The Cheek Perforation Dance

by Sean Thomas

  — Rebecca?

  — Mm?

  — Why on earth are you crying?

  19

  — And this was, when, Doctor?

  — About three thirty

  — In the morning?

  — Yes – Doctor Lewis looks down at her notes, looks across at the silvery wig of the prosecution, at the Seventies-style downlights beyond – I arrived at Paddington Green police station at about two o clock, and the accused was escorted into the cell for examination – The doctor glances at her wrist, as if checking her watch – I think about half an hour later

  Lawyerly nod; solicitous smile:

  — Did you notice anything about the accused?

  Air conditioning. Cough in the gallery. Doctor Lewis:

  — I …?

  The new witness is looking blankly at the lawyer. Alan Gregory QC lifts an eyebrow and says:

  — What was he dressed in?

  — The … paper suit

  — Yes. Can you explain this to the jury?

  — Of course. Forensic need to examine any … clothes in such cases, so the … accused … uh … persons – The doctor seems to shrug at her own grammatical infelicity, then goes on anyway – Well. They are given a kind of disposable paper jump suit to wear, a white paper jump suit. With a zip

  — And as a result Mister Skivington’s clothes were taken for forensic examination?

  — Yes

  — Have you read the forensic reports on the clothes, Doctor Lewis?

  — Yes – She smiles, professionally. At her smile, the judge nods, the lawyer nods, the jury rolls a communal boiled sweet round its mouth and leans forward; and Patrick shuts his eyes. Patrick opens his eyes again to see the prosecution whisper something to his assistant, who subsequently lifts up a see-through plastic bag and takes out a pair of dark-blue frayed jeans. Seeing his clothes, the clothes he wore the night, that night, makes Patrick want to close his eyes again; the jeans were trendy then, he muses. The lawyer’s assistant is taking out a pair of Patrick’s shoes, the shoes he wore then, followed by Patrick’s top. Nice top, Patrick thinks, watching intently as the asistant reaches in the bag one more time and rummages for a second and then extracts … A pair of Cross of St George boxer shorts?!

  Someone in the jury laughs as the prosecutor lays the Cross of St George boxer shorts on the courtroom table beside Patrick’s jeans and top and shoes. The jury stops laughing as the prosecution counsel wipes his hands on a tissue provided by his junior, balls the tissue, then gestures the cleaned hand over the pile of clothes and says:

  — Was there anything of significance in the reports, about these clothes?

  — There was semen staining on the jeans

  — And anything else, did you notice anything else, any other stains?

  — The boxer shorts are stained

  — With what?

  — It appears to be coffee – She nods at her own remarks – It’s faint. But it’s older than the semen stain – The doctor puts her reading glasses back on and looks down at her notes and says – The tests indicate it’s about six weeks older than the semen stain. Six weeks before the alleged rape

  Taking off his tee shirt Patrick climbs naked apart from his Cross of St George boxer shorts into bed, beside Rebecca. Then he leans back out of the bed and lifts up one cup, and then another cup of shop-bought coffee. Twisting in the bed he hands the heavier cup to Rebecca who takes her cup, peels off the plastic white lid, and peers like a squirrel at the milk foam.

  — Cinnamon?

  — Yep

  — Decaf?

  — Yep

  — Apricot croissant?

  Patrick leans over and picks up the bag of pastries and hands that over too. He sighs:

  — And I got the magazines. And the post. And the new mortgage. And an obsidian blade from Veracruz and a

  — Thank you, darling!

  Bright and blonde in the morning sun streaming through their Marylebone window, Rebecca is grinning. She is grinning and kissing him on the lips; she is naked as she lifts herself and leans across. The touch and smell and proximity of his girlfriend’s naked skin makes Patrick’s naked skin tingle deliciously as she leans over him to put her half-drunk cup of coffee back on the floor beside his side of their bed.

  — Too hot – She laughs, licking some capp foam from her finger. Snuggling down under the duvet with her apricot croissant half eaten in her hand, she eats more croissant, and says through crumbs of croissant:

  — Love spending Sundays in bed

  — S’Thursday

  — Really. God – Wriggly, in that wanting-attention-way, she says – What are you going to do today then?

  — Tsch

  — No. What?

  — Dunno

  — You’re not going into work then?

  Patrick turns the page of his Telegraph. Reads the weather headline. Says lowly:

  — Can’t be arsed

  — But you’ve got to, they need you there

  — Fuck ’em. Anyway I …’ve got to go and see my dad

  She pauses, breathes twice, says:

  — Are you really going to go and see your dad?

  Weather map, weather in New York, weather in Ecuador …

  — Nah

  Croissant finished, Rebecca takes the pastry bag, scrunches it, and throws it roughly in the direction of the stereo. Then she says:

  — Patch you have to go and see him

  — Why?

  — DUH because he’s

  — Dying?

  — No! Because he’s your dad. And he’s … not very well! – She shakes her head – God! Why don’t you give him a chance before you start nailing down the coffin lid

  — He’s dying – Patrick sucks air through his teeth, as he reads the paper – But yes sure course I’ll go and see him sometime soon. Maybe next week – Patrick lifts up the newspaper – Anyway, let me read my paper, please?

  — No!

  Rebecca is giggling; her hand is snaking down under the bedclothes, where she is doing something to his boxer shorts. Pretending not to notice Patrick breathes in and out and reads the same paragraph about Arsenal’s share price five times over, while his girlfriend tussles with the elastic of his shorts. Finally frustrated by this elastic, it seems, Rebecca lifts the duvet and stares down her semi-naked boyfriend’s torso at his Cross of St George boxer shorts. Pause. Rebecca speaks:

  — Patch …?

  — Nn?

  — You’ve …

  — Babe?

  — You’ve got the Nazi pants on again

  — My patriotic jocks? Sure. Why?

  — Patch – Rebecca sighs, lifting the elastic of his shorts and letting it ping back onto his stomach, painfully – Why do you wear them?

  — Cause they annoy you

  — But they don’t though

  — They make you think I’m a Nazi

  Rebecca:

  — Have I ever told you how much those shorts really annoy me

  — Yeah. Sorry

  — Please forsake the Hitler underwear again please it’s kind of sensitive for us

  — English in the drawing room, French in the kitchen, Jewish in the bedroom, that’s the ideal woman

  — Don’t ever wear them again?!! Please??

  Rebecca’s little scrunched-up nose is near his bigger nose, her big eyes are near his staring eyes. Marooned, compassless, scorbutic with lust in the seas of love, Patrick gazes into his girlfriend’s green-and-brown eyes, feeling his heart and his groin doing a jazz duet. The Patrick Skivington Duo, performing ‘My Helpless Love’.

  Rebecca asks:

  — Does my Jewishness really turn you on?

  — Yep

  — Why?

  — Because you’re exotic, different. You’re like … – Patrick thinks – Olives. Jews are like olives. I never had an olive until I was twenty – Patrick pulls the duvet up and snuggles nearer his naked Jewess – Never liked olives at first either

  Rebecc
a half slaps, half caresses his shoulder. The boyfriend looks down, at the duvet, goes quiet, then says:

  — When was the duvet revolution, when was it that sheets and blankets went out?

  Rebecca leans and whispers loud and hot in his ear:

  — Call my cunt that name again?

  He looks at her, says:

  — That name … of that programme you never saw?

  — The kids’ programme, yes

  — Really? You want me …?

  — To say it!

  — You want me to say the name?

  — Yes!!

  — … Show me your … Pogle’s Wood?

  — Oh yes

  — Oh yes?

  — Come on you bastard!

  — Do you want to see my Woodentop?

  — Only if you put your Woodentop in … Hector’s House?

  Out loud Patrick laughs, lifts the duvet up and looks down at his naked girlfriend’s long but short body. It is slender but curvy; tiny but generous; beautiful but terrifying. It is Crystal tips, but Alister.

  — Time for bed

  Says Patrick.

  Urgent, nodding, giggling, Rebecca reaches down under the duvet, reaches for his shorts, slips her fingers around, and finds Patrick’s hardness. Patrick shuts his eyes. He senses her lovely fingers, her lovely, nimble, expert, grade eight, Für-Elise-playing fingers, as they slip inside the slit in his jocks. Then he hears her say:

  — God Patch I love your fucking cock

  — So you took a penile swab?

  — Yes

  Doctor Lewis puts her glasses on again as she reads from her notes:

  — I took a … penile swab, nail parings, and hair clippings from the accused

  — And the result?

  — The swab indicated that intercourse had taken place maybe two hours before

  The tiny silver ribbon of horsehair at the back of the prosecution lawyer’s wig bobs up and down. Patrick starts counting the ceiling-level apertures of the complex air-conditioning system. Then he listens again as the doctor describes his nail parings, his hair clippings, his penile swabs – and how she inspected Patrick’s body.

  — He seemed to me quite a fit young man

  — Strong, would you say?

  — Yes

  In the box Patrick feels a mixture of pride, resentment and violation. He tries to feel calm. They are evidently trying to make him out as a superfit, physically well capable rapist; how nice, Patrick thinks, to be described as superfit, as physically well capable.

  — What else did you notice?

  The doctor pauses, computes, and says

  — There were two large abrasions on Mister Skivington’s knees

  — Both knees?

  — Yes

  — Can you describe them?

  — They were large red patches of raw skin, where the skin had rubbed away, with a certain amount of bruising

  — And these … abrasions … were they – The lawyer taps his closed mouth with a pen, goes on – Were the abrasions of recent provenance … were they fresh, as it were?

  — Yes. The skin was raw

  — What do you think they were, Doctor Lewis?

  Doctor Lewis looks briefly at the judge; Patrick looks briefly at Doctor Lewis’s chubby red thirty-something face. The doctor says:

  — I think they were carpet burns

  — Not on the carpet, hurts my knees

  Rebecca listens to her lover say this and she thinks in a Northern accent give over and then she thinks why isn’t he taking me from behind yet?

  As if commanded by her thoughts Patrick lifts Rebecca up and turns her around and starts taking her from behind and as she feels him slip hard inside she feels a bliss and a resentment, a sense of pride, and a sense of violation. She thinks of the witches they tortured; she thinks of the croissant she ate; she thinks of sexual dimorphism in animals and how she likes his bigness, his biggerness. His tallness and hardness. Yet she also likes his relative roughness, his maleness, his coarseness. So? Tasting the apricot-and-pastry flavour on her lips Rebecca wonders if sexual dimorphism can be applied to wealth and intellect and class background and credit rating. Can she be turned on by the fact he can’t get a mortgage because of his police record? Rebecca thinks of his lovely cock inside her and she lets out a strange sound.

  Erkkgkkaka??

  His hardness. Oh them. Together. Working. Having her boyfriend inside her Rebecca loses herself in the pillow beneath and she finds herself wondering when was the last time they laundered the pillowslips and then she thinks of his cock. Pillowslip. Patrick’s cock. Pillowslip. His cockerel. Little red rooster. These animals. O these wee beasties. These her witch’s familiars oh God oh God oh God, Rebecca half swoons, does he love her little black cat? Her sweet greedigut? Her little vinegar joe?

  Do it now!

  He does it now. She is turned over again. Face to face, Rebecca feels raw air, and his raw unshaven chin on her soft open face. Rebecca lets her mouth do a Kiri te Kanawa; she opens and closes; she chunks her hands in his lovely dark soft sweet hair and kisses his shoulders until his dark dark hair disappears down the bed to start the examination. Of the wytche’s boddie; for blemmishes and wenns. O yea, Rebecca swoons, will he pryck her or burne her? Will he strip her nakedde, for to see the devil’s marks, on her snowie breast?

  — Were there any other marks on the accused?

  Doctor Lewis says:

  — There were lots of little … cuts

  — What sorts of cuts?

  — Small lesions and abrasions on the back and shoulders

  Gregory looks down at his own desk, and says:

  — Consistent with …?

  — Well, there are several possible explanations … – Spectacles in hand, Doctor Lewis looks across at the prosecution and says – The explanation I most favour is scratches – More emphatically – Yes, I would say they are scratches

  — Made by human fingernails?

  — Yes

  — As if in a struggle?

  — … Possibly

  — No further questions

  The judge leans over his desk and his dais and looks lofty, old, kind and downwards at the doctor; who turns and looks sweet, young, submissive and like a Jane Austen daughter up at the judge. The judge says:

  — Doctor Lewis? Was there anything you wish to add?

  The doctor moues a yes. The judge smiles; the doctor adds:

  — It appeared to me that the scratches had been formed over quite a long period of time … not just on one occasion. There were hundreds of them

  — Ouch

  — Sorry

  — Don’t fucking scratch so much

  — Sorry

  — Don’t say that, say

  — OK do me harder Patch fuck me till

  — Till it fucking bleeds, I know

  Patrick is sweating as he ties guitar wire around his girlfriend’s lovely ankles. Pausing for a second to kiss the lovely instep of his girlfriend’s foot, he then leans back and ties the rusty guitar wire around her ankles, thus trussing her feet, her little trotters, her little feet together. His girlfriend suitably squeals and says it hurts. Patrick says I know. She says I love you. Beneath him she now nods dumbly and submissive at him; he rolls her like a carcase onto her front; as he does she rolls into the half-full Caffé Nero coffee cup and it goes spilling over the carpet and his clothes and his shorts.

  But he doesn’t care. Instead he takes her hands and roughly he holds them together. Reaching back he grabs the last steel guitar wire, his trusty D string, and he takes her slender white wrists and he twines them together with the rusty guitar wire. She groans. Momentarily Patrick wonders if he is hurting her too much; he hopes he is hurting her enough.

  Patrick looks at the coffee on her breasts; he wipes some sweat from his forehead with an arm, like a workman. He has been working so hard he is sweating hard; he has been working so hard his erection is nearly gone. Patrick uses the natural pause to take a breat
her: he sits back and looks at his handiwork: at his trilingual girlfriend trussed with dirty guitar wire by the ankles and wrists. She is bound so tight she may well start bleeding. Gazing at this Patrick wonders if he is really anti-Semitic. He remembers the only time he was ever a bully at school. That kid, David Samuels. They used to torture him every day. They used to put little Dave on the janitor’s ladder and force him to climb the ladder onto the roof where they would leave him all day. God, Patrick thinks, David Samuels,? Might as well have called him Dreyfus.

  Then Patrick thinks about putting people on the roof. Then Patrick thinks about putting Rebecca on the roof. His erection returns as he leans and gets to work again, as he hoists Rebecca up and over his shoulder. As he carries her through the little door and up the stairs, she says ow and stop; but he ignores her, the same way he ignores her slaps and yowls as he punts open the door to the roof terrace. Outside it is bright. In the sunlight Rebecca moans and sighs and says what are you doing?

  Patrick stays silent. He puts Rebecca down on the roof terrace in the warm sunshine, dropping her onto the gravelly flooring. Then he puts his hands on his hips feeling like a Smithfield butcher after a hard morning’s toil, and looks down at her. At her cunt. He looks. Then he kneels and squats and pushes apart her thighs. He can feel the windows of the nearby office blocks staring down at him but he does not care. He pushes apart her thighs and he feels her wetness inside. She is wet enough, more than wet enough, so he positions himself so that he can enter her. Using his own wet hand he slippily undoes his flybuttons and then he leans and makes a little noise as he enters her soppy wet cunt. Then he starts fucking her. Now he is fucking her. He is very aroused; he can feel the wind on his face; the sun on his arse; the office workers of Zenith Media staring at his bucking arse. He does not care. He is so aroused. God, the guitar wire. The sunshine. The violation. He is thinking that he is fucking her on the roof in the middle of the day even though she is bound up with rusty steel guitar wire and he is thinking God I love her. I love her. He is thinking God I love her I love her. How I love her. Love Her. Love her.