shame. The subjects of his ire ignored him, jiggling on their feet in the warm sun and occasionally muttering into their radios.

Behind him the bamboo stalks moved like the curtains in cheap 1970s shows about hairdressing salons, "rattle-clack", and seagulls informed the skies for miles around of their feelings on everything seagulls care about.

It was a beautiful spring day, and Zachary would have been in a much better position to appreciate it had he not spent the preceding night having nightmares up a yew tree in a very dangerous churchyard while being "guarded" by a garrulous monolith with Dissociative Identity Disorder and a middle-aged amnesiac called Bambi who seemed to be displaying a distressing tendency towards being unkillable.

By now he'd largely forgotten that the name was his own idea. His fingernails had so much stringy, red, and pungent yew bark packed under them that he'd stopped trying to pick it out. His make-up was nearly immaculate – that, at least, remained in his bag, and he wasn't about to travel anywhere without a mirror – but his clothes stank of fear, trench foot, graveyards, being manhandled by mental patients, and withdrawal. There were dead yew needles in his dreads that no amount of fiddling and picking by either himself or – despite him shrieking at them to stop fucking touching him – the two lunatics trailing him had been able to work out again.

As transformative adventures went, Zachary felt, this was doing nothing but transform him into someone who would pretty much get down on his knees and beg like a tramp for a bath and a line of coke.

And then the MPPs got bored with playing audio noughts-and-crosses and decided to heckle him again. "IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW PRETTY YOU THINK YOU LOOK, FREAK," the one with the loudhailer called, his wholly native accent splitting the otherwise silent air and ripping it into reverberating shreds inside Zachary's omnipresent headache, "YOU AIN'T COMING IN THIS STATION WITHOUT A TICKET."

Zachary had stopped trying to argue that he would definitely, definitely buy one but he couldn't when the ticket office was inside the station … about two hours ago.

"MAYBE IF YOU TRY SWIMMING ROUND THE PERIMETER," the loudhailer-wielding dick suggested, and he didn't shut off the receiver in time to cut out his self-satisfied giggles.

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