and her mascaraed eyes studied me beneath skyblue lids as I ordered enough meat to feed a platoon of soldiers. As she sliced rump steak, and bagged dozens of sausages I stared at her avidly – noting the bloom of dark hair on her forearms, her sturdy calves as she turned to reach for the cleaver, the hairbrush handle jutting from the pocket of her nylon overalls. I leant up against the glass of the counter feeling my erection flatten against the pane, wondering if this burly girl was the daughter of the small, bald man mincing veal along the counter, and what she or he would say if I asked her out for a drink. I paid for my meat with two fifty-pound notes – betokening immense wealth, I hoped – and said,
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking but I’ve just moved into this neighbourhood and I was wondering if there was a good pub around here – you know, one you’d recommend…’
She scratched her arm and frowned. ‘What d’ you think Frank?’ she asked the veal-mincer. There was a short debate on the merits of the local pubs until one called the Duke of Clarence was elected as the most salubrious. I thanked them, smiled at her, my eyes full of messages, and left.
As I dropped my heavy bag of meat in the nearest litter bin a depressing wave of insight washed over me and I saw my sexual obsession in all its weaselly shame. But in the butcher’s I had had only one thought in mind, all my snouty desire focused on this strapping girl with her rosy, bloodstained hands. I felt salt tears prick at my eyelids as I drove home to my long-suffering wife.
‘August 9th. It seems I hit John-Jo yesterday morning in the office, swung a series of haymakers at him, one connecting with the side of his jaw, breaking the ring finger of my left hand. I remember nothing of it. Apparently I was incoherent with drink. For the third night running I had spent the evening in the Duke of Clarence waiting for my butcher-girl to show, in vain. So as the pub closed I bought a bottle of vodka and settled down in my car to drink it. I must have made my way to the office, somehow, the next morning. Stella says I accused John-Jo of betraying me, of systematically stealing my ideas over the years, taking credit where none was due… Then launched myself at him. Poor Stella.’
‘It seems to be changing,’ I said to Petra Fairbrother. ‘It’s not like California, where it was constant, now it comes and goes, as if something’s being switched on and off.’
‘Might I bum a ciggie off you?’ Petra asked. She took one from my pack and I watched her light it awkwardly, as if it was the first time in her life she’d attempted such a thing, and then saw her inhale smoke deep into her lungs. ‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘So, do you think the grip is weakening?’
‘The grip?’
‘Whatever has you in its power.’
‘You sound like some sort of necromancer, witchdoctor.’
‘I’m speaking metaphorically, Alex dear. But, then again, I suppose we could, not unreasonably, be seen as witchdoctors, modern ones,’ she smiled, then plumed smoke out of the side of her mouth in a noisy gust, ‘trying to drive your demons away.’
‘Demons…’I repeated slowly. ‘A demon.’
‘A handy metaphor. But you are warring with demons, Alex, make no mistake.’
I frowned, thinking. ‘All the girls are dark, and they all had jobs. I don’t just want to buy sex, I’m sure.’ I told her how I had stood in a London phone box, the glass sides darkened with dozens of prostitute’s cards, illustrated with improbable nubile beauties of all races, plying for trade. ‘I felt nothing. I could have called any one of them up. It’s something to do with the type of girl, a working girl…’ I looked at her helplessly. ‘Maybe I should be hypnotized?’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘I tried to beat up my oldest friend.’
‘Christ. We’d better get to work.’ She pursed her lips, rattled her fingertips on the desk top. ‘Would you mind if I
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking but I’ve just moved into this neighbourhood and I was wondering if there was a good pub around here – you know, one you’d recommend…’
She scratched her arm and frowned. ‘What d’ you think Frank?’ she asked the veal-mincer. There was a short debate on the merits of the local pubs until one called the Duke of Clarence was elected as the most salubrious. I thanked them, smiled at her, my eyes full of messages, and left.
As I dropped my heavy bag of meat in the nearest litter bin a depressing wave of insight washed over me and I saw my sexual obsession in all its weaselly shame. But in the butcher’s I had had only one thought in mind, all my snouty desire focused on this strapping girl with her rosy, bloodstained hands. I felt salt tears prick at my eyelids as I drove home to my long-suffering wife.
‘August 9th. It seems I hit John-Jo yesterday morning in the office, swung a series of haymakers at him, one connecting with the side of his jaw, breaking the ring finger of my left hand. I remember nothing of it. Apparently I was incoherent with drink. For the third night running I had spent the evening in the Duke of Clarence waiting for my butcher-girl to show, in vain. So as the pub closed I bought a bottle of vodka and settled down in my car to drink it. I must have made my way to the office, somehow, the next morning. Stella says I accused John-Jo of betraying me, of systematically stealing my ideas over the years, taking credit where none was due… Then launched myself at him. Poor Stella.’
‘It seems to be changing,’ I said to Petra Fairbrother. ‘It’s not like California, where it was constant, now it comes and goes, as if something’s being switched on and off.’
‘Might I bum a ciggie off you?’ Petra asked. She took one from my pack and I watched her light it awkwardly, as if it was the first time in her life she’d attempted such a thing, and then saw her inhale smoke deep into her lungs. ‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘So, do you think the grip is weakening?’
‘The grip?’
‘Whatever has you in its power.’
‘You sound like some sort of necromancer, witchdoctor.’
‘I’m speaking metaphorically, Alex dear. But, then again, I suppose we could, not unreasonably, be seen as witchdoctors, modern ones,’ she smiled, then plumed smoke out of the side of her mouth in a noisy gust, ‘trying to drive your demons away.’
‘Demons…’I repeated slowly. ‘A demon.’
‘A handy metaphor. But you are warring with demons, Alex, make no mistake.’
I frowned, thinking. ‘All the girls are dark, and they all had jobs. I don’t just want to buy sex, I’m sure.’ I told her how I had stood in a London phone box, the glass sides darkened with dozens of prostitute’s cards, illustrated with improbable nubile beauties of all races, plying for trade. ‘I felt nothing. I could have called any one of them up. It’s something to do with the type of girl, a working girl…’ I looked at her helplessly. ‘Maybe I should be hypnotized?’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘I tried to beat up my oldest friend.’
‘Christ. We’d better get to work.’ She pursed her lips, rattled her fingertips on the desk top. ‘Would you mind if I
Similar Books
