The Cheek Perforation Dance. Sean Thomas

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1

      — Patch, slow down

      Says Joe. Patrick turns, and looks back down the sunny London street. Patrick’s friend Joe is wearing a green and yellow martial arts tee shirt, and notably scuffed indigo jeans. Comparing this choice of attire to his own suit and tie, Patrick wonders how he and Joe must appear: like a banker and his drug dealer, discussing prices; like two guests en route to a mildly bohemian wedding; like the accused and his friend, walking to court.

      — Don’t want to be early, do you?

      Patrick nods, assessing the truth of this. Then Patrick says:

      — Guess not … – Thinking, considering – How about a pint?

      Joe lifts his hands:

      — It’s nine in the morning

      Patrick:

      — But they’re open. The pubs are open round here, because of the meat market

      — I know they’re open – A sigh, a smile – I was just wondering whether you really want to get lashed half an hour before …

      Joe stops; shrugs. Patrick turns on his polished black shoes, walks briskly and authoritatively up a side street, and presses a pub door.

      Inside the pub the atmosphere is already noisy, and yeasty. The Smithfield pub is full of office lads beering up before work, and meat-market porters winding down after work. Finding two stools by the sticky bar, Patrick pulls, and sits, and says to the barwoman:

      — Pint of Guinness … – Looking sidelong – Joe?

      Joe does another vague shrug. Patrick persists:

      — Joseph?

      — … 6X. Half

      — Pint of 6X please

      The barwoman nods and takes two glasses from the shelf above; Patrick gazes around the bar. In the corner he can see a platoon of nervy, wide-eyed student kids. The students are giggling and nudging each other as they order beers with their breakfasts.

      —Takes me back

      Says Patrick. Joe, a bit vague, says:

      — Sorry?

      — Those kids – Says Patrick – Look at them. That was us once. We used to come here after tripping – Patrick widens his eyes – Remember?

      Joe grins, and nods. Patrick returns his gaze to the students. Feeling a small ache inside, Patrick marvels at the youth displayed: the impeccable complexions, the innocent cheekbones, the naively exuberant gestures; the gold Saxon hair of the girls.

      —You’re only twenty-nine Patch

      — I feel ninety-seven, right now

      Joe sighs:

      — Well. What do you expect? This morning of mornings?

      Hmming, Patrick tips the beer to his lips. The Guinness is cold and very bitter. Patrick remembers how he never liked drinking this early.

      — God, it’s too early to drink

      Joe looks at him blankly. Then says:

      — Shall we go?

      Manfully struggling with his pride, and with his desire to get drunk despite, Patrick nods, and rises. Together the two old college friends walk out of the pub into London: into the sweetly polluted summer air. They take a right. Then another. Their route takes them past the meat market, past the place where John Betjeman lived, past the church where they filmed Four Weddings and a Funeral, past the hospital ward where Mozart had his tonsils out; and past the ad agency car park where Patrick got his one and only blow job from a Muslim girl.

      At the last they make a left, and find themselves staring down the boulevards of capitalism at the noble dome of great St Paul’s. Joe starts walking towards the cathedral, but Patrick says he knows a short cut. Joe nods acquiescently. Patrick steps right and guides them into a garden, then into a courtyard, then through the pink granite undercroft of a Malaysian bank; here they turn and find themselves facing a huge great building site.

      — Jesus – Says Joe – I thought they’d finished London

      Patrick tries to smile but fails. Patrick does not feel like smiling. He feels like turning, like going back to the pub. Patrick is thinking about what is to happen: what is awaiting him, in ten, twenty, thirty minutes. How many minutes?

      Pulling back his stiff left shirtcuff, the cuff so diligently ironed by his mother last night, Patrick checks his watch. Its white face stares back at his white face.

       9.20 a.m.

      Patrick looks across the thundering street. Pensively he surveys the chaotic building site: the raw new girders and gleaming steel fire escapes; the piles of creamy new bricks.

      Joe:

      — OK?

      With a nod Patrick says:

      — OK …

      But Patrick feels far from OK. Patrick feels so far from OK he wonders if he might be about to start trembling, or worse. Patrick desperately does not want this: he does not want to look scared in front of Joe.

      —Joe …

      — Uh?

      — I think maybe I …

      A knowing expression:

      —You want to go in on your own?

      —Well …

      — Don’t worry mate – Joe claps Patrick on the shoulder, and starts skipping left, into the traffic, calling out as he goes – I’ll see you inside

      And so Joe goes.

      Alone, now, in the middle of the city hubbub, Patrick swallows and fights himself. His nerves once again quelled, he stares across at the building beyond the building site: his destination. On the top of the building, bright against the cloudless blue sky, is a statue of a woman, holding scales in her golden hand.

       Oh, sure, right. Trust a woman?

      Dismissing the irony of this, Patrick threads through. The pavement by the Central Criminal Court, the Old Bailey, is a tumult of chatting journalists, sweating СКАЧАТЬ