Cliffé Noir

Ugh. I feel like some dumb mick's been doing a riverdance on my brain. It's too bright in here, doesn't this bastard have any curtains? Might as well be in the goddamn dentist's chair. I could use a good hard drilling to take my mind off this headache.

I've got a message from my associate back in Cardiff. He's been running a couple errands for me, sorting out some paperwork and running it down to the office for me. Looks like he's got it all done, so that's something. He's asking me if I want to go see the Christmas lights get switched on tomorrow night. Yeah, as if I need to see any more lights.

What the hell am I even doing here? Everyone here in York is either too Northern or not Northern enough, it's hard to know where you stand. I mean, I'm here to see JR, but the journey up here took a fucking age and all that Holland-haired potato fetishist ever did anyway was beat me at Risk.

At least last night was entertaining. I for one stilll have enough alcohol in me to knock out a pitbull. And for someone who's so good at Risk, JR sure knows his way around a woman. And neither him nor that doll last night thought that was gonna last. He's got this catch-and-release technique going for him. Just does it for the pleasure. It's less cruel, really. Ain't no trout wants to be thrown in the keep basket.

I need something to eat. I've got to get some food. My stomach's growling like a rusty Ford making its last slow journey before being set alight and abandoned in a kids' playground. Check the cupboards, JR's gotta have some bread or biscuits or somethin'.

But no. Just goddamn fucking potatoes.

"JR! You asshole!"
"What?"
"Where's your food?"
"Mmf...try the cupboards..."
"Yeah, I did. All you got is potatoes. Where's your real food? Don't tell I gotta find my way to a McDonald's at this hour."
"Fuck you, Cliffey. I've got the hangover from Hades here, and all you can do is whine about food. Fuck you."

No way am I going to make it outside. My legs already feel like two individual waterbeds. I'm gonna lay back down on the couch and try to imagine that I've just eaten. Pork sausages. Plump. Toffee apple glaze. A heap of mashed potato the size of Austria...no. No good. A poor man doesn't get richer by sticking his fist in his pocket and pretending it's a wallet full of hundred-dollar bills, and I'm not gonna get full from a picture in my aching head.

"Aaaaaagh!"

Hurf. If JR's hangover was half as bad as mine, he wouldn't be screaming so loudly. I think I'll tell him so.

"JR, if your-"
"Fuckfuckfuck."
"What the hell is it?"
"Cliffey, get in here."

In JR's room is a corpse, no head, broken, bloodied, twisted, tortured.

"Is this yours?"

JR is freaking out. Obviously he's not used to this sort of thing.

"There there. Come through to the kitchen, I'll make you some hash browns, that'll calm you down."
"Cliffey, there is a dead body in my room."
"Yes. There is a dead body in your room."
"Well...what the hell's it doing there? How did it get there?"

Well, shit. This is exactly the sort of thing I came here to get away from.

* * *

[DISCLAIMER: This is all pure fiction, of course; while I'm not entirely sure of what went on during Cliffey's visit to York, I think we can be fairly certain that JR did not find a decapitated corpse in his room. Also, Cliffey is not a hardboiled detective, and JR isn't the ruthless womaniser I make him out to be here. He is a potato fetishist, though. That's the stone cold truth. - Joel]