Black Lipstick Kisses (7 page)

‘Of course.'

‘By the time I was seventeen Chris was doing well for himself – he's ten years older than me – and so I moved in with him and began to try my hand at professional art. Then there was the flat, and well, here I am. And you?'

He was being very open with me, and for once in my life I felt I could be equally open. For one thing his mother sounded worse than anything I had put up with, and I could guess that the casual way in which he had said it ‘scrambled his brains' hid a lot of very real pain. It was a pain that had been echoed in myself.

‘Where shall I start? Like you my mum's religious, and she had converted, but only once, to Catholicism. I suppose new converts always tend to be more zealous than those who're born to it, because that was a long time before I was born but it hadn't worn off. When I was little it seemed like we were always going to church – St George's on the Island?'

‘I know it.'

‘Yeah, it's a great church, but I hated it then, or at least I hated the services. It was so boring, and I'd spend my time staring at the architecture and making up little stories about the gargoyles and angels and saints. The big stained glass of St George and the dragon behind the altar was my favourite. I always sided with the dragon, and wished he could have eaten stupid St George. I never really used to take in what
the priests were saying until I was maybe nine or ten, and when I did it was terrifying. There was this dreadful place called Hell, where you got tortured for ever and ever unless you were good. It wasn't just good, either, but very, very good, far better than I could ever be. I used to get terrible nightmares, imagining myself spitted on a pitchfork for pinching biscuits from the cupboard, or tossed into a lake of boiling blood for pulling another girl's hair at school.'

‘Oh, Hell's not all bad, it just gets a bad press. You hadn't been reading Dante, I don't suppose?'

‘Yes. That was another problem, I used to read too much. I've read the Bible from cover to cover, and there's some pretty heavy stuff there . . .'

‘. . . stoned to death, burnt to death . . .'

‘. . . “their blood put on their own heads”, I never did understand that one, but it conjures up a gruesome picture.'

‘I've drawn it.'

‘That I must see. I didn't understand most of it, it just sounded awful. So I began to read other texts in the hope of it all becoming clearer, but it didn't. Mum thought it great that I was so keen, and I was always top in Bible study, but they didn't know what was going through my head. Then there was confession, but I could never understand why if you could be forgiven your sins so easily you shouldn't do them. As I got older and sex started to get involved it got worse. I wanted to do all these dreadful things, and I knew that the thought was as bad as the deed, so I did it anyway, and when I confessed one time I caught the priest tossing himself off . . .'

Michael burst out laughing, a full-blooded roar of
delight. I shrugged and smiled, blushing slightly and well pleased with his reaction.

‘That was my defining moment. I realised it was all bullshit and hypocrisy, just crap designed to keep the proles down, even when the priests believe it themselves. I rejected the church, but I felt I needed something to replace it, some abstract temple in which I could be honest with myself. For instance, I felt that as a woman I should be able to acknowledge the Mother openly, not behind a veil of pretence the way the Catholics do. I realised I'd always been clawing at the temple door, but from that moment I was within. I still believe in God, or at least the idea of deity, but nobody is going to make me believe that lot speak for him. Besides, there are so many different religions, all claiming to be the only one with the real truth, and they can't all be right.'

‘My thoughts exactly, but deity? Why worship a deity, God, or the Mother, or even Satan, if they provide nothing tangible in return? How can you even be sure they exist?'

‘There must be some sort of spiritual force, surely? Haven't you ever felt the change in atmosphere when you go into a church or a graveyard, or even into an old house, on a battlefield perhaps. The first time I went to Northern France, on a school trip, I kept getting these sensations of melancholy and fear, so strong I was shaking. Nobody else seemed to feel it, and I swear I'd never heard of Armentieres. There has to be something . . . No, there is something. You can feel it if your mind is open enough. Maybe some day I'll show you.'

We continued to talk as we walked through the East End, along streets Michael seemed to know better than
I did. Sometimes it was deep, sometimes shallow, usually strange and frequently dirty. By the time we got near All Angels we had stopped several times to kiss. In one alley Michael slid his hand into the front of my panties, only for a door to open unexpectedly just feet away from us. We ran off laughing, leaving me more ready than ever.

I heard Lilitu barking before we could see the church. It was her angry bark, and gave me an instant stab of apprehension. I ran forward, Michael following, reaching the gates just as a pair of kids carrying spray cans burst out. They fled, and no surprise, with Lilitu right behind them, her teeth bared and her chest and neck brilliant red. For one moment I thought she'd got one of them, or worse, that she was hurt, before I realised it was spray paint.

That was the end of my plans for sex with Michael. We had to find something to clean her fur safely, then do it, which took ages. The incident had completely spoiled the erotic high I'd been on, and while we might eventually have got around to it, the moment was gone and it could never have been so good. He was also keen to get back and find out if his flat had been sold from under his feet. I didn't complain. I was to be his model, and there would be a next time.

I'D PUT MYSELF
in a fine position, not for the first time. There's that old joke about men being like buses, none for ages and then they all turn up at once. It certainly seems to be true for me, because there had been nobody significant in my life for months and then both Michael and Stephen had appeared on the same day.

The sensible thing to do would have been to gently but firmly dispose of Stephen and concentrate on Michael. It was the obvious choice, and what every friend, agony aunt and busybody would have told me to do. Michael was single, more or less my age, unattached and shared a great deal with me. Stephen was old enough to be my father, married and we had very little in common.

It was not that simple. Stephen and I had fucked, and it had been good. I'd really enjoyed my feeling of power and his uncertainty as I'd pulled him into the graveyard and mounted him on Eliza Dobson's grave. He licked me too, well. I had also promised to be in touch, with the implication of more sex to come, and I knew that I wanted it.

Michael and I hadn't fucked, but from what we had done he seemed less mature in his outlook, which was hardly surprising, but almost more needful of being in control, and I do like to call the shots. Bossy or not, he shared my fantasies, and it was great to imagine the sort of ritualised sex we might get into. I'd done it with
other men, fucking on tombs, in churches and once in a pentacle with black candles burning at each point, but it had always been to oblige my desires rather than to share them. It had been the same with Stephen, but with Michael it would be mutual, and so much stronger for that.

Had Michael laid any claim to me it might have been different, or not, because I hate the idea of being any man's ‘girl' and exclusive to him. He hadn't, though, and he seemed pretty liberal, especially the way he'd jumped at my suggestion of a male virgin getting one up the bum from a priestess. Most straight men get pretty hung up about that sort of thing, getting it up the bum that is, not sex with priestesses. Then again, I wasn't sure he was one hundred per cent straight, something I also found exciting.

In the end I promised myself I wouldn't ring Stephen and that if he didn't come around that would be the end of it. It was an easy option, a bit of a cop out maybe, but the only decision I knew I could stick to. Michael was off to Brussels to see a
bandes dessinées
publisher for the rest of the week, but I was going to be modelling for him on the Sunday. Both of us knew what was likely to happen, and I also knew it might make a difference to my attitude to Stephen.

I spent most of Tuesday in the graveyard scrubbing graffiti off. Even with Lilitu around it had proved impossible to stop it all, although it was nothing to what it had been when I arrived. Most had given up, but I was sure that at least two of the local writers had decided it was a challenge. Either that or they were trying to provoke me personally. One signed himself ‘Biggy', the other ‘Snaz', which might just have been female. Girls are rare in the graff scene, most of those
who do associate sticking to hip hop and other things that don't get you arrested. Biggy went in for purples and blues with a lot of fades and a silver base. Snaz preferred clashing electric blue, vivid pinks, a particular acid green and a scarlet lip motif. Both were equally skilled and an equal nuisance. I wasn't even sure which they were, or even if there really were two rather than one, because the pieces and tags always appeared when I was taking Lilitu for a walk. It had occurred to me they might live close by, close enough to watch my comings and goings, which was a little scary.

The two Lilitu had scared away were much clumsier, and had managed only the outline for two letters, Z and U, before she arrived. They had also painted the little metal flag on Major Inkerman Goodwell semaphore red, which I left, and made a few random scrawls elsewhere, which I cleaned off. Snaz had done a big piece on the rear wall which I hadn't noticed as well, and by the time I had finished I was hot and sticky, thirsty too.

I went inside for a drink and a wash, stripping out of my sweaty dungarees and climbing into the big sink to splash water over my face and body. It had been a lot of work, and I smelt of meths and paint. My mind was dwelling on ways of getting rid of Biggy and Snaz, but while I was pissed off with them it was hard to feel resentful. I'd done my share of tagging, as a kid and when I'd wanted to assert my identity as the dark and mysterious Dusk instead of plain old Angela.

Dusk had been my tag, done in black lettering as if from a medieval scroll, sometimes as a dub with a gold or silver fill. Twice I'd made it a piece, or tried to – one huge one beside a railway in black shading to deep purple with highlights of silver and dull dark green,
and the other one a red and black Gothic script with deaths heads over the ‘u'. I'd always been a loner, and never got that into it because everybody seemed to hate each other. The local bombing crew had held me down and tagged ‘
TOY
' across my chest, but with my usual defiance it had only made me worse. In the end I'd earned their respect by putting my piece halfway up the sheer glass face of a twenty-storey office block. I was working for the firm who did the window cleaning, but they didn't know. About that time I'd begun to really understand myself, and as I'd moved more into my own peculiar blend of Gothicism and sex I had given up on the tagging.

So I knew how Biggy and Snaz worked, probably as a team with one keeping lookout while the other completed his piece. They could watch the cemetery gate and might even have mobiles to communicate my comings and goings, while it was no doubt possible to do the outer walls at night without disturbing Lilitu. So far they hadn't done anything inside the church, but to grow more daring is in the nature of tagging, so I was sure it was only a matter of time, and that the more I reacted to them the more determined they would get. Of course if Lilitu got one then they'd stop it, but that would lead to all sorts of trouble.

My thoughts were interrupted while I was drying myself, first by a deep growl from Lilitu, then by a knock on the vestry door. The writers were hardly going to knock for me, so I called out and was answered by a familiar voice, Stephen Byrne. I shouted for him to wait and began to dress, hurrying on my panties and dress, then slowing down. He had an image of me in his head and I wanted to keep it that way.

Stockings, boots, hair, make-up, jewellery and perfume and I was ready in a shade over half an hour, not bad for me. Lilitu had come in from the church to see what was going on, and I took a firm grip on her collar as I opened the door. Stephen was reading the inscription on Nathaniel Hawkins's stone, very smart in his suit and tie. He smiled as he saw me, flicked a worried look at Lilitu and spoke.

‘What a beautiful dog. Um . . . I managed to get off early today, cancelled meeting, and I thought you might like to come out for the evening?'

‘Sure.'

There was no hesitation. I'd promised myself I wouldn't call him and I hadn't, but that I'd go if he came for me. Here he was. There was no hesitation, but a little guilt. As I let Lilitu free and locked the door I was telling myself I would just stick to dinner and conversation, but I knew there was no real strength in my resolve. Stephen intrigued, and if I wasn't entirely sure why, then in part at least it was because of his very respectability, and what I knew lay hidden underneath.

He'd been patient waiting, presumably an asset in a politician, and was smooth and friendly as he guided me to his car, so smooth and friendly in fact that I began to wonder if he was up to something. After all, we'd had sex, and in my experience even those guys who play the white knight at first tend to drop it after a shag or two.

We drove west, through the city and into the West End, along the front of the Houses of Parliament and in among a duster of tall, red-brick buildings beyond, flats for the wealthy. His block had a garage beneath it, complete with security guard and automatic iron
grille to keep out the mob. I could see from the way he was acting that I was meant to be impressed, and I was, a touch, even if it was all more or less what I'd been expecting.