Chapter 2
Her lips were snow white and broken, with blood in the cracks and bits of vomit on her chin, but that didn't stop me. I kissed her on the mouth and fumbled under her clothes for her bare skin. I had to hold her up at the same time, slipping and sliding around in the men's urinal on Second Street until she got too tired and went to sleep on the floor. She was the only girl that ever let me do that to her and that was only because she was so high she didn't even know where she was. I went back quite a few times after that, but I never saw her again. She didn't look like she was going to last very long, poor girl; I hope she's still alive. I will always be thankful to her.
Apart from that, I do ‘do' things, on my own, which no one really sees, in public…privately, as a way of being with someone while I'm doing it. I know that sounds disgusting, but I'm only human, and this next bit's really horrible so close your ears if you don't want to hear.
I like to do it on the bus. Because there's usually a woman there. Sometimes I sit at the back and look at her legs if she's standing, but mostly, if she's sitting down I stand in the aisle just behind her so I can look down her bra, and then I put my hand in my pocket and squeeze myself until I come. It doesn't always work I may add. Sometimes she gets off prematurely. Ha, ha. God I think I'm sick. Well, not sick…just…I don't like being like this you know. It's okay when I'm excited and that, but afterwards I can hardly get off the bus my legs are shaking so much and promising never to do it again.
Anyhoo, I did it again today. I didn't really want to, but that policeman made me so nervous…so here I am, afterwards. There's always an afterwards. Lying in the dark feeling dirty. Sigh. Just forget about it now, go to sleep. It's all over. Well, until next time. Oh, shut up. Try to sleep. Getting a bit cold. Yawn. I wouldn't mind sleeping all time…until it's dinner time…suppertime…rise and shine…stand in line…fine feathers make a friend fly away, floating up the stairs one finger at a time, fingers on the floor, the door…the door won't open, do not disturb…deep doing doo…dozing off here I can tell…what's that smell…don't disturb the daisies….dirty bugger dear, wait for the green light….wait for me. I like the carpet here, fingers on the bell, don't go away…up the stairs…shhh…shhh…just close the door and go back to sleep my darling, my dear…my dream, girl of my dreams…my beautiful pink lady, standing with her arms outstretched and I'm running towards her but I can't move and she smiles and smiles across the pink miles of her bedroom. It's her. I'm sure it's her. I remember, look, there, that painting, Venus on a pink and pearly sea-shell, and her little pink bed with moonlight sheets and plumpy pillows, and her pretty pink hairbrush pouting on the little glass table with her hairpins, and the pink armchair that looks so soothing and soft I feel myself sink into my toes twining in the carpet, cosy, and content. A womb of a room. A womb with a view of eternity; we stand like sleepwalkers on the shore of her foamy white rug lapping gently at our feet, our eyes caressing each other until all distinction disappears, and we are………pink.
Then she climbs into bed and holds the blankets up for me and I walk towards her across the carpet growing like grass grabbing my ankles getting deeper and deeper until it feels like I'm swimming through a jelly jungle lying on the floor all tangled up in my blanket and trying to climb back into bed while the pink lady fades away and no, no, no, no, no, no! Up, up into the bed and roll myself into a ball. Sleep Sleeeeeep, softly sleep now…I've done it before, go back to sleep, go back into the dream again, sleeeep. Concentrate and think of her...yes...yes, that's it, relax, there she is, let your eyes roll back, pink, there, there's the bed. I'm back in her room again……..…no I'm not.
I'M JUST NOT SLEEPY NOW! I'm…Try to relax…sleep, try to sleep. I got too excited you see. Just lie down. Don't think about it. Just close your eyes, there. Look for the door. Just wait and relax. Hmmmmm. No, no, no, no. I'm too wide awake now. Maybe if I masturbate again. Ok, just relax. Thumb in mouth and twirl it around in the soft fleshy bit under my tongue. That's nice, there we go. Suck it very slowly, in and out, in and out…OH…IT JUST ISN'T WORKING! Dead as a dormouse. What if I look at some pictures? That'll help. Candle finished…where are the candles? Up…cupboard…Ok. Ok Slow down, don't want to get too excited. There, matches…there we go, that's nice and romantic. Magazines…here. Ok, sit. Creak. Bloody chair, why does it DO that? Now, which one do I want… let's see… creak...this one? No, I've used her too many times. This one? Oh, I don't know, they all look so…ugly. No, not ugly. I'm sorry I said that. It's not true. They're very pretty and I do love them all…my girls. This one's nice….she's got such a nice happy smile… smiling just for me… yes…hello my darling…oh I love it when you smile for me… oh and you have such beautiful breasts, such bigggg beautiful breasts, o god I just want to suck on those nipples…oh boy… oh ye e es, yes, yee ee es I lo o o o ove youuuuu uu uu uu yes…yes that's right, that's nice…just there…creak,o o o o o o o o o that's VERY nice oo oo oo oo oo OH and the nicest arse in the wo oo oo o orldd…creak, oh god…OH GOD YES and look at that CUNT OOOOOH YE E E E E ESSSS, CREAK, OH MY GOD I LOO OO OVE YOU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU OH YES CREAK YESSSSS S S S S S MORE MYBABYYYYFUCKYOUUU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU CRE E E E AK FF UU UU UU UU UU UUCK YOU UU UU UU UU UU UU uuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuCREEAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH - - HHHHNNNNNnnn!
Oh. Oh that was good.
Sniff.
Creak.
I still don't feel sleepy. Getting a chilly willy now, and I'm all sticky. Yuchh. Candle's gone out too. Darkness shimmering over my hands, like it's nibbling at them…nibble, nibble fingers gone…nibble, nibble thumbs going too…nibble up my arms…coming up higher…all going, going, going…and there she is, standing next to the sink…my pink lady.
She's so beautiful, glimmering in the gloom, the moonlight just touching her dainty feet. Oh, I would love to be her fat knight in shining armour. But look at this place. Filthy floor, cheap lino. What a skinflint. I knew I should have bought an Axeminster or something, even if she's only a dream…and curtains, and flowers and things. I have the money. It's just that I don't like to spend it on a fat fart like me.
But then I look at her and all my worries drift away and she draws me into her beautiful pink bedroom again and onto the downy bed. She pulls the sheets over us and her perfume pours into me like a warm cloud, her soft breath brushing my skin like blossoms bubbling up inside. I am so happy I can cry. I put my head on her shoulder and get a terrible shock as I feel the air suddenly hiss out of her like a plastic doll with a leak and she starts to shrink and shrivel like an autumn leaf sinking slowly back into the fading pink pillowslip, her skin growing cold and clammy as the spring fever turns to mould and the damp air draws her vapours out until there's no mistaking who she is.
And there we lie, the old lady and I, skin to skin, eye to eye. I don't know where to look or what to do. I can't move. I see there's a hole in her chest where she usually pins her brooch. It looks all soft and spongy in there, like pink marshmallow. It makes me want to put my finger in and before I know it I'm tumbling down into the hole and she enfolds me gently in her barely breathing bosom.
*
The sunlight was shining on my nose when I woke up and I had to peel my face off the plastic tablecloth. It was so hot you could see the heat haze coming off the table. I closed my eyes again and lazed in the warm orange glow. I was just fantasizing about a nice cold ice-cream when everything went dark and the garbage truck pulled up like a black cloud outside the window. It always parked there when it emptied the bins. Oh well. Time to wee. I got up and filled the kettle at the same time and then put it on the stove. I listened to the shouting and the hydraulic creaks and crunks of the truck while I looked around the flat. It's a depressing place really. I should try and brighten it up, but I'm still not feeling so well. I think I've got a fever.
My flat feet stuck to the floor as I took my tea over to the table and sat down. The driver revved up the engine and the fumes from the truck rattled in through the gaps in the cardboard window. God, what a stink. I took a huge mouthful of tea and held my breath. Nothing to do but wait for them to go. My eyes were stinging from the smoke, so I closed them and tried to visualize the lady in the pink bedroom, but I just couldn't concentrate so I opened my eyes again and there, pressed up against the window, a ring of grime around his red rimmed mouth, his baggy bloodshot eyes staring at me as if I was the next piece of garbage to be taken out, was the filthy face of the garbage man. I screamed and dropped my tea all over the table. Then I had to scramble around like a mad thing trying to rescue my magazines. There's nothing more off-putting than a wrinkled pinup girl.
When I looked up again he was gone. What a horrible man. Perhaps HE murdered the old lady. He looked the type. Perhaps he murdered her for her brooch and then hid it behind the bins, meaning to pick it up later and sell it. Perhaps he suspects that I took the brooch because the bins are outside my door and now he's coming to get me. I suppose you can see I have a very vivid imagination? Somebody shouted okay and banged the side of the truck with his fist, and the whole caboodle moved off. The sunshine came back as I wiped up the rest of the tea on the table with a T shirt. I wonder if that's why they call them T shirts. I wipe up everything with them. I was feeling nauseous now from the exhaust fumes, so I opened the other window to let in some air and lay down on the bed for a while.
When I woke up it was dark and cold. I wrapped the blanket around my goose bumps and went to close the window. A feverish full-moon was rising up over the tree at the end of the block, and the fallen leaves looked like patches of dried blood on the ground. Funny thing about that tree, the leaves usually turn yellow in autumn. I always wait for that, makes everything look bright and cheerful. This year they just turned brown. Even nature seems to be depressed. Maybe I should go out, get some fresh air and try and forget about things. Go for a drive; take a walk in the park – its dark…men out there…lurking in the bushes and…oh my god there's someone standing behind the tree. I can see him…no, yes, I'm sure I can see someone. There! There, he moved. There's someone standing behind my tree. What if it's him? The murderer? What if it's me? Just seeing things. I watched for a long time but by then my eyes were playing such tricks on me it started to look like Jurassic park out there, so I just went to bed and lay awake for ages, staring at the ceiling, counting to keep the horrors at bay. One, two, three, four, who's outside the bedroom door?
I must've fallen asleep because the next thing my body was shaking and jerking like I was plugged into some cosmic power point and something was pulling the bed across the floor, slipping slowly sideways towards the engine-block looming up out of the dark. I held my breath as we slid underneath and tumbled down into an oily black and bottomless pit.
Demons, looking for a hero to kill, came crawling out of my forgotten wounds, opening their moist mouths on all sides. But I brushed them aside in my headlong rush. Nothing could stop me now. I was in full flight. I was in righteous power. I was looking for Death himself, the man behind the mask of flesh and bone - the real murderer. And as I ran, ranks of policemen rose from their graves, hungry for justice, and began to run pantingly by my side, thousands upon thousands cutting a bloody blue swathe through the steely moonlight.
A sabre jet screamed overhead, guided missile hanging from its fat underbelly and the rising crescendo of its red over-heating engine howling to God and clawing its way up into the close and turbulent sky. It levelled off and leaped forward at an even more prodigious pace, hurling itself like a suicidal banshee at the black night. There came a tearing scream and a deep deafening thump as the plane struck and seemed to fracture the very fabric of the hallowed heavens themselves. It turned, wounded, broken by its own madness, and the twisted plane plunged to earth. I waited for the shock wave to hit me, but it never did. I looked down, and there on the pavement lay the broken remains of a child's cot, a teddy bear still attached to one of the bars with a blue ribbon. I looked up and the light had changed. It was dawn. I floated quietly down the street.
I saw a man throw some meat to his dog, just a few scragg-ends, but the dog ate it up right there on the pavement. Then the man put some tobacco in his pipe, and lit it with a silver cigarette lighter. With every puff, the smoke curled like a halo around his head and then rose up to greet the early dawn.
“Tja!” He said to the dog and they sauntered off slowly down the road. I glided along behind them through the silent streets. I liked him. He had a nice face. We climbed the steps of a bridge going over the railway line and stood at the top looking down at the tracks that tapered off into the distance. Then I felt a rumbling in the ground and it wasn't long before we could see the smoke of the steam train coming. I was just starting to get a bit anxious but the man snapped his fingers, “Come on dog,” and we moved off the bridge, the dog sniffing along the pavement as we strolled down the other side and finally stopped in front of a semi-detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac. I waited while he unlocked the door and then followed them inside.
I got the fright of my life when I saw her, half hidden in the hallway, lips the colour of menstrual blood, and a tattoo of a snake coiling all the way up her arm and into her blouse. She was leaning against the wall, holding half a bottle of gin by the neck, and a cigarette by the lip, squinting at the man as he took off his coat and hung it up.
“Come boy,” he called to his dog and headed for the kitchen, trying not to notice her. In one hand, he carried the bag of bones, in the other a little bottle of red paint. As he passed her, she slapped the bag out of his hand and laughed as the bones and bits of meat scattered across the floor. As an afterthought she tried to slap the paint bottle too but he jerked it away just in time.
“Godda bone for the dog then?” She cocked her hips at him. “A nice big juicy bone for the doggie?” He got down on his knees and started picking them up.
“Here, doggie, doggie. Your master's godda bone for you. How about a bone for me? How about a bone for this bitch hey? How about it, Mr Heart-throb big-knob. I love sucking the marrow from a good juicy bone. Woof, woof, come on baby, give us one.” She jabbed the crawling man in his ribs with her toes and they both nearly fell over.
“Hmmmm. You got some nice bones there….nice big ones. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Gotta nice big one for that blonde bitch with the big titties down the road don't you, you bastard? I've seen you with your tongue hanging out. You wanta geddin there don't you? Got yo'r little doggy nose sniffing right up her dress. Sniff, sniff, sniff.”
She put the hand still holding the gin bottle on her hip, and posed for him. “Well how about taking a little sniff of me for a change. Come on.” She sauntered round in front of him, pulling up her slip and pushing her pelvis in his face. She had nothing on underneath. “Here you go, all for free. Come on then, have a sniff. Maybe that'll get you stiff, ha, ha.” He turned away and carried on picking up the bones, keeping his eyes on the floor. “No? Not interested? Well your dog is always sticking his nose in my crotch, why don't you?” She kicked him in the ribs with her painted toes again, harder and meaner this time. “Well, let me tell you something you bastard, you're not fucking welcome in here anymore,” she said, pointing at her pudenda with the neck of the gin bottle. Then she lost her balance and swung the splashing bottle around wildly to stop herself from falling over.
“But maybe that's not the problem. You wanna know what I think is the problem here? I think you're a queer. Tha's wa's the matter here. YOU'RE A FUCKING FAGGOT YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
He got up off his knees and put the bag of bones into the fridge, then sat down at the table and opened the little bottle of paint. She lit another cigarette and one-eyed him through the smoke.
“Here I thought it was my fault. That I wasn't pretty enough for you. Ha, ha, ha. What a joke. Look at you, fucking He-Man, painting little dollies. You're just a fucking girlie. You never do anything; just suck on your pipe…fucking penis substitute. Should've fucking known it was too good to be true.” She stabbed her cigarette out in disgust and plonked her bottle of gin on the table.
“Christ I'm sick of the sight of you. I going out.” she said, and as an afterthought she added, “And don't let that little bastard piss in our bed again tonight. He can sleep in his own fucking bed. He's four years old already, dirty little bugger.”
I followed her down the hall to her bedroom. I was scared of her but I was curious about the snake. I glided through the doorway and watched her as she sat down at her dressing table. She lit another cigarette and left it to burn in the ashtray while she put on her lipstick. She did it quickly with two swipes, and stopped and squinted closely at the mirror as if she'd found a spot. Then she spun around and looked me straight in the eye.
She's here. I can feel her watching me…Oh lord just keep very still…quiet now. Sshhh……………shh……….….try not to think of her…things drifting away in the dark…come back…where's the bed…feel the bed…it's still there…she's still there…she knows…she saw me… in my dream, oh please lord don't make me go back there…just this once…and…there…there…things moving again…I can't hold on…please help me…I'm getting very scared now. I can feel she's pulling me...oh, oh, oh. How do you know if…how do I know where I am? I'm here, I'm here….where is she…breathe…breathe in...in – out - I wish it would hold still…bed...blanket…table…up, up, touch the table...yes, that's good…smooth table…..sink yes, steel sink, nice and cold…just stay still stainless steel sink she's still there, I can feel her waiting oh god please help me and I'll never masturbate again…..touch the window…no…no don't look outside, too many things in the dark…look at the wardrobe…look at your lovely new wardrobe….oh my god she's coming to get me…KUMBAYA MA LORD, KUMBAYAAAAAA…sing……sing to God…oh please save me it's moving too…oh no please don't go away wardrobe….touch the wardrobe…touch the bed…the bed's here……touch the floor….the floor…smell the floor….there, that's real…the floors real…1234567 all the good boys go to heaven oh I'm so sorry……what's that! What's that! oh no, ohno this is not good….she's coming…she's coming…
* *
She came into the kitchen and dropped her purse on the table with a clunk. Then she hung up her coat and leant on the back of the chair with one hand so that she could lift her foot and take off her high-heel shoe. She didn't wear stockings…or panties. Most of her clients didn't have time for niceties like that.
“Had another fucking weirdo tonight. Wanted to talk. Didn't want to do anything, just talk.” She poked at the blister on her heel and squeezed some water out of it.
“Well I thought, what the hell. Probably wants to tell me how much he loves his wife. What do I care?” She put her bare foot on the floor and lifted the other one. “So I took him round the corner, next to the Chinese take-away….very romantic little alley. Anyway,” She looked up and stopped as if remembering it. “He didn't want to talk about his wife,” and then half to herself she said “He wanted to know….” But then she thought better of it and waved the thought away. “Never mind.” She took off the other shoe and let it clonk to the floor. Then she took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it up.
“He was interested in me, he says. Ha! Like I'm some kind of specimen.” She took another drag and spat out a piece of something. “Wanted to know why I do it. This.” She spread her arms out wide. “Told him some crap. Still had to pay though.” She reached into her bra and took out a wad of dirty notes.
“I told him…” she started saying. He paused in his painting and waited for her to finish.
“I told him that my husband was dead!”
He looked at her for a moment and then at his soldiers.
“I told him I had a boyfriend, but his penis was shot off in the war and now he just sits around all day and paints little toy soldiers.” She looked up to see if her bullets were hitting home. “And anyway, why don't you paint them properly. You're just painting them red. What's the point of that? Looks like blood. Who wants to look at bloody soldiers? Christ you're a sick fuck.”
He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do except to keep his hands busy and his heart holding the things he loved steady. He was sorry for her story, but there was not much he could do about it. He did what little he could even if it was only for her to bite on when the pain got too bad. He didn't mind. He didn't know if he loved her. It didn't matter. He was as caring of her and her child as he was of the dog or any other animal in distress.
“You don't care, do you? Other men fucking me? You don't give a shit do you? What kind of a man are you?” He kept his head bowed over his painting. She looked around for something to hurt him with. Then she noticed it. ”And here,” she took off her brooch and threw it at him. He flinched slightly as it bounced off his arm and onto the table. “You can take that piece of shit and shove it up your arse.” She waved a red fingernail at it.
“Is that supposed to show how much you love me? Piece of fucking tin…crap. Fucking glass. That all I'm worth to you is it?” It was her most cherished possession. She liked it because he had bought it for her when they first met, to cheer her up. She was miserably pregnant at the time and needed something nice. She didn't often get that anymore because her brusque and abrasive manner only drove him to diminish his meagre efforts even further. The dog too would only half wag its tail at her, because she would coo over it as the cutest little thing and within the space of the same sentence would kick it skidding across the room for getting under her feet.
“Dirty thing,” she would say, hearing the echo of her father's voice, stern, holding her at arm's length with his frown and never with his hands, and as a result, the many, many men's hands she sought since that have left her looking like a well-fingered book. She could've been clean. She had tried so hard for her daddy, little heart full of hope and helpfulness, until one day she found herself standing on the pavement outside their home, just waiting for any old mongrel to come by and give her a friendly lick. That's how he found her fifteen years later, standing on the corner while he waited for his dog to finish pissing up against her lamppost. She had broken her shoe or something, and though he was too shy to offer any help, he hung around on the periphery in case she needed to ask.
“Cheap rubbish.”
It had become a talisman for her, the brooch, something that helped protect her from the awfulness of what she had to do, and reminded her that she wasn't just something that other men left their semen in. It made her feel special, loved, and now she was throwing it away. She knew how to hurt herself alright. He carried on painting his soldiers.
“And stop playing with those fucking toys!” She slapped at his hands in frustration, showering the kitchen with red paint and burning embers from her cigarette. She laughed spitefully at the mess while he dabbed at a few smouldering sparks on the table and then picked up the brooch. “It's okay,” he said. “No harm done.”
Then she hit him hard across the side of his face. The smack echoed sharply around the bare room.