The Lesser Bohemians (4 page)

So tempted enough and shame defied, I let him elaborate where he's allowed. And he gets me as ready as anyone might, almost to wishing he would. If this game's touch he knows it well and where to find what of me understands. Getting breath getting quick against his mouth. Sync timing hip til I'm gripping his side. God I could really be inside you now, ready to have a go? And his fingers and going and Alright, yes. That's the spirit, I'll just get a thing, he says, patting a hand about under the bed. Finds. Rips and rolls it down on himself.
Oh God it's really now isn't it?
And he's so ready it's true. You know this
might hurt a bit? I know. Just say if it's too much. My eyes go open at this, to his. Close up I think they're grey. Flecked with concentrating on mine as he finds to the place. Little spit on his fingers – Just in case. Kissing then sloping me, shifting his weight Ready? Yes. And he. Jesus Christ! No don't pull away. It hurts. I know but it's not quite in yet. I can't. You can, just let me, he says It'll never be as bad again. How do you fucking know? Educated guess. Then Oh fuck, he goes That's it. And he is all against me. And he is inside. Attempting to kiss through a pain running wild from his body far into mine. I bite my own lip and stare above. Ceiling swirls there. Cracks. Worlds beyond the pain not improving. Now. Or now. Or yet. I wish I hadn't. I'd never done this. I wish he didn't know. Oh God. Hey, look at me, he says. I don't. I'm being gentle as I can, do you want me to stop? No. He tries to kiss again but I won't. Come on, don't make it like I'm here on my own. Humiliation immaculata though sprouts its own tongue. Just get yourself off, isn't that what you want? Don't be like that, he says Do you want me to stop? Just stop fucking talking and come and be done. The look in his eye then, what does that mean? Fine, he says – voice all turned down – What the fuck is it to me? And he does it then. Jesus. And again. And again. Until I cry but now he's not asking how I am. Just fucks like I said. His breath showing work and some gratification at what he does, in and to me but only for himself. I can't tell how long until – so far in – the gritting and fucking starts becoming every sex sound I've ever heard, all at once in my ear, while his body works through every single thing it wants. And mine, in his best moment, silent, accepts the mess it's made.

There you go, he says breathing hard and, quicker than I expect, pulls himself out. Straight off the bed and condom. Snap.
Tossed at the bin. Bit of blood there, he says showing a streak on his palm. Then, all lank impassive, lifts an old bathrobe and goes on out the door.

I lie in the pain. Climb his cities of books. Hand between my legs. The wet, true, blood. So that's done and something wrecked, what should I do next?

Where's your toilet? I ask. End of the hall. Here take this, and he slips the robe off You never know who you'll meet down there. No looking at me either, just for his underwear, and not finding, takes his trousers instead. And the toilet roll, you better take that too.

Murderous landing. TV lights on the floor. Go in. Hover. Piss and blood in the dark and wish I'd never have to face him again. Clothes though. Bag and girl aren't you a woman – sore woman – now? But still.

I knock. Just come in. He is cigarette lit. Tap in a kettle. I couldn't find the sink. No there isn't one, use this, let me get out of your way. Strangers were and strangers again. He's only over there but we are back in his wild room and I am vanished punished. My blood on his bed that he kicks the duvet over before making tea. Wash my face. I'd like to more but not so near. Redd out my knickers with the tights rolled in. Quick unpick and put them on. Bra. Dress. Thanks for the dressing gown. No problem, sugar? Actually, I'm going to head. And this the what turns him Do you know your way back? Sort of, I'll find it. No I'll walk you    it's late. You don't need to. It's not a big deal, I'll get dressed. No, no, I Irish insist. Fuck's sake, he says It's after one and this is Saturday night in Camden. I'm not leaving you to wander about on your own, have the tea then we'll go. And calm again as quick as he wasn't but has kicked all the spit from my row. Alright. So clear off those books and sit, sugar?
Please. Milk? Yes. Strindberg hits the floor and me his chair. He passes the tea, sits on the bed, lights then offers a cigarette and stares at the smoke between. All in the air though, new music What's that? Schoenberg, he says Transfigured Night. Are you taking the piss? Certainly not, he laughs. But laughs. It's beautiful, I say. Yeah I think it is, I often play it here when I'm by myself. So sit we. Separate. Years apart while the night turns itself, in his forty watt, into waste and into past. I tip tongue to questions but he is closed eyes and I know what I did. Here's the room though, where done though. Remember everything. And I do not expect his Just stay – at the end – It's so late you might as well. Hmm in my manners, and really still for a flee but it's knackeredness overrules any thoughts of my blood on his sheet. Alright, I say. Standing up and lamp off.

He at the wall. I the edge. Back to. Sheet damp. Far light bleeds on the litter floor alongside. Gas bud glow. How long until he sleeps I wonder? And if he wonders that about me too? Him that done – stranger of a man who perfectly knows I have failed the perfect game. Where was stoicism? That much I'd relied upon but had not, in the end. Useless you are useless. Sting the eye and fill it up. He shifts.
Don't notice. Please not that.
Then I abandon my eyes to keep heaves from my back. I almost hear his eyes scanning above. It's alright, he says touching my arm. Adds no more or else to that, for which I am grateful, as soon after for his gentle snore.

Sometimes this night I sleep as well. Sometimes contrast my Was that usual? with I'm only the latest after all and maybe next time? Shut up. I'd turn but can't because he lies there and how deep is his deep? So hours rise heeding curtains and the roustabout street below. Heels clacking, laughing You tight cunt! So if I am? I'm still waiting. Well you'll wait a long time!
Shrieking now, then laughing until wee wee all the way home. And sirens belting to, or speeding fro, like London's alive in another time of its own. On towards five, banging at his door. Next one mate, he shouts until they go. Fucking Saturdays, he says back asleep before the weed smells or bottles bash in the street. But all this cheers me, picks me up. Slips me to my new world. If sleep would only come and against me, the long thin man. Alive. A-sleeping. In. And I drift in under where

She walks the tongue of the world, narrow as a road.

Far below where earth is and where fire goes.

Unrippled now.

Weeds.

Dry and frei.

But the weight of.

Banished poor famished eyes

lake music

Fuck!

Morning.

Fuck! he wakes like a scare. What? Sorry, I forgot you were there. And I lie by him. Shy by him. Sorry, he repeats but ingentle, unpersonal, prying himself cock from bottom, toe from sole. Sweat where he's laid against me although the room burns cold. Christ I ache, he yawns This bed's too fucking small for one never mind about two. Can I use your toilet? I ask. Yeah, you know the drill.

He is lovely indifferent when I come in. Leant on his desk. Steam and smoke wreathing. Cigarette? No thanks. Tea there, hot mind. Thanks. Sit and slurp. Are you alright? Fine. No, I meant    after last night? Fine, I maintain for what can he want? Bulletins on bruising or how there's still blood? I just, he says God I'm wrecked. Yawns it. Shears it. Bye to the night. I stare
at his Chekhov but can't help asking Who's that? Who? The photo on your desk. That's m    my daughter. Oh, I say Are you married then? Does it look like I'm married? he laughs, offering the room. No    but    were you? No, what's the time? Half eight. Shit! I've a meeting in town    sorry to rush you but. Don't worry I'll just get dressed. He picks up the towel I used last night then makes on out the door. And I steal a look at his daughter up close. Like him I think. Eyes and mouth. Three? Four? Who knows how old children are? Sneak a drag on his fag. No. Get dressed before he's back and you'll be. shy. So to the end. Clothes again. Uncover his underpants but it was last night he looked for them. No matter. Old fag smoke against the new, I race my clothes back on.

Do you need the sink? No. Then I'll have a shave. Dripping hair. Towel round his waist reaching for his fag in such one-track haste I'm an emptiness fastening her shoes. Button my coat. He lathers up. Well, good luck with your audition. Just a meeting – to the glass – But thanks    and also    for last night. You're welcome, I say. He smiles to my reflection then starts to shave. And I wish that I was someone else, a girl with words behind her face, not this one done up like a stone in herself.
You won't see him ever again
. Fuck it, this, and all anyway. Before I can't, I go wrap my arms round his waist and say, nose into his damp shoulder blades Thank you for not being a bastard last night      for being kind to me. Silence. He and. I. Have I bad chanced? Peek round his shoulder but in the mirror his eyes take up mine, most surprised. Gentle of day forgetting the night. That's alright, he says, touching my fingers to his mouth Thank you for choosing me. Then, self-disgust over-running my everything else, I grab my bag and leave.

Into the world from out of his room I blink in the light of day. Will I look back at his window? No. That's done. If I turned around even the house might be gone. Let his soap kiss devolve into scum on my hand. Relinquish. Extinct it. Go. Hedge again. Road. Schools and railings. Train up on a rail bridge ahead. Cheap second-hand fridges lining the path. That turn's where we were. My turn is right – so I would have found my way back, mid kebab salad gossamering to puke. Sun of the morning. London day. The banjaxed exhuming themselves from doorways. Buses and music. Spivs and Goths. New Age Travellers and leather coats and too-tight jeans and diamond whites. Everywhere heaves of fighting in the streets. This is the finest city I think and, no matter how awkward or bloodily, I am in it now too.

I go straight to hers. Good morning. Good night? Come in come in, we're just woken up. Into her room and her fella stretched out asking So did you shag him or what? She Tea? and Sit! indicating the bed. I plomp back, maybe on his legs, and tell my tale. Well not all. Well some. Well anyway the bit about sleeping with him. She going I knew it! Him going Fuck! You do know who he is, right? And I don't, but he does, so rings him in. Theatre mostly. The occasional film until that one last year had everyone raving! Now he's the dog's bollocks. Oh, is he? Yes! God you're such a div! Then follows various smart-aleckings before tinkering for truths. What was he like in bed? What did he do? These I proffer as Transfigured Night, The Devils and filthy dishevel of bedsit. Incredulous they but sniff my palm for his soap. And I can still smell him on me under my clothes. Seeing him again? Probably not, no. Why? she says. I chuck forth an embroider and love my shape in its light: Why
ruin a perfect night? Bravo! he bravo's offering his joint which I slide down with, saying This is the life. Knowing that Yes it is.

Do you have to use my hot water up? I have to wash. Every day? Too much lady, too much. Get a shower, I think but keep to myself and wash my expedition away. Fare thee well purple foothills of sex. I clean a man off my body. I clean a man off my face. Lick from breasts. Spit between legs. The sweat and. Where mouths. Thigh dry blood what's he. What?
What is he doing now?

Up Lady Margaret Road in the wintering air. The trees and distance and closeness, the same. Evening, to you, town. Evening, to me. A little light think amid bus staunched breeze and he's really only streets away. Somewhere over maybe there. Did he wash his sheets? Is he with someone else? Or his daughter? How he smoked his cigarettes. Three or four draws down to the tip, is that a telling thing? Back in my room I practise it. And smoke far on into the dark, until dawn goes white over Kentish Town Road, the Assembly House, the Forum and beyond to? Don't know. All London then, I suppose.

We are rat tat pull and snigger. We are drinks and draggeldy home. I am chips and she's pickled egg. Always for the tale and tale again. And it gets heavy with the lies I make but I like them. She does too. Thrown on the bed type three times come. Interlocked fingers or wrists held down. Why she doesn't notice the new every time is beyond me. But I lie well. But not inside. That, unhitched, goes flail about. Wheedles its sticks into You let me down. Sorry, Mind says to Flesh. No matter no matter, get over – though Camden stays shoulder checked. Revoke that memory. Forget the face. Just be in on the joke. Part of the tease. These are not things barred to
me any more. These are me as well. And the. But the. Fleadh wears down. Knees from kneeling. The time on my own, until my once becomes like not at all. This the lamest fun of lonely that she can drip feed to her Him. So the cigarette gets to like the leg. The arm wonders what it should do with itself. Nicks with a razor but then gets a band-aid for for fuck's sake what are you at?

River run running to a northern sea. Thames. Needle skin brisk and the eyefuls of concrete. Lead by the. Strip for the. National Theatre. Go on. Get a ticket. Go in.

Here the vault and not Hawk's Well. Smacks of the hell-less or at least of the sensible. I'd be. What I'd be. Is this the Olivier? Yeah, on upstairs for you. Through and oh to its canyon. I never saw so many chairs. On beyond uncurtained stage – You may take and have me, please. But Saturday matinee. Sole in my row. Where is everyone else?

In the dark comes spiders out of art and first I'm sleuthed away. Measuring up the vying worlds. Meandering into the emphasised words but under neat speeches are oceanous platitudes and so I slide and slide. Up. Don't sleep. Don't. You do not. Settle my head back on my neck but the veining of boring expands and contracts until I'm left to myself. And soon I'm judging a hupped toupee. Then predicting a spit trajectory. Right down, I'd say, to that redhead asleep. Too far from here though. Over there would be    Over there       ov    is it? With black specs on? Really?    such a dead cert knit, and for London. Him. Of course it is.