Lanternalia by Will Pinhey

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“You’re allergic,” Paulie tells me, running his finger around the braised red skin up my neck. “This happened before, and it’s worse this time.”

I turn back to the mirror, pulling my collar down further, straining to follow the inflamed trail that encircles my throat.

“Allergic to what?” I ask. “The ink?”

“Probably. It happens. More common with red than black, but still.”

I shift my head from one side to the other. It’s a crimson ring of inflammation, gently throttling me, like a stencil mark left by wire, pulled tight until it bites and bruises.

“I’ve been getting tattoos for the best part of a decade. I don’t see why this would just start happening.”

“I wasn’t always lactose intolerant.” Paulie shrugs. “We grow into things.”

I let my collar drop. Around us, the hum of needles in the studio seems a little too loud.

“So, what? I have to stop?”

“I didn’t say that,” Paulie answers, and he starts to clean down his station, change his gun over. “I’m not a doctor. But I know what I see, and that’s a nasty reaction. I wouldn’t push it for a bit.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A year?”

“That’s no good for me.”

“Do what you want, but that’s my opinion.”  

I don’t give any response to this, pulling my jacket on and ignoring him when he asks if I’ll do a coffee run as I leave. I walk until I reach the canal, then deliberately follow it in the opposite direction from home, wanting to get lost. November air slaps and scrapes, and yet despite the chill, my neck feels hotter with every step.

I’m making dinner when I get a call from Paulie. Says he doesn’t want me moping, tells me where he’ll be drinking and to come find him. As much as I want to indulge this admittedly unfair anger towards him, it doesn’t seem like I’m going to be getting a better offer tonight, so after a salty bowl of noodles I go meet him at a pub near his flat.

Paulie has a drink waiting for me when I arrive, already more than a little drunk himself. Peering at me, he clasps his hands together, eyes taking a moment to fully focus.

 “Look,” he says, leaning in, sending a waft of beer and cigarettes into my face as he does so. “I know this is gonna fuck up your—schedule. I’m sorry. Just trying to be straight with you.”

I nod, taking two large sips of my drink. “I know. I just didn’t wanna hear it.”

“You don’t have to keep up that kind of regularity, anyway.”

“It helps me.”

“I know, but maybe it’s good to try not having to rely on it—”

“I don’t rely on it.”

“Okay, sure, but like I’m just saying, you could maybe work with this.”

“I’ll find something else. It’s cool.”

Paulie frowns, delves for a response inside his glass. Doesn’t find one, so orders shots instead.

We stay till close, which turns out to only be half ten. A little too irritably I ask what kind of city London’s becoming, and the bartender replies one that doesn’t want us in it. Outside I’m keen to get into something else, but Paulie waves me off and says he has to open up tomorrow. He clasps my shoulder, brings his gaze level with mine.

“You’ll be alright, yeah?” he says. “You’ll look after yourself?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Come by anytime, door’s always open. Bring coffee, though.”

We part ways and he almost trips over the curb as he heads down the street. I jam my hands into my pockets, breathing out a cloud of mist, and set off in my own direction. It’s quite a walk to mine from here, and not a route I’ve taken before, but I don’t want to face the shrieking voices and harsh lights of public transport at this time.

The route is mostly side streets and quiet residential roads, interspersed with the occasional shuttered corner shop. I still have a taste for something, although I’m not sure exactly what beyond a general reluctance to call it a night. When I see venue lights ahead, a deviation from the route my phone had given me, I walk towards them curiously. At first I think it’s a bar, a single neon blue line blaring horizontally through the winter fog, but as I get closer I see the black letters pasted onto a white background that indicate a cinema showing. The title it lists is Lanternalia. I push the door open, and find a low-lit room with a counter against the far wall. No one manning it. I walk inside, a little hesitantly. There’s an old claw-grabber carnival game in the corner, a decommissioned arcade unit next to it that’s been taped up with ‘OUT OF ORDER’ stickers.

As I reach the counter, I hear a thud, and someone emerges from a side-door with a dustpan and broom in hand. Young, dark hair and a lip piercing, a single tattoo down the left side of his face that reads ‘forgotten’.

“Oh, hey,” he says. “One for Lanternalia?”

“There’s a showing now?”

“Five minutes.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.” Not like I have anything better to do, I guess.

“Tenner.”

I pay. He prints me a ticket. Holds it out to me.

“What kind of film is it?” I ask him, slowly accepting the paper slip.

“Like an abstract pastoral horror, I guess.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s about this commune that worships a giant lantern. No electricity. They all go crazy and start setting each other on fire. It’s Czech.”

“Huh. Thanks.”

He nods down the corridor. “That way.”

I look down at my ticket. “I don’t have a seat number.”

“You can sit anywhere.”

“Is it busy?”

He turns a tired set of eyes on me. Deep, heavy rings beneath them that speak of one too many night shifts. He blows a bubble with the gum he’s chewing. Waits for it to pop, before replying, “No.”

I give a thumbs-up and head to the screen, realising as I go that I should have got a drink while I was there, but decide not to head back and force another interaction out of the guy.

At the end of the corridor is a single door. I push it open, and it takes me down a staircase. I almost crack my head on the low-sloping ceiling, entering a dingy, pale-bricked basement. A hand-written sign on the wall points to ‘SCREEN’, so I follow it round a corner and through another set of doors.

Unsurprisingly, it’s an intimate space, maybe fifty capacity or so. A ‘Let’s all go to the lobby’ jingle is playing as I come in, animated boxes of popcorn and cartons of Coke dancing and strutting their way across the screen. I narrow my eyes against the light from the projector, trying to take in the seats. I can only see one other head in here, someone middle right with their feet up against the seat in front of them. I head to the other side and busy myself taking off my jacket, catching glimpses of the other viewer where I can. She looks about my age, maybe a little older. Thick, long hair that’s pulled back behind her head. Winged eyeliner. Leather blazer. She’s watching me as I sit down, and I try to focus on the screen as best I can until she says, “Bad movie, by the way.”

I turn, double-checking as I do that there’s no one else in here she could be talking to. Even if there were, she’s staring right at me.

“What was that?”

“The movie we’re about to watch. It’s bad.”

“You’ve already seen it?”

“This is my third time.”

I cock my head. “Why come again if it’s a bad movie?”

“Only one they’re showing.”

“There are other cinemas.”

“Not local. I live down the road.”

I pause, let this sit between us for a moment. “You don’t have to go to the cinema.”

“No shit. I like it. Helps me decompress.”

“Decompress from what?”

“Work. I’m a nurse. Get home from a long shift and my brain’s all scrambled. Prefer to come sit here than sit at home.”

“Even if it’s the same movie?”

“I don’t like being alone.”

I look around, gesture to the emptiness. “Is it normally fuller?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Might need to get a new system, then.”

The lights dim around us. The projector coughs us into silence, and production company title cards start to play.

The girl is still watching me.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Maybe I want to watch the movie.”

“No one wants to watch this movie.”

“It’s not doing well?”

“This is the only cinema in the city showing it and you’re the first other person I’ve seen here.”

“That’s too bad.”

She shrugs. “If it was a better movie, maybe more people would see it.”

The film starts, and we both turn to the screen. She wasn’t wrong—it’s a slow and self-indulgent thing. Long, unbroken shots of empty rooms that don’t seem to have any purpose, the camera obsessed with lingering on objects, vacant chairs, and looming doorways more than it is on the characters, on the rare occasion they actually speak, that is. Most of it’s slice-of-life, almost documentary style. Twenty people or so, all dressed in the same grey, flowing pullover tunics, enacting rituals around an enormous paper lantern that burns in the centre of a cleared field. Barns and stables surround it, and we get extended sequences of farming and animal care. There’s a vague subplot about an illness killing the chickens, but it never seems that urgent and gets dropped halfway through.

There’s no clear leader to the commune, or protagonist, or any point of focus, for that matter. Perspective jumps around, and once we think we’re getting to know someone, they’ll be abandoned for someone new we haven’t seen before. Characters seem to come and go without explanation. Scenes of sex are impersonal and distant, and often we can’t even see the faces of the people having it. When they start setting each other on fire it feels jarring and unearned, but the characters react with such matter-of-fact irreverence that it plays as unassumingly as milking the cow or tending the crops.

I’ll give it this—the effects are good. Faces melt and eyeballs fizz, bones liquidise and run with pink sludge and molten marrow.  Moments like this get an approving nod from me, but when I turn to the girl for affirmation she just sort of shrugs and lets it wash over her, unaffected.

It ends without much warning midway through another burning scene, a few members of the commune coming out of it unscathed, but to what end, I’m not sure. The lights come up, and once again I feel the girl’s eyes on me.

“I’ve seen worse,” I say, standing and picking up my jacket.

“Your neck looks painful,” she replies, without hesitation.

I instinctively go to touch it, and it stings at the contact.

“Yeah.”

“Infection?”

“Reaction. Think I’m allergic.”

“To ink?”

I nod. She peers at me, trying to see round the back of my head.

 “What’s it meant to be?”

“The tattoo?” I turn on the spot for her, showing her around my neck. “It’s just a circle. Like a choker. But it’s—you can see it’s broken, imperfect.”

“You have a lot of tattoos?”

“A few, yeah. I get—well, until now, I was getting one every month.”

“Why?”
“Found it useful. Something to hold on to.” I put my jacket on, can’t help but drop her gaze.

“You don’t want to tell me?” She still hasn’t moved from her seat, no clear intention of leaving.

“No, it’s… I used to go without food. Intentionally. It was a control thing. So I’ve been doing this instead, to fix it. More constructive. But, um. Might have to stop now. For a bit. We’ll see.” I point to the exit. “You coming?”
She takes a moment, sucking on her cheek, looking at her shoes. I hover. Eventually, she swings her feet off the seat in front and picks up her bag.

“Drink?” she asks, joining me in the aisle. She’s smaller than she looked. Tiny skull tattoo beneath her left eye.

“Will anywhere be open?”
“Told you. I live down the road.”

We leave the screen and don’t see the lone worker again on our way out of the building. Outside, the wind’s gotten colder, the mist denser. She takes out a cigarette, offers me one. I accept, though my hands are shaking as we light them.

We barely have time to finish smoking before we reach the door to her flat. She wasn’t joking when she said it was down the road. She’s on the top floor of a terraced town house, and we climb the stairs in silence. Inside it’s pitch black, and no warmer than outside. Colder, if anything. Shivering, I pull my jacket tighter around me.

“Power’s out,” she explains. “Sorry. Behind on bills. Candles okay?” She doesn’t wait for a response as she starts moving around lighting some, illuminating different parts of the room as she goes. Lots of tapestries. Earthy tones and forest textures. Thin line-art paintings in black frames leaning against the walls, not hung up yet.

She leaves the room for a moment, comes back in with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She moves us to the sofa, where we arrange ourselves under a heavy throw, some distance between us.

“We’re not having sex, by the way,” she says, through a sip of wine. “I’m not into that.”

I nod. “That’s cool. What are you into?”

“I don’t get tattoos anymore either.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Just stopped being enough.” She stands up. “I’m gonna light a fire.”

“You need a hand?”

“Sure.”

She guides me to a grate on the other side of the room, and retrieves a basket of wood shavings and newspaper that we start stacking. She lights a match, tosses it in, then gives it a quick spray with a deodorant can to get it going. The flames surge into life, singeing my face, and I pull back reflexively. She chuckles, sets the can down, and we end up remaining there cross-legged on the floor as the heat starts to take hold.

Talking’s easy enough—she can be a bit reticent when she wants to be, alternating between skittish with her answers and probing with her questions, but I know I can be the same and we find a lot of common ground with our outlooks and place in life right now.

She comes closer to inspect my neck, running her fingers over it in a way that I can tell she knows is uncomfortable, which I’m not fully sure what to make of. She lets her hand drop, sits back on her legs. We’re quite close now. The atmosphere more intimate.

“You heard of stitching?” she asks, her eyes flitting between my eyes and my neck.

I frown. “What, medically?”

She shakes her head, lifts her arms up and slips her top off. She shows me her left forearm—a star, stitched into the skin with black thread, sealing over a wound the same shape. She points to her bicep on the other arm. In that same style, stitching over cuts, is what looks like some kind of eye. She stands, pulls her trousers down. On one thigh, the outline of an umbrella. On the other, the prongs of a fork. Or trident. This one’s clearly the most recent—the wound beneath the stitching looks raw and fresh, welting and bright in colour.

I take them in as she waits for my reaction.

“You did these yourself?” I ask eventually.

“The ones on my legs. But the others, I did with friends. It’s kind of—communal. We get together, cut and stitch each other. You’ve got to be safe, same as tattooing. Everything sterile, everything controlled.”

“How’d you get into it?”

She shrugs. “Figured it out. Same as anything.” She runs her eyes over my chest. “Want to try?”

Her expression reveals an appetite I hadn’t noticed in her until now, lit up with the thrill of taboo. Like she’s coming alive in front of me, for the first time.

I knock my drink back and hold the glass out. “Fill this up first.”

She scurries into action. Finds us another bottle, then brings over a small wicker sewing basket. She undresses my top half, wipes my arm clean with alcohol.

“What do you want?” she whispers, her mouth close to my ear.

I think for a moment. “A circle,” I say. “Make it barbed.”

Her tongue flashes between her teeth and she opens my skin with a razor blade. I grip the wine bottle with my other hand, nursing from it directly. She’s methodical as she works, yet as caring as she is precise. The pain takes a while to find me, but when it does there’s an excitement in greeting it, like rekindling with a lover after time apart. When she’s done carving, she wipes the blood and cleans the wound with tenderness. As the stitching starts, I begin to pass out, so she lays me down on my side, places a blanket under my head, and talks to me soothingly, words I can barely register but her voice is warm and gentle and carries me through as the needle weaves between my skin.

When she finishes, she lays down beside me, pulling the throw from the sofa over the two of us. I fall asleep in her arms. She strokes my hair. A perfectly jagged circle of pain throbs in my arm.

Will Pinhey

Image: pink gloved hands working with a tattoo gun. From Pixabay.com