The Cheek Perforation Dance. Sean Thomas

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Patrick makes for the lowslung main door of the courts. But Patrick’s boldness is holed. By the sound of a familiar car door, and by the even more familiar sound of a young woman’s voice. The girl is saying:

      — Yes Dad I’ll call you

      Jesus. Can it be? Can it be? Patrick stops still on the pavement, staring blankly at the side of a big red bus, dumbed. It sounds like her; it certainly sounds like her. Like her. Like his ex; like his accuser; like the truelove he hasn’t seen for a year.

      But. Patrick thinks again: no, no, it can’t be; doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t just be … here, standing right by him, would she?

      — I think I’ve got to give evidence first thing Daddy

      Unable to resist, Patrick turns, and looks. A recognisably big BMW is parked hard by the pavement. Climbing out of the back of the car is a striking blonde girl with a shortish checked dress showing long suntanned legs. The sight makes Patrick’s knees infirm. Because. It is. It’s her.

      And now the memories engulf him. As Patrick stands and tries not to react at the sight of his ex-girlfriend, his tormentor, the principal witness for the prosecution, the best friend he allegedly raped twelve months ago, he reacts by remembering. He sees it all. The whole tableau of love. He sees: a bugle on a windowsill; a pair of handcuffs in a fridge; an Aztec history book stained with claret; a sunny Torrington Square, nearly two and a half years ago.

      Two and a half years ago?

      Silent, and still, Patrick stares. At Rebecca.

2

      — He’s still staring

      — That’s nice, Rebecca

      — No, he is

      — OK … – Murphy sighs – OK …

      Rolling on her back, Murphy shuts her sarcastic eyes. Slightly frustrated, Rebecca gazes away from the man, and looks around the square. The late May sun is shining but the place is empty: Torrington Square is nearly deserted. Apart from a few Indian girls in flared jeans chatting by the Brunei Centre, and a small group of Japanese girls with miniskirts and superpale legs, sitting demurely on the steps of the School of Oriental and African Studies, Murphy and Rebecca are alone on the mangy bit of central London lawn between Birkbeck College and the Institute of Education. Torrington Square. Musing again on the man, Rebecca says:

      — It’s definitely him

      — Uh-huh …

      — I wonder what he does

      — Indeed

      Murphy is lying flat out with her skirt hitched up: tanning; ignoring her friend; her head pillowed by her folded pink cardigan. Murphy is using a textbook to shield her eyes from the glare. Rebecca’s textbook. Opting not to mention this, Rebecca says:

      — He’s the guy I was telling you about. The one who always sits over there – Brightly – He must work round here, he’s rather young for a lecturer tho, maybe he’s a postgrad or …

      Murphy opens her mouth:

      — Rebecca … shut the fuck up

      Narrowing the space between them Rebecca snatches her textbook from its cowboy-hat role on Murphy’s face. For a second, Murphy seems to scowl; then Murphy breaks into a profile of a smile. Rebecca smiles, too.

      Using a grass-stained elbow, Murphy is levering herself onto her front, and visoring her eyes with a flat unwedding-ringed hand so as to look over at him.

      A sharp, Murphyish breath.

      Rebecca says:

      — So? What do you think?

      Murphy sets her lips; considers the question. Then:

      — He looks a bit …

      — What?

      — … You know … Brutal … Stone Age – Another look, through the telescope of her squinting eyes – Hasn’t shaved for a while

      Rebecca mulls this; Murphy says:

      — Just your sort. Another puppy drowner

      Staring down at her painted toenails half hidden by her sandals, Rebecca demurs:

      — Well

      — Why don’t you just wait outside Wormwood Scrubs and have done with it?

      Rebecca, chuckling:

      — Can’t help it if I’m partial to … a bit of rough …

      A Murphyish snort:

      — Bit of rough? That guy’s on parole

      Rebecca slaps Murphy’s suntanned thigh; Murphy does a laconic ‘ouch’ and then says:

      — Anyway, what about Neil? Forgotten him already?

      — Neil Schmeal

      —Wagon Wheel

      Silence. For a moment the two of them observe a Japanese girl protecting her face from the sun with an angled A to Z. Tucking some of her brown hair behind a thrice-pierced ear, Murphy says:

      — Still hungry!

      Rebecca hands over the second lunch bag:

      — Here

      — Ta …

      Reaching into the shared brown paper bag Murphy takes out the last sandwich. Plastic sandwich podule open, she extracts the coronation chicken sandwich and lays it flat on the bag. Then she lifts a flap of the bread so as to examine the contents.

      — Hm

      Picking up the sandwich she sniffs the curry-scented, yellowish paste. Nose wrinkling, she puts the sandwich down again, plucks something from the sandwich filling, and then holds this up, in front of Rebecca’s face, like a priest presenting the communion wafer.

      —What’s this?

      Murphy is holding up an almond. Rebecca says:

      — It’s an almond

      — Almond? ALMOND?? – Murphy’s voice is almost a yelp – Why do they do this? Why do they put fucking almonds in a bloody chicken sandwich? Why can’t they leave well alone? What’s happening to the world?

      Rebecca smiles, says nothing; plucks grass.

      Consideringly, Murphy begins removing the bits of almond, diligently extracting them from the gunk, then smearing them with a wince of repugnance on a convenient bit of lawn. This done, Murphy re-examines. Pointing to another suspicious СКАЧАТЬ