By Brian Stableford
Package is a twenty-five-year-old Yorkshire bus motive force who is not rather just like the remainder of us, because the previous tale is going. sooner or later she hears a passenger enjoying a song-the electrical Hellfire Club's "Kiss the Goat"-a track she by no means knew existed outdoor the ghostly manifestations which were haunting her lonely nights, whole with sounds, odor and sight. input, then, the ghost of Rose Selavy . . . a devil-worshipping prostitute with extra on her brain than simply physically ownership . . . A romp via satanic disco track, airy auto-erotica and apparitions with agendas, this contemporary ghost tale is mind Stableford at his quirky and subversive most sensible.
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Extra info for Kiss the Goat
That, she realized, was the most uncomfortable thought of all. A ghostly seducer was one thing, even if the seduction in question was lesbian in kind, but a ghost that might expect a price to be paid for the rewards of seduction was something else. Kit remembered what she had said to Stephen in the pub, as sarcastically as she could: Given that she seems to have been a devil-worshipping whore, I suppose, one way or another, she must want my body. That was as close as she had come to telling him about the touch, or at least about the nature of the most insistent aspect of the touch.
I don’t need to make up stuff to get lads up here,” she told him, flatly. “And if I did, I wouldn’t make up stuff like that, or pick on lads like you. and even seeing things, after a fashion. But I’m not spinning a yarn, let alone a spiderweb. ” The last sentence as pure provocation. He wanted to all right, and they both knew it. He was apprehensive and he was awkward, but there was no lack of desire. Kit would have taken his enthusiasm as a compliment if she hadn’t been around the block long enough to know that lads his age would bang birds with paper bags over their heads and vomit all over their spangly tops, in an alley or a public toilet, just to get their ends away.
What if hers turned out to be a private and exclusive madness after all? What if there never had been a whore named Rose Selavy living here? What if Rose Selavy were her own alter ego, conjured up by too much wondering about what Mum might think of her being here instead of safely imprisoned at home? “If you are what you drink,” Stephen said, eventually, “you might think about switching to Gold Blend. ” “I might,” she agreed, dismissively, although she thought it was a bit of a cheek for him to start slagging off her instant coffee when he’d already admitted that he didn’t like it real.
Kiss the Goat by Brian Stableford