I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

  "Yes. I can imagine. Then back to the continuous eating was it?"

  "You got it. How about you? A good day?"

  "Just the eating."

  Yep. I reckon it would be really great to be a sea urchin.

  I don't know why I'm telling you all this stuff. Just trying to delay getting to Carole's house I guess.

  We drive on through the rain. I can see Carole studying a picture of a woman with her hands manacled above her head. She has leather, thigh length boots, no knickers, huge breasts and a peephole bra. Hey! Who'd have thought peephole bras would get another mention in this story. It could almost have been premeditated.

  I think Carole is looking for ideas. She's studying the pictures in the magazine as if it were a text book. It's all nature's fault of course. Pornography I mean.

  Nature has spent millions of years mixing all our genes up and bribing us all with promises of love and physical pleasure. And making sure that we all get excited by each other's wobbly bits so that we go right on doing it.

  The same applies to all animals of course. But with most, they just do the plumbing and moisture bit and then get right back down to the important things like eating and farting. They don't worry about commitment, or lying, or pensions, or licorice flavoured condoms.

  Only nature got it wrong with humans. It got the genes so mixed up that they started acquiring airs and graces above their station. And strange ideas about right and wrong, and clean and dirty. But they couldn't lose the fascination for the wobbly bits. And when there weren't enough wobbly bits to go round, the humans were so smart they found ways of supplementing the supply with videos and magazines.

  Some mixtures of genes work better than others, of course. That's what evolution is all about. Survival of the fittest. And of course man has been smart enough to exploit this and has selectively bred other living things for desirable characteristics. That's how we've got all those different vegetable varieties and corgis; and turkeys that have such big breasts that they can no longer mate without human intervention.

  I wonder if that's why we put a chipolata sausage on the plate with the turkey at xmas? A token phallus in recognition of what we've done to the turkey.

  Only a human could invent the peephole bra. I mean, can you imagine a hippo in a peephole bra?

  We turn into the street where Carole's house is. The rain is falling as hard as ever. She puts the magazine on the back seat, and her hand goes back on my thigh. I don't like the look she's giving me.

  ***

  Geoffrey regarded the items lying neatly in the open drawer and stroked them gently. He removed a plastic pack and carefully tore off the seal. He tipped the contents onto the top of the chest and threw the empty packet into the corner.

  With unpracticed hands he unfolded the leather pants and sat on the chair to put them on. They seemed so tight he was afraid they would be too small. But little by little he managed to pull them on.

  ***

  We pull up outside Carole's house. For a brief moment I wonder if I could just drive away as she gets out. But my legs refuse to work for me, and I find myself following her up the path. She has my umbrella, but makes no attempt to share it.

  "You'd better put it in the sink to drain," she says, handing me back the brolly once we are inside. My jacket has shrunk so much now that my shoulders are being pulled right back. The only way I can walk is to thrust my pelvis forward and swivel my hips. I take the umbrella and place it beside the other in the sink. I look around me. The house is immaculate. I thought we came back to tidy up.

  Carole is waiting for me in the hall as I come mincing back. She is stepping out of her dress!

  "My, we are feeling eager," she says as I parade myself past her. She is wearing only a pair of tiny silk pants and a soft cream coloured brassiere that leaves little to the imagination. Even these are wet and moulding themselves to her skin. I don't know which way to look. My jaw sags and I close my eyes.

  This is a tactical error. No sooner have I dropped my eyelids than I feel Carole's hands trying to drop my trousers. She has the zip undone in a fraction of a second, while her other hand fumbles with the fastening at my waist.

  "Let's get you out of those horrid wet clothes," she says. Her hands are everywhere.

  "Not that wet actually," I say, trying to heave the zip up again. Surely the trousers can't be shrinking too? But the zip won't budge. "Just a bit damp," I add. "Nothing to worry about. Soon dry off. Often wear clothes much wetter than this. Yes, sometimes take them straight out of the washing machine and let them dry on the drive to work. Gosh, is that the time? We ought to start clearing up. The client will be here soon. Where do you keep the vacuum cleaner?"

  All the while I am talking she is managing to undo buttons, laces and fastenings. I keep grabbing at parts of my clothing, but she seems to have more hands than I do, and I find shoes slipping off, arms sliding from shirt and jacket and a sort of crumpling sensation as gravity wins the fight over my trousers and they slide gracelessly down around my ankles. I think she must be descended from Houdini. I wonder if there is a gene for undressing?

  It takes about thirty seconds before I am reduced to a pair of socks, my red and white striped boxer shorts and my vest. Carole looks triumphant.

  "Under the stairs, would it be?" I ask.

  She throws her arms around my neck and presses her body against mine.

  "The cleaner," I add. "Under the stairs is it?"

  She is grinding her hips into mine and chewing my ear. I think she might be hungry. "I need a man," she growls.

  I am trying to back away, but she sticks to me like glue. When I reach the wall and feel it cold against my back I give an involuntary start. "That's better," she says. "Now you're entering into the mood."

  She unwraps herself from me and takes my hand. I find myself being led across the hall towards the stairs. I manage to grab my trousers as I pass and clutch them protectively in front of me.

  "You won't need them, Tom," she smiles. But she makes no attempt to stop me.

  Listen. Perhaps you think I'm not resisting this very hard, but this has never happened to me before. I don't have the 'think of a cunning plan' gene.

  We pass a tall vase on the landing. For a fleeting moment I consider breaking it across her skull, but I'm not sure Mr Hudson would understand.

  She leads me into her bedroom. I've been here before. She still has my photo tucked into the frame of the mirror at the foot of the bed. And there is the drawer where all the flimsy underwear is kept. I wish Julie was here. She'd know what to do.

  Carole pushes me gently down onto the bed and starts to remove my socks.

  "Why, Tom. What an exciting man you are. Full of surprises. I should have known you'd do something unconventional like wearing odd socks."

  She stands up and pulls my head forward, burying it between her breasts.

  I can't help it. I was born with a gene that makes women want to mother me.

  CHAPTER 25

  Geoffrey is in a private heaven. He fumbles with the unfamiliar fastenings of a spiked dog collar and studded wrist bands while putting them on. He has trouble lacing the leather vest, but the unfamiliarity and slight difficulty adds to the sense of excitement he feels.

  Arrayed about him are whips and chains and a shiny brand new pair of handcuffs.

  He admires his reflection in the mirror. Bliss.

  ***

  The bed is going up and down. I can't stop it. It feels as though I am in a boat.

  "The bed," I say.

  "Don't talk," says Carole. She is still wearing her damp underclothes, but is searching through her drawer for replacements. She is steaming gently. I still have my trousers clutched to me. I wonder if I can get them back on without her seeing, but she is watching me all the while in the wall mirror.

  "It's going up and down," I say.

  "It's supposed to, Tom," she says. She holds up a miniscule G string for me to inspect. It's about the size of a postage stamp. "What
do you think?" she asks.

  "It's not going to keep you very warm," I reply. I'm starting to feel seasick. She has a transparent wisp of nothing in her other hand. I think it might have been intended as a bra. I try not to look as she exchanges the items in her hand for the wet ones she is wearing. How will I explain this to Mr Hudson? Or Julie? Or Gail? I feel miserable. This ought to be exciting, but I can't cope with it. And I do feel sick!

  There is a huge wallow on the bed as Carole throws herself on beside me. Why does it do that? We surge up and down in the aftershocks.

  "I need a man, Tom," she breathes in my ear.

  "The bed," I say again.

  "Full wave, undamped," she says. "It's the most sensual."

  We rise and fall like leaves in a storm drain. I'm going to be sick soon. I know I am. I pull my bundled trousers up under my chin in a protective gesture.

  "Why is it going up and down?" I ask.

  "Tom. Tom." she coos into my ear. "Don't you find me attractive?"

  I have a feeling this might be a catch question, and consider carefully before replying. Mr Hudson says always treat the customer as though he's right even when he's wrong. But she isn't wrong. She's a very beautiful woman. I don't know why she's doing this. Beautiful women don't throw themselves at me. I don't have the 'throw yourself at me' gene. I don't know how Bond copes with this.

  "Why me?" I ask feebly. I have my damp trousers wrapped around my hand. I start to suck my thumb. Maybe I don't want to be smooth after all. "What about Mr Carole?" I ask after a pause. "What would he think about this?"

  "Him!" she snorts. "He's not a man. I want a real man. I want sex, Tom. I want excitement. I knew you were exciting the moment I saw you. I saw the animal lust in your eyes."

  She is rubbing her body against mine as she speaks. Little goose bumps pop out all along my arms. "I'm not a real man," I say, sucking hard at the thumb. "This sort of thing doesn't happen to me."

  "Tom. Who else would have the savoir-faire to defy every convention and wear a sixties striped blazer and odd socks? Who else would spray his jacket with lemon scented starch just to make a fashion statement? It takes a special kind of man to have the balls to defy convention like that. You do have balls, don't you Tom?"

  I'm not sure if this is a rhetorical question. My free hand strays down between my legs to provide a measure of reassurance. This merely seems to encourage her, and she resumes her chewing of my ear.

  "I think you might have made a mistake," I say. "The thing is the zoo."

  "What zoo, Tom?"

  "Frogs," I add in explanation. Her tongue is probing deep into my ear. I think she might be trying to lick my brain.

  "Stop talking, Tom," she says.

  "But you don't understand," I say. "About the jacket. I was trying to get a frog, for the blowpipe. No, I don't mean the blowpipe. That was the euphorbia, only it got knocked off the desk, and then the police got involved. It was Frank that told me about the frogs when we were in the cells. He delivers pizzas, you know." My speech is choked off by Carole climbing on top of me and trying to force her tongue into my mouth. I manage to twist free.

  "Mr Carole," I splutter. "What if Mr Carole...?"

  "I want a real man, Tom. I want excitement. He's not a man. He wouldn't even know how to spell excitement."

  "I'm not exciting," I mumble around my thumb.

  She pulls my hand away from my mouth and unravels the trousers from my fist. "Yes you are, Tom," she says. "I knew it the moment I saw you. I saw the way you looked at me the first time you were here. I saw your perfect little bum when you measured up the house."

  Her left leg is thrown over mine, and she is still pressing herself against me. I'm beginning to feel quite hot, despite the lack of clothes. The bed is subsiding a little, thank goodness. But every time one of us makes a move the oscillations start up again.

  She is straightening out my crumpled trousers. "Whatever is this?" she asks fishing in the pockets. She has found Sandra's tassels. I had forgotten they were there.

  "Those?" I say. But I am lost for an explanation.

  "Tom," she says. "You tease. There you are trying to tell me you are not a real man, never done this before, and all the time you are hiding these in your pants. No wonder you wouldn't let go of them. Would you like me to put them on for you? Is that it?"

  Even as she speaks she has her bra undone and off. Her breasts are magnificent. She cups the tassels over her nipples, but they fall right off. "How do they stay on?" she asks.

  "I was wondering that," I say. "I thought you might know."

  "Spirit gum, I expect," she says thoughtfully. "I don't have any. Wait there," she says slipping suddenly off the bed. The resultant wave is of tsunami like proportions and I am swept helplessly from one end of the bed to the other. I try to lie very still and let the turmoil die down.

  I can hear Carole downstairs. It sounds as though she is going through drawers in the kitchen. I can hear something else too. A sort of creaking. It seems to be coming from the ceiling.

  I listen carefully. The noise is definitely coming from the ceiling. It sounds as though something is moving about in the roof. Something big.

  Carole reappears clutching two silver tassels to her bosom. "Rubber cement," she says. "From the cycle repair kit. I reckon that will do it. It'll take a few minutes to dry."

  "Mice," I say.

  "Mice?" she repeats. Why do people do that? Repeat what I say all the time.

  "Mice," I confirm. "In the roof. Big ones."

  "Nonsense," she says. "There's no mice in this house."

  "I heard them," I say. "In the roof. Listen."

  We sit on the bed straining to hear the sounds. Carole is still holding the two silver tassels to her chest. It seems to have gone quiet for a moment, but then unmistakably there is a loud creak from the roof.

  "That's not mice, Tom," she says. "It's too big. I think we've got a burglar."

  "Probably nothing," I say hopefully, but the creaking continues. I try to whistle but nothing comes out.

  "Do something, Tom," she says.

  I wonder if there is time to ring the office. Julie would know what to do. But I know this is a forlorn hope.

  "There's a ladder," says Carole. "You have to push up the trapdoor with a stick."

  Listen. I know I wanted to be like Bond, but this isn't what I had in mind. I'm not so sure I want it now. It's alright, God. You can take it back. Thankyou anyway. Sorry to have troubled you.

  Carole is out of the bed and onto the landing. She has a hand cupped over each bosom holding the silver tassels in place. The mattress slops from end to end with the force of her departure. I bob up and down like a cork in a bowl. Either I have to follow her. Or be sick!

  "In there," she says pointing with her toes at the airing cupboard door. "Get the stick." From the rear her G string has all but disappeared.

  "I'll phone," I say.

  "Get the stick," she repeats.

  "Julie will know what to do," I continue.

  She yanks open the cupboard door and grabs a small pole. "Here," she says. "Use this."

  "What will you use?" I ask. The stick looks hardly big enough to offer much protection. I eye the vase on the landing. That looks rather more substantial to me. Surely Mr Hudson would understand if it were used in self defense.

  She grabs the pole and jabs at the ceiling. A trap door drops down. "Get the ladder," she orders.

  "I don't think you should go up there," I say. "It might not be safe. Why don't you let me phone Julie?"

  While I am talking she has the ladder down from the hatch and somehow I find myself standing on the bottom rung. I've just realised. I think she's expecting me to go up.

  "I don't have it," I say.

  "Have what?"

  "I haven't got the right one. It didn't come in my set."

  "What set?"

  "Genes. I didn't get the one for going up ladders into dark places."

  There is a muffled thump from
the attic. As though someone might have bumped into a chair.

  "Sparrows," I say hopefully. But even I am not convinced.

  I progress up the ladder one slow step at a time. Carole is coming up behind me. She is so close I can feel her hot breath on my backside even through the boxer shorts. When my head is level with the trap door I peer cautiously over the rim. It's dark.

  "Nothing," I say. "Nothing at all. Whatever it was must have heard us coming and gone. Might as well shut it all back up again."

  I am about to descend when there is another muffled noise from deep within the roof. As I peer through the gloom I can see a line of light. Very narrow and very faint. It looks like a doorway.

  "There's a door," I whisper.

  Carole is continuing to come up the ladder. It sags alarmingly under our combined weight. If I don't move she'll have us both off. She scrambles up beside me and we crouch on the joist staring at the light.

  "Where does it go?" I ask.

  "I've no idea," she says. "I've never been up here before."

  "Stowaways," I suggest. "Perhaps you've got stowaways."

  "Don't talk rubbish, Tom. You don't get stowaways in houses."

  I have the feeling she's beginning to have second thoughts about me. Perhaps this would be a good time to slip away. But even as I have the thought there is a sharp jab in my side from her elbow. "Do something," she hisses.

  I'm not quite sure what she has in mind, but at a rough guess it involves me crossing the attic and confronting whatever is behind the door. I survey the intervening space. There isn't even a floor. It isn't far, only about ten feet, but it involves stepping from joist to joist. I don't even have any shoes on. Come to that I don't have much of anything on. I wish I'd hung on to those trousers.

  Listen. Have you ever read any of those horror stories where a ravening beast with three eyes and six arms lurks behind every door and eats anyone foolish enough to walk past? So have I! Rubbish aren't they?

  I step gingerly between the joists. What am I going to do when I get there? I think I might turn back. But when I look behind me I can see Carole crouched in the trapdoor opening. She is illuminated by the light from below. I can just make out a silver gleam from the tassels on her chest. I guess the rubber solution must have worked. She looks like an amazon huntress poised for the kill. I think I'm more scared of her than the beast. There is a small noise from the other side of the door. It sounds like somebody moving around.