Free Vivisepulture by Wayne Andy; Simmons Tony; Remic Neal; Ballantyne Stan; Asher Colin; Nicholls Steven; Harvey Gary; Savile Adrian; McMahon Guy N.; Tchaikovsky Smith Page B

waste, too poetic an indulgence to ignore.
    Michael dipped his head, opened his mouth and bit.
     
    Cupid was dead.
    Michael knew what Cupid had known: nothing could live without a heart. The organ lay in the sink, a stinking, unwholesome lump much like a tumour. Ripping it out with his teeth, Michael thought it had tasted like out-of-date confectionary.
    Leaving the bathroom with Cupid lumped on the tiles, Michael went to the bedroom. Some whisky lingered in the bottle and he drank, deeply but joylessly.
    What was he going to do now?
    He needed to dispose of the corpse. Despite the wings, Cupid resembled a dead baby and if the slain cherub was discovered, Michael would be locked up for child-murder.
    Michael perched on the bed, thinking.
    Should he eat Cupid, as he presumed Cupid ate his own victims? If so, should he consume the cherub raw? Or buy a primus stove and cook the hideous sprite there, in the hotel room?
    It was an unbearable idea. There had to be another way.
    Should he bundle the corpse in a binbag and lob it into a garbage truck? Or take it home, buy a big dog and serve it as dinner? Or cut it into tiny, innocuous-looking pieces to be dropped in litter bins throughout the city?
    Michael came up with a hundred ideas. None felt right.
    Needing to urinate, he went into the bathroom.
    The Cupid-corpse was decomposing. Its flesh was turning from greenish-yellow to a healthy pink hue. Michael was puzzled but logic asserted itself. When ordinary people decayed, they changed from pink - or white - to the colours of mould. It was reasonable, therefore, that a reverse principle should apply to Cupid, who had been mould-coloured to begin with. Oddly, Cupid looked normal now. Like he had on the picture frame.
    In the sink, the heart was like a pink marshmallow.
    Michael brooded until dawn broke.
    Blackbirds sang on the ledge outside the window. Heavy goods vehicles began their journeys bearing God knows what to God knows where and the grunting rumble of their engines agitated Michael.
    Surging to the window, he glowered into the street. “Shut up, will you? Can’t you see I am trying to think?” A juggernaut growled past, trailer juddering. “For fuck’s sake . . .”
    Michael grew very still, brain ticking.
    Moments later he bundled Cupid into a carrier bag. He went to the window, opened it and waited for the next HGV.
    “Come on,” he breathed, trembling.
    Up the road, headlamps pierced the sullen grey gloom of the new day. The truck was massive, a quaking behemoth of pistons, gaskets and tyres. As it quaked by under the window, Michael half-threw half-dropped the bag, which landed the trailer roof with a soundless crump .
    Stunned by his audacity, overjoyed by his perfect aim, Michael watched the huge machine rolling along the high street to some unknown destination.
    Abruptly, Michael realised he had forgotten about Cupid’s heart. He went into the bathroom and there it was, a pert pink lump, nestling in the plughole. He touched it with a fingertip, fearing it might still be beating. That’s how it went in horror films, at least: the malign adversary turned out to be not quite as dead as one expected. He needn’t have worried. The heart was as inert as a ball of clay.
    Michael dropped it in the toilet then flushed.
    “Now that,” he grinned, “is symbolism.”
    He cleansed the bathroom of splashed blood. He returned the hairdryer to the wall unit. He swabbed spilled whisky from the carpet.
    It was over, he decided.
    He was in a good mood. His appetite had returned and in the restaurant he ordered a full English breakfast. The wedding guests occupied most of the other tables. They were eating without speaking; the restaurant was silent except for clinking cutlery and chomping mouths. The guests’ jollity had evaporated. Michael supposed they were hungover. That was natural. Miserable mornings followed merry nights; it was a law of nature. Yesterday, they had flung confetti; today, they hurled their