Clear (26 page)

Punch
?

I clamber to my feet. ‘Adair Graham MacKenny,’ I say, refusing to elucidate any further (If in doubt, clam up. That’s my philosophy).

We shake (How
old
is this punk, anyway? Seventeen? Eighteen?).

‘So Aphra didn’t bother turning up again?’ he asks (with more than a hint of I-told-you-so in his voice).

His father awakens, with an awful cough.

The nurse enters. The good nurse. She goes over to his side, removes his mask, wipes his mouth, props him up.

‘So Aphra’s a no-show again?’ he repeats (like this is an itch he simply
must
scratch).

‘She just
left
, actually,’ I suddenly find myself muttering (hoping the nurse doesn’t try to contradict me).

Brandy Leyland blinks his sickly affirmation.

The good nurse glances up and smiles. ‘Surprised you didn’t pass Mrs Leyland in the corridor,’ she says briskly.

‘
Second
Mrs Leyland,’ the posh boy snipes.

?!

I am tired.
Fucking
tired. I head straight into work–avoiding Blaine, travelling there the back way–then sit hunched over my desk all morning, drinking black coffee, blinking and yawning (things aren’t really feeling like they’re quite ‘hanging together’ properly. I’m like a flat-pack cupboard with five of my screws missing).

Bly hunts me down at lunchtime (So who suddenly made
this
ginger filly my very best mucker,
eh
?).

‘Good party, was it?’ she asks, shaking my shoulder. I leap up with a holler (I was just resting my damn
eyes
for a second there,
okay
?).

‘Fuckin’
riot
,’ I mutter.

We leave the building together.

God I need
air
. I stand out front and
inhale
. I twist my head around, throw my shoulders back, stretch my arms up…

Whoo.
That’s better.

It’s then I spy Aphra.

Approaching from the left. Destination Blaine. And I am here–right
here
–standing slap bang in the middle of her simple trajectory (A cruel
twist
of fate you say? How about a compound
fracture?
).

Should/could/might/
must
get the hell out of her way.

Uh…

Can’t turn on my tail and dash back inside again (too obvious a manoeuvre, even for
me
), can’t sprint down towards Blaine (she’ll just call out and follow)…

My only viable option?

The
river
.

‘Ever been on the
Belfast
?’ I ask an unsuspecting Bly.

‘What?’

‘The
Belfast?
HMS
Belfast?’

(Quick clue: it’s huge, battleship grey, and permanently docked on the water just in front of you.)

‘Uh…’
she starts.

‘But you
should
,’ I say, grabbing her arm and steering her forward. ‘You
must
. There’s so much to
see
, and a fantastic café. Let’s go. Come
on
. It’ll be
fun
…’

She starts to pull her arm away. I tighten my grip, considerably. ‘
Fuck
it, Bly,’ I growl, almost lifting her feet off the marble as we hurtle towards it,
‘I’ll
pay.’

Hate
you to get the impression I was
tight
or anything.

Although there’s nothing wrong in a modern man knowing the value of a
pound
, eh?

‘
Love
this warship. Absolutely
love
it. Visited it–twice–as a boy. Bought the book, the craft model, three pencils, two pens, a balloon and an eraser. Bought the whole damn
experience
and the morello cherry on top.

Great kids’ excursion–great
any
-person excursion. The best, hands down, in this part of London. Nothing else comes even
close
to it. Not the Tower, not the Tate Modern, not the stupid, fricken’
Wheel
…

Uh-
uh
.’

I spin Bly in through the entrance gate, buy us some tickets at the desk, belt through the shop, negotiate the gangplank–and the slightly ominous sailor-geezer stationed at its far end who wants to make us fill out a form to allow the price of our tickets to be eligible for some kind of charitable
tax
relief…(
Woah
. Hold
on
. We’re not even on
board
your damn ship yet).

Then off we sail.

The experience has been leavened significantly (you might actually be interested to know) by the advent of the interactive video. But it’s the same lovely old dust-bucket it ever was. Creaking. Sombre. Grizzled. Utterly monumental.

The big guns (rendered all the more delightful–in our eyes–for being focused pitilessly on our current place of work), the
huge
anchor (size of a small house), the portholes, the fore-deck, the aft-deck (okay, so if it’s the
technical
stuff you’re after then send a quick email to Ellen
fuckin
’ MacArthur).

Bly is entertained (within reason–I mean my sell
was
quite a big one) by all the above-board activity, but she gets
really
excited when we head downstairs; backwards, grunting slightly, balanced precariously on a series of perilous, metal ladders (the kind of thing you might get–if you were a
very
lucky birdy–in a ramshackle aviary).

Down here (
mind
your head) we get to snoop around the infirmary (couple of macabre masked waxwork figures hacking away morosely at the guts of an injured sailor), the pharmacy, the stores, the
tuck
shop…

It’s hot. Stuffy. Confined. And there’s this constant, all-pervasive
drone
(the air-conditioning, I presume), which makes you feel as if you’re staggering around aimlessly inside the ululating throat of a beatific pussy.

And talking of felines–Bly squeals with pleasure when she enters the sleeping quarters and espies the ship’s cat (stuffed), sitting smugly in its tiny bed alongside a charming coterie of waxwork sailors (in various stages of dress and undress) falling in and out (most
companionably
) of their serried ranks of hammocks.

At
this
stage a helpful guide approaches and escorts her to the lock-up (not
literally
, but to see two, scary little steel-grey cells where the naughtiest sailors might sometimes be left to moulder).

Bly–and all credit to her for taking to this new experience (after her initial disquiet) with such
untrammelled
enthusiasm–then wants to go right down into the belly of this beast (the guts, the bowels), to the ammunition store, where the guide is now telling her that they used to manufacture all the shells etc. in readiness for combat…

Uh…

Yes.

It’s at
this
precise point–when I turn my head slightly–that I behold a nonchalant Aphra (I know. I
know. I
thought she was claustrophobic too) leaning provocatively over the tuck-shop counter (wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Remember the skirt? The short
skirt
?) and reaching out her hand towards a waxwork storesman in a serious attempt to half-inch his cap.

One stretch.

Two
stretches…

Phew
!

And she finally manages it.

She applies the cap to her head (at a jaunty angle),
jinks
the brim down briefly in
my
direction
(Ay ay Captain)
, then turns sharply on her heel and minces off.

Bly and the guide are making their way over towards the ladder which leads down on to a lower deck, still full of chat. Bly clambers down first (she’s a lady, apparently) and the guide cheerfully indicates that I might like to follow, but I say,–‘Uh.
No
. I just want to finish watching this
fascinating
documentary about the
Belfast
’s
sister
ships…’ So he shrugs and heads on down after her.

Right. Where
is
she?

I walk past the tuck shop, the infirmary, pause, cock my head, and listen carefully (this girl’s wearing Scholls–that hefty wooden sole’s a slap in the face to any kind of anonymity).

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

Straight on.

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

Left turn–

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

How’d the
fuck
she climb that ladder?

Clink-Clank-Clank…

Yup. Inevitable. One sandal’s fallen off–

Silence.

Bollocks. She’s removed
both
of the buggers.

I’m back on the main deck, peering frantically about. I walk towards the prow, stand, turn, glance back, look higher…

A-
ha!

She’s up on the next level, perched on the captain’s chair, lounging seductively over the wheel and gazing out (cap–
Lady and the Tramp
-style–yanked low over one eye). I promptly follow. More deck,
more
stairs…

Hmmn
. Captain’s chair now inhabited by a husky, pubescent American boy in Stars and Stripes trainers.

I head higher.

More guns. More gulls. I wait impatiently for a large family group to clamber down the stairs, then…
hup
! A final flight.

Phew
.

I’m a little out of breath. Sweaty.

I peer around me, trying to find my bearings. There’s an irregular
beeping
sound.
Ah
. We’re in the ship’s communications centre (heavily wood-lined; like a strangely incongruous Swiss-style chalet. Or a scruffy Swedish sauna. Take your pick). This ‘space’ is currently inhabited by a whole
host
of radio-style paraphernalia, a gruff waxwork wireless operator (‘working’ the Morse code) and Aphra.

The room is divided into two parts separated by a dark counter and a huge piece of glass. Aphra’s standing on the non-technical side of the divide, holding her sandals–one in each hand–and reading a poster about the manifold innovations in communications technology during the first half of the twentieth century.

When I step into the room, she glances distractedly over her shoulder, then freezes, then spins around to look at me, with an expression of naive surprise.

‘Oh,’ she says sweetly: ‘
You
like warships
too
?’

The cap is cute.

The cap is very cute.

(And she knows it,
damn
her.)

I walk over and kiss her. She doesn’t object. In fact when I pull back, she yanks off her cap and places it firmly on to
my
head. ‘Hello Sailor,’ she grins. I slide my hands under her skirt, bunch the fabric up, grab her, lift her up (she wraps her legs obligingly around my thighs), then stagger two steps to the side and prop her on to the handy, hip-level wooden counter, her back against the glass.

We kiss some more. Her kisses are salty. And wet.

She undoes my fly (and, but of
course
, she’s wearing no underwear).

We fuck.

It’s fantastic. Like the Queen has just smashed the most inconceivably
huge
and expensive bottle of Bollinger against the hard, smooth prow of this naughty, great hooker. The window shudders (God, glass manufacture from that epoch has been so
needlessly
derided in our times). My cap tips forward. She yanks it off (almost hitting me with a shoe). Throws her arm out. Bangs her elbow. Drops the cap. Brings her arm straight back.

Why do I open my eyes at this point?

Huh
?

Was it all the cap stuff?

Was it the sound her elbow made hitting the glass?

Was it the fantastic way her legs twitched around me?

Who
cares
why?

I open my damn eyes.

They’re blank at first; gazing, unfocusedly, through that plate-glass window. All those–
wow
–wires. All that–
ouch
–Bakelite–and even the–
Oooh, yes–waxwork
.

The–
keep going, please keep going
–wireless operator.

I mean the
detail
. The fucking
detail
! The hair. The suit. The hand. The finger.

Another hard, slippy kiss.
Uh
…I peek out, sideways.

Yes. The
finger
.

Just
bib-bib-bobbing
on that Morse code machine.

So he’s not a model.

But you probably already realised that (Been on this ship
before
, have we?).

Okay.

So he probably feels more embarrassed about this than
I
do (This is the one helpful thing any
sensible
person might say under the circumstances in a desperate bid to try and keep his pecker up. And they may well be right. And all
credit
to them for that).

But
Jesus, John, Paul and Ringo
this is hideous. It’s
excruciating
.

I mean the way he just keeps on tapping,
even
though he probably
knows
this might ultimately give him away, because (a) (Let’s get inside his head for a moment) if he
stops
, then so will the beeping, and this may well alert us. (b) If he keeps
on
tapping, and we
do
notice his non-waxwork status, then at least it still looks like he’s been keeping himself busy.

I am still thrusting.

Aphra is still grinding.

The wireless operator is still
tippy-tip-tip-tapping
.

Then Aphra comes. Then I come (How’d I
do
that?). Then she collapses over my shoulder and says, ‘You smell of
death
…’ pause, ‘And
lavender
.’

Yeah. So how was it for
you
, Love?

No. Of
course
I don’t tell her.