by Sean Thomas
Do you
Do you think
Do you think I’m
— Do you think I’m guilty, Mum?
His mother makes a motherly face as best she can:
— Patch … darling …
— Mum. I’m serious – He makes a very serious face – Do you?
She looks at him. Says nothing.
They are sitting in the canteen at the top of the Old Bailey. Patrick’s mother looks suitably pinched and public sector amidst the public sector drabness all around: the crap sandwiches half eaten; the cups of cold machine coffee; the policemen in nylon shirts sweating dark-blue patches. His mother does a fearfully aged smile which makes Patrick flinch at the deepness of her wrinkles, as she smiles and says:
— I’ve never thought that, Patrick darling, you know how much I believe you
And so his mother goes on. And as she does Patrick looks at her, at her sadness, and tiredness, and oldness, worst of all her bravery, and consequently he feels the pangs of guilt, the pangs of guilt at having put her through this, the pangs of guilt at his being innocent but still stupid enough to end up here, the pangs of guilt that he might just possibly get a guilty verdict … And as he thinks this, Patrick thinks how much he is hurting his mother because he loves her and that makes him think something he’s been thinking for a while now: how all love seems to be a process of hurting people you love, how the amount you love seems proportionate to, maybe even predicated upon, the amount you can hurt.
In which case … In which case, Patrick decides, he must love Rebecca more than anyone.
— You know I might go down for this, Mum. For life
Silence, frown, wrinkles, silence. This is the first time Patrick has mentioned aloud this possibility and Patrick wants a reaction. The reaction is silence. His mother does not start but nor does she refute the concept. Inside Patch feels like crying out. He stares at his mother. Flesh of my flesh. He thinks of her crying and dying without him, with him in prison.
Then she speaks:
— Look my boy you’ve got a good lawyer and all your friends believe you and just because that silly nasty girl can’t get her
my boy?
Patrick listens to his mother’s outrage, her defiance, but he senses that they both feel that there is something wrong, something wronger then before. The confidence they were able to fake hitherto is beginning to ebb away. And as the final moment, the moment of truth approaches, the naked fear is showing through. Patrick wonders how much his mother must resent him, somewhere, for his putting her through this.
Then he thinks of something even more painful: how much she has learnt of the kinky sex. How much? How much of that evidence has she heard? How much have they told her? Pained, agonised, Patrick tries not to think of his mother hearing the gruesome sexual details, the biting, the tying, the handcuffs, the buggery. The idea of his mum hearing of his sexual peccadilloes is, to Patrick, like the idea of actually having his mum standing by with fresh Kleenex while he’s noisily copulating. It makes Patrick feel embarrassed, resentful, nauseous, dirty, sinful, bad. Not least because: if his mother has never done or heard of sex like this, like the pretty fierce sex described in this courtroom these three days, then his mother will be upset, scandalised and humiliated. Which would be bad. But perhaps worse would be if this kind of sex her son is having does not upset and scandalise and humiliate Patrick’s mother: because this would mean she had heard of, perhaps even done, such sexual things …
Patrick gazes at the sad cup of weak tea his mother is sipping. Maybe, he thinks, maybe an entire lifetime in prison wouldn’t be such a bad option. After all.
18
— Oooh, tricky
— Exactly
— So what did he say? Afterwards?
Rebecca chuckles, says:
— Nothing!
— He saw you doing it, tied up and everything – Murphy’s wide eyes widen even further – And he said nothing?
— Yep
— Golly
Rebecca:
— I just hate it when parents say … nothing … Don’t you?
Rebecca is looking brightly at Murphy. Murphy shakes her head and gives up on the dialogue, she just whews smoke into the sunny, dusty air. They are both sitting on the unpolished floorboards of the furnitureless flat. After a final puff on her cigarette Murphy leans sideways, and uses a middle finger to drag back an ashy saucer, into which she aggressively taps more cigarette ash. Then she says:
— So that’s why you’ve moved?
— Sort of …
— Just because of your dad finding you naked and tied up by your ex-convict boyfriend with his own Armani ties …
— Dolce
Another smoky drawl:
— Golly goggles
Rebecca smiles:
— Thank God it wasn’t my mother. Can you imagine that?
— NO!!!
Murphy is slapping her own forehead. Rebecca half smiles, half grimaces. Letting go of her forehead, Murphy looks around the flat, at the unpainted walls, the greasy skirting board, the paint pots with rough sticks protruding. Her nose tilted upwards Murphy sniffs the damp and musty air, and says:
— Needs a tiny bit of work …
Rebecca:
— You hate it don’t you?
Murphy wags her head:
— It’s a fucking hovel
Rebecca smiles, shrugs:
— But … a brilliantly located hovel – Still smiling – Anyway. How else do you think we got it so cheap? In this location?
Murphy nods, says:
— So Patch has given up his flat?
— Yep
— But he liked that place – Murphy thinks – I liked that place
— You liked Joe, Murphy
— Mmm, spunky Joe
— He’s got a new flatmate already I think
Murphy looks thoughtful, says:
— And … this is … – She surveys the room – All this is what Patch wanted?
— He said he wanted it. He said his and Joe’s flat was a tip
— Mmm …
Rebecca looks firmly at her best friend:
— OK, tell me. You think it’s a big mistake don’t you? Our moving in together?
— No no no no NO – Murphy shrugs – Yes
— Yes?
— No I’m joking
— No? It isn’t? What??
Murphy makes an exasperated noise:
— Look, no, yeah, it’s a great idea? K?
— Really?
— Rilly. Specially if you … – Murphy grins, leans back, admires the turn-ups on her own jeans – Seeing as you and the … caveman are gonna be doing freaky sex, tying each other up and the like, it’s probably good you get your own place, right?
— Thank you, Murphy
— No probs
Rebecca narrows her eyes:
— Do remind me of that threesome you had with that guy from the … carpet fitters? Wasn’t it?
— You Munter
— And what was that spit roast thing you told me about? When he got his friend and they put in that
— Spark plug, he put in my spark plug – Grinning – He was a mechanic
Rebecca laughs. Murphy chuckles. Then Murphy gets up. In her dark jeans and clingy jumper Murphy stands and turns and crosses to the grimy window of the flat. Without a further word Murphy flings up the grimy sash window: sunlight and wind and Marylebone traffic noise come in. Across the room Rebecca imagines the view Murphy must be enjoying from the open window: the tattooed taxi-drivers leaning bare-armed in the springtime sunshine, as they stare slack-jawed at the miniskirted Portuguese au pairs. Murphy:
— It is an amazing location
Rebecca envies Murphy’s long figure in the frame of window light. Rebecca looks down; says to the floorboards:
— He refuses to live outside the centre, anyway
Murphy turns:
— Who? Patch?
— Yes …
&
nbsp; — So it’s him that forced you to rent this hole
— Oh. It’s not so bad
Murphy seems to think about this, then she says
— What else do you two do in bed?
Rebecca tsks. She looks at the watch on her wrist, checks the time, checks the faint marks of handcuffs beneath the watchstrap, says:
— Murphy. You’re a voyeur
Her friend is whining:
— … tell me? Purleeze?
— Really?
— Yes?
— Well … Sometimes I like him to … like him to …
— Mm yes go on go on DON’T STOP
Murphy is padding back, enthusiastic and barefoot, to where Rebecca is sitting. As Murphy folds her long legs under herself, and sits down on the floor opposite, Rebecca looks at the silver ring on one of Murphy’s toes and Rebecca says:
— I like him to say your name when we do it
Murphy stops. Says:
— What?
Rebecca:
— I’m not telling you what we do, you’ll just go all judgmental about it
Murphy:
— He hits you, doesn’t he?
A Rebecca-ish moue, then:
— Wouldn’t call it hitting, precisely
— So sorry – Murphy clicks a tongue – Perhaps thwacking would be better? Or clattering, or … how about smashing your stupid head in
— Anyway I ask him to
— Y …? W …?
Her friend all quiet and shocked-looking, Rebecca smiles again:
— I ask him to hit me
The sound of a motorbike being over-revved comes through the window. Then Murphy says:
— Why the fuck would you wanna ask someone to hit you??
Rebecca ponders whether to say what she wants to say. So she says:
— It’s a girl thing?
— Fuck it is!
— No. I think maybe it is. Maybe
— Derrr? Hello?????
Rebecca laughs and says:
— Perhaps it’s possible, you know? That some women are inherently masochistic?
Murphy’s face is pink with outrage:
— Fucking medieval drivel, Bex, I’m a girl and I don’t like people beating me senseless
— No?
— No I bloody don’t
— But – Rebecca grins, very slightly – Don’t you ever dream of some great big … hairy … man coming into your bedroom with his antlers and pelt? And spanking you?
— Wow!
Rebecca laughs openly, goes on:
— Bull elephant seals, I had a dream about a bull elephant seal the other day …
— Antlers, stags, zebras. Jesus. What’s wrong with car mechanics?
— Grease monkeys?
— Ha – Murphy laughs – You’re a bloody freakshow, Rebecca Jessel
— Least I’m not Vanilla Girl
The two of them stare at each other, outraged, amused, curious. After a few seconds Murphy lifts her slim-fingered gallery girl hand and says:
— So. Let me … No – Talking loudly through Rebecca’s protestations – It’s my turn, let me get this right … – Working it out, Murphy says – You ask … him … to punch
— Slap
— Slap, punch, decapitate you during sex cause … for some weirdo reason … some reason no doubt connected with your dad … these kind of carnal shenanigans, they turn you on?
Rebecca does her best unashamed face:
— Yes
Murphy:
— Jesus I’m boring
Rebecca beams:
— Don’t be too hard on yourself
— No. It’s true. Have to face it. Haven’t lived have I?
— What about the Spark Plug Incident?
— Don’t patronise me
— Well that was a threesome you told me and …
— Spark plugs were too small anyway
Running fingers through her dusty hair Rebecca tilts her head and says:
— You don’t truly disapprove then?
Murphy sighs, looks long and kind and soft at her friend, and says:
— Why should I disapprove, babe? Whatever turns you on – Still looking she says – Just don’t get hurt, K? Like, please? – She ruminates, then says – So is Hoxton Man into all this freakiness? Bet he is … Right?
— Well … he … actually … – Rebecca looks at her own trainers; looks at her pleasingly old jeans. Rebecca likes the fact that she is in old dusty jeans and old jumper so as to be prepared to strip out, and kit out, the new flat she’s going to share with her boyfriend. How wholesome is that? Then she says – At first he was a tad chary
A lorry reversing outside nearly drowns out the sound of Murphy delightedly mimicking Rebecca:
— At first he was a tad chary??????
— Think I might have corrupted him
— Flip!
As Murphy starts laughing, Rebecca hears a key in the lock. Downstairs. At once Rebecca jumps:
— It’s Patch!
— Bex …!
Ignoring the strange look on Murphy’s face Rebecca skips to the sitting-room stairs. Descending with a hop and a laugh she leaps to the opening front door and pulls it completely open to see Patrick saying:
— Hiya scrunchy
He is standing there, smiling, door key still in hand. He is half shaven, he is silhouetted by sunshine. The chic, busy, agreeable streets of Marylebone are doing their subtly wealthy thing behind him. Gazing at the pastel-seascape-blue of her lover’s eyes Rebecca smiles and feels her heart lift; rapt, devout, self-consciously in love, she watches with a smile as he lifts up a brown-paper-wrapped package and says:
— Er, I was going to get a wok
Rebecca looks at the package, she looks at Patrick’s inscrutable smile, she looks back at the package. Then she takes a step back and with a giggle she runs forward, jumps right into him, straight up into his arms. Seemingly winded by this, he drops the package, staggers back, manages to keep hold of Rebecca, but nearly knocks over the Japanese restaurateur from next door. This near accident makes Rebecca laugh but she still keeps hanging on to her boyfriend; half in his arms, half falling out, she kisses him full on the lips. In an apparent effort to save them from teetering into the Linden Street traffic Patrick topples forward through the front door of the flat, thus carrying them both into the stairwell, where he stoops to drop her gently to the floor. But they are so unbalanced they both collapse headlong into a shiny, slippy pile of glossy property freesheets and pizza chain flyers. For a few giggling moments the two of them sit there, on the carpet, looking at each other, laughing, regaining breath.
Then he says:
— But they didn’t have any woks
Feeling the scratch of the nylon pile of the cheap hall carpet in the small of her back, Rebecca strokes Patrick’s unshaven chin. She kisses the chin, smells something expensive, some expensive soap or balm. Then she remembers the package. Leaning, giggling, she picks it up, shakes it, feeling agreeably like a kid with a Christmas present. He kisses her neck; she pushes him away; she wriggles free of his embrace and kneels on the scratchy hall carpet and uses both hands to properly tear open the brown paper wrapping and Sellotape.
Inside is a shoe box. Rebecca opens the shoe box and lifts out
— A trumpet?
— A bugle
— A … bugle?
Lying back, unshaven and languid, against the lowest stair, he smiles and looks sheepish and says:
— I was gonna get you something sensible … like a toaster … but …
— You thought a small trumpet would be better?
— Yeah
— Mnnn. OK
— OK? Bex?
Rebecca, cod-shyly:
— I suppose we could play it … after sex?
— Before, during, instead of
— Wake up the neighbours!
— You like it then??
Rebecca grins, gets to her feet. Standing on the bottom sta
ir she reaches out a hand and lifts her boyfriend up by the hand and when he is standing over her, the two of them close and kiss, expertly, and then she says:
— What more could a woman ask than a brand-new … bugle … for her house?
— second-hand
— Murphy’s upstairs!
Holding hands, they climb the stairs and they go into the bright, paint-smelling, sunlit, unfurnished sitting room. Rebecca waves the bugle at Murphy, who is changing the tape on the portable tape-player. Seeing Murphy’s surprised, what-the-hell-is-that expression, Rebecca explains:
— It’s a bugle. Patch bought me a bugle!
— Nice
— For the kitchen!
— Good thinking
— So, Smurf – Patch strides into the sitting room, casting an eye over his own decorating efforts at the same time – What do you think of the new flat?
— Great location, really great
— You think it smells, right?
— Hums
— That’s why it’s so cheap
— I know – Murphy says, getting to her now-shod feet – Bex told me
— Well I don’t care I love it
Says Rebecca. Murphy and Patch look at her; Patch goes over and puts an arm protectively around his girlfriend’s shoulder; Murphy cocks an eye at the two of them, and says quietly:
— Ahh the golden couple
— You do like it, Murphy?
Sardonically, distantly, Murphy says:
— Course, it’s lovely – Sliding past them towards the door – OK, I have to go, enjoy your bugle
And with a semi-wave Murphy exits. Standing side by side Rebecca and Patch listen to her departure: the stairs, the door, the traffic, the door.
Listening to the echo of the doorslam, Rebecca considers. Standing beside her taller boyfriend in their new empty flat, Rebecca considers how the two of them must look now: like a just-wed couple in an advert for mortgage lenders. As she thinks this Rebecca finds herself thinking how pleased she is by this, how strongly, purely, properly glad. And then, despite herself, Rebecca feels the further tug of these thoughts, the insidious temptation. Looking around the flat, feeling Patrick’s arm around her shoulders, Rebecca scopes the dusty floors, the empty walls, the rolls of discarded carpet, the bin bags full of rubbish, the paint pots stacked in a grimy corner and she sees not these but the future. The Future. In her mind she sees big churchy candles, old silver on a polished dining table, elegantly smoking friends; in her mind she sees bottles of balsamic vinegar, washing in a big wicker basket, doodled-on Sunday papers piled carelessly next to empty bottles of wine. And then Rebecca sees the final image. Gazing at the space by the door to the kitchen she sees an annoyed but happy young mother nibbling a fingernail while reading Thomas Hardy in a second-hand Penguin edition while standing over the crib of her gorgeous baby.