does. That's the thing about ghosts from Former Lives – they come back to claim you.
In the shopping arcade, the brittle ack-ack of gunfire has cut off, replaced by the wail of multiple sirens. People start venturing out, some newly supplied with pungentsmelling meat pasties from Mr Pie. Who says violent crime is bad for business? I'm tempted to get one myself, but I'm held up by the signage in Go-Go-Go Travel, or more specifically the list of specials.
The place names are a list of well-worn exotica: Zanzibar. Paris. Bali. Amazing deals! Airport taxes not included.
These are places that do not feature: Harare. Yamoussoukro. Kinshasa. These are places that require alternative travel arrangements.
Border official bribes not included.
I'm woken by a scritching at the door. I don't know what time it is, barely remember falling asleep reading a threemonth-old You magazine, with its gleefully scandalised headlines about minor league South African celebrities and moral degeneration in general. It's been doing the rounds on this floor for a particularly torrid piece on "Forbidden Love! My Zoo Story Romance", about some corporate banker and her reformed gangster lover – complete with Silver-backed Jackal. Sample quote: "The biggest challenge, after my parents, was getting over my allergies!" Tabloid journalism at its finest.
The lights are still blazing, which is no good for my generator. I make a note on my mental shopping list to get more petrol (along with food, any description), and stumble, cursing, to open the door.
The Mongoose is sitting to attention on the spot where my doormat used to be. Add another item to the shopping list. That's the third one in six months. Maybe this time I'll get one with an anti-theft charm woven in. There's a tailor in the flat opposite who has a real talent for it, as opposed to the placebos they sell at Park Station.
The Mongoose gets to his paws and pads off down the corridor towards the fire-escape. He pauses and looks back expectantly over his shoulder.
"Really?" I say. I'm wearing a t-shirt, panties and a pair of socks, and it's freaking cold out there.
The Mongoose sits down again and waits.
"Okay, hang on. For fuck's sake." I close the door and yank on my yellow leather coat with the ripped lining. Sloth mumbles sleepily.
"S'okay, buddy. I think I can handle Operation Retrieve Drunken Idiot Boyfriend on my own." Sloth makes approving chewing noises and goes back to sleep.
I button up the coat, deciding on impulse to forgo jeans. The coat only comes down to my thighs, but it covers the objectionable bits. I will come to regret this. Also not putting on shoes. Because Benoît is not just down the hall, he's all the way at the bottom of the stairs, lolling against them like a drunken cowboy, his pageboy cap tilted rakishly over his eyes, and necking a zamalek. The burst vessels in his eyes when he looks up to see me suggest he hasn't let up since this afternoon.
"Lost y'r shoes?" he slurs mournfully.
"It happens," I say. It's not worth explaining.
"I think they're st'len. Everythin' gets st'len h're."
"I think you're drunk. Want me to get you to bed?"
"Y'r bed."
"You really up to facing the sunrise bouncing off Ponte tomorrow morning at 6 am?"
"Sh'ld knock it down."
"Or get curtains. Come on, big guy." I wrestle him to his feet, using the railing for leverage. And then we start making our way, very carefully, up six flights of stairs, the Mongoose scampering ahead.
As soon as I open the door, the Mongoose scoots inside and heads for the warmth of my laptop. I let him get away with it, this time, mainly because I'm preoccupied with shuffling Benoît inside one lurching step at a time.
I try to get him onto the bed, and realise it's going to be easier to drag the mattress onto the floor and just tip him onto it.
"Want'd t' talk," he says,
In the shopping arcade, the brittle ack-ack of gunfire has cut off, replaced by the wail of multiple sirens. People start venturing out, some newly supplied with pungentsmelling meat pasties from Mr Pie. Who says violent crime is bad for business? I'm tempted to get one myself, but I'm held up by the signage in Go-Go-Go Travel, or more specifically the list of specials.
The place names are a list of well-worn exotica: Zanzibar. Paris. Bali. Amazing deals! Airport taxes not included.
These are places that do not feature: Harare. Yamoussoukro. Kinshasa. These are places that require alternative travel arrangements.
Border official bribes not included.
I'm woken by a scritching at the door. I don't know what time it is, barely remember falling asleep reading a threemonth-old You magazine, with its gleefully scandalised headlines about minor league South African celebrities and moral degeneration in general. It's been doing the rounds on this floor for a particularly torrid piece on "Forbidden Love! My Zoo Story Romance", about some corporate banker and her reformed gangster lover – complete with Silver-backed Jackal. Sample quote: "The biggest challenge, after my parents, was getting over my allergies!" Tabloid journalism at its finest.
The lights are still blazing, which is no good for my generator. I make a note on my mental shopping list to get more petrol (along with food, any description), and stumble, cursing, to open the door.
The Mongoose is sitting to attention on the spot where my doormat used to be. Add another item to the shopping list. That's the third one in six months. Maybe this time I'll get one with an anti-theft charm woven in. There's a tailor in the flat opposite who has a real talent for it, as opposed to the placebos they sell at Park Station.
The Mongoose gets to his paws and pads off down the corridor towards the fire-escape. He pauses and looks back expectantly over his shoulder.
"Really?" I say. I'm wearing a t-shirt, panties and a pair of socks, and it's freaking cold out there.
The Mongoose sits down again and waits.
"Okay, hang on. For fuck's sake." I close the door and yank on my yellow leather coat with the ripped lining. Sloth mumbles sleepily.
"S'okay, buddy. I think I can handle Operation Retrieve Drunken Idiot Boyfriend on my own." Sloth makes approving chewing noises and goes back to sleep.
I button up the coat, deciding on impulse to forgo jeans. The coat only comes down to my thighs, but it covers the objectionable bits. I will come to regret this. Also not putting on shoes. Because Benoît is not just down the hall, he's all the way at the bottom of the stairs, lolling against them like a drunken cowboy, his pageboy cap tilted rakishly over his eyes, and necking a zamalek. The burst vessels in his eyes when he looks up to see me suggest he hasn't let up since this afternoon.
"Lost y'r shoes?" he slurs mournfully.
"It happens," I say. It's not worth explaining.
"I think they're st'len. Everythin' gets st'len h're."
"I think you're drunk. Want me to get you to bed?"
"Y'r bed."
"You really up to facing the sunrise bouncing off Ponte tomorrow morning at 6 am?"
"Sh'ld knock it down."
"Or get curtains. Come on, big guy." I wrestle him to his feet, using the railing for leverage. And then we start making our way, very carefully, up six flights of stairs, the Mongoose scampering ahead.
As soon as I open the door, the Mongoose scoots inside and heads for the warmth of my laptop. I let him get away with it, this time, mainly because I'm preoccupied with shuffling Benoît inside one lurching step at a time.
I try to get him onto the bed, and realise it's going to be easier to drag the mattress onto the floor and just tip him onto it.
"Want'd t' talk," he says,
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