Naked City

by Anthony Cropper

  – Well, they will have won’t they, it’s their own place.

  Andrew and Liz rented the house they were living in. It was exactly the same as their next door neighbours’ house in its design. But there was a lot of work needed doing on their house, while the Armours’ house was fully modernised: central heating, double glazing, fitted kitchen, shower, loft insulation and at least three electrical sockets in each room. The Garrets’ house, in contrast, was in dire need of a re-wire, a damp course, a change of window frames, a new door, both front and back, and new floors in the downstairs rooms.

  Emily Armour had a reasonably well paid job as a team leader in a customer services department of an electrical supply company. Her boyfriend, Derek, worked in a bank in the centre of town. They each had their own cars. One was new, the other only a few years old. Andrew Garret worked for a telecommunications company. He’d been there several years, but had failed to get promoted, despite the fact that younger and less experienced staff had managed to rise above him in the ranks. Liz Garret worked as an auxiliary assistant in an old peoples’ home. The pay was crap, but she didn’t mind the job. She’d been there a few years now and felt settled. She didn’t like change of any sort. It was out of the way. She sometimes worked odd hours and generally used the one car they owned, or rather would own next year when they had paid off the loan instalments.

  Liz was already in bed when Andrew switched off the set for the night. He tidied up the living room, binning the cardboard boxes and empty beer tins, plumping up the cushions. The baby had been in bed for a few hours. They’d had a lot of sleepless nights at first but she generally slept through now. He unplugged the TV and went upstairs. Liz had left the bedroom light on, the frame of the door glowed orange at the end of the dark corridor. He pushed the door open very gently. She was still awake, sat up in bed with the intercom on her chest.

  – What are you doing?

  She looked over to him. – Come and have a listen to this.

  – You’re not listening to next door are you?

  – It’s weird, you can hear every sound…

  He took his trousers off and draped them over the wardrobe door. – You shouldn’t do, it’s mean. How would you like it?

  She looked indignant momentarily, then the guilt crept up. – I suppose you’re right. She switched it back to the correct channel and placed it on the bedside cabinet. He climbed into bed beside her. He leant across and set the alarm for morning. He sat back in bed adjusting the pillows.

  – What could you hear?

  – Just the baby breathing at first but then I could hear them getting into bed. She was talking about going away for the weekend, her mum’s looking after the baby for them. They’ve been invited to go on a TV programme. It’s one of these talk shows, they wrote off for some free tickets last year and had forgotten about it, but they got a letter yesterday inviting them to come down and take part.

  – And you heard all that? He cuddled up next to her, put his hand on her bare hip.

  She recoiled. – Don’t, your hands are freezing.

  – I’ll warm them up for you. He rubbed his hands together like a cartoon miser. His hands went beneath the sheets and made contact with her naked body once again. This time her recoil was more drastic, she seemed irritated.

  – What have I told you, pack it in!

  He sat upright and folded his arms.

  – There’s no need to shout. She didn’t reply. She was curled up under the covers. The air was cold in the bedroom, despite the heater blowing out hot air. She pulled the sheets tightly around her, put her face beneath the duvet. He stared off into the distance, staring at the wall which separated their bedroom from the bedroom of Emily and Derek Armour. There was nothing on the wall, no pictures or posters, just a great expanse of magnolia covered wood chip. He leant across and took hold of the intercom. He flipped it over and switched it to the other channel. He turned up the volume and placed it to his ear.

  Nothing. He could hear breathing, wasn’t sure whose. Sounded like more than one person. He turned it up a bit more. Still nothing. He could now make out the stertorous respiration of the baby girl. Deep sleep. He could hear over this the sound of lighter, softer breath. It was somehow hypnotic. The sound of the night air being drawn in, warmed, and then released again. He could hear the bed squeak. He could hear two people kissing. The wet sound of their lips as they parted. He could hear the breath quicken and deepen. The bed began to groan rhythmically. He could hear now the distinct sound of someone panting. Another person groaning. The breath got faster still. The smack of the lips. Squelching. The bed’s frantic protest. They were all groaning now, she, he, bed – in unison. Gasps of pleasure. Hot, urgent panting…

  Liz grabbed the intercom from him and switched the channels. She put the unit back on the bedside cabinet.

  – So it’s OK for you to listen, but not me… Hypocrite! She disappeared under the covers again.

  He jumped up and pulled the covers back, exposing her naked body to the cold air, her skin bristling, her nipples hardening. She stared at him aggressively. She looked down his body. He had an erection. He stared back at her. His look indecipherable. There was a long pause. Silence… Then the sound of their baby crying came through the speaker of the intercom. He got up and put his dressing gown on. She replaced the covers.

  She listened to the intercom now. She heard, above the sound of her baby’s cries, his steps on the corridor – at first fading, then getting louder. She heard the door of the baby’s room open, and the floorboards creak as he approached the cot. She could hear his voice as he comforted his daughter. With the intercom’s speaker held close it was like he was whispering in her ear and not the baby’s.

  – Hello baby, what you doing, what you doing little girl?

  She could hear him lift her out of the cot.

  – Is baby wet? Who’s a wet little thing then…

  She heard him open the changing box, take out a nappy and some baby wipes. She could hear the press studs pop open on the baby-grow. She had stopped crying now and was making soft gurgling noises. He was making raspberries on her naked body. His wet lips vibrating against her soft baby flesh. The baby giggled in excitement.

  – You like that, don’t you. Baby likes that, oh yes, oh yes… Want some more, baby want some more?

  She wasn’t tired anymore. She picked up the TV guide and skimmed through it. She flicked the switch on the remote and the television screen lit up the room, making it, somehow, feel warmer. She sat up and started to watch some late night talk show. It was put on at this time because it was supposed to be a bit risqué. He came back into the room. He looked at her then at the TV.

  – Do you want a drink?

  – What you making? She didn’t look up at him, but at the TV screen.

  – Whatever?

  – I’ll have whatever you’re making.

  He went out of the room, then popped his head round the door.

  – I’m making something hot, do you want a cup of tea?

  – No, I’ll have a cold drink, in a big glass.

  He closed the door without saying anything. Outside the bedroom the house was as cold as the inside of a fridge. He switched the landing light on. His breath was smoke in front of his face. In the kitchen he heated the water in a pan. Their kettle had broke a few weeks ago. He’d have a flick through the classified column when he got back upstairs, see if he could find a second-hand one for sale. Money was tight. He glanced around the room. The walls were covered in green mould. A pool of water had formed behind the kitchen door. It was raining and there was a gap where the skirting had rotted. The water was boiling now and he made the tea. He took his mug and Liz’s glass and went to switch off the light.

  There, beside the switch, was a slug. It was crawling up the wall. He recoiled in disgust. He put the mug and the glass down and reached for a piece of kitchen tissue. He approached the slimy mollusc timidly. It was large and the colour of shit, with glistening rivulet
s along its length. He took it in the tissue and squelched it in his fingers. He could feel its body pop open beneath his thumb. He placed the tissue in the bin and washed his hands. He switched off the light and slowly, in darkness, made his way back up to the bedroom.

  In the kitchen, his hot mug of tea steamed next to the ice cold glass of Vimto.

  Jogging

  Peter Bromley

  My house is a car park now. I still think of it as my house, even though Sue moved in just before we were married. Terraced houses packed tight as allotment cabbages. Snug back-to-backs. Cooky, the widow who lived opposite us would always sense when we had the drinks out.

  ‘Beer, Cooky?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘I won’t stop…’

  …and she would still be there when we served dinner, by which time she had usually had three or four drinks. She would leave in a waving of arms and high drama. She refused to vacate her house when the streets were purchased as part of a strategic site development plan - a by-pass which never happened. But eventually even her house was boarded-up and then demolished. She gave us a small holly tree, though, which we keep in a pot in our tiny back garden.

  We are taking the children to the new sports centre. From the upper deck of the bus, Sue and I point out the former street patterns and peoples’ houses to our children. I try to show them where our house was and where Cooky’s was too. They cannot understand. They just want to get to the centre and swim in the waves generated by the wave machine.

  As I look out from the bus, I notice the small change in the colour of the concrete which marks the point at which our front room became the street. Audis, BMWs, Fords; they all park there oblivious to the significance of the change in surface material. The ticket machine stands in our back kitchen.

  We got married, Sue and I, because it just seemed right. Before that we lived together. For a while we lived in the house that is now just a series of blots and scars on the car park surface. Cooky knew that we weren’t married. All she said was ‘Glad to see you made it legal’ and winked when we arrived home from work one evening, a week after we got married.

  The time I first met Sue, Neil Mitchell stole half a bottle of vodka from his dad’s drinks cabinet after school.

  ‘He’ll miss it, Neil.’ I said.

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘It’s not legal.’

  ‘He won’t miss it, he’s too stupid. Besides, what if he does?’

  He had it in the inside pocket of his new leather jacket, snug as a gun. It was a time when we thought that there were more girls in the world than we could decently imagine. All those girls and half a bottle of vodka too so we went to the Hoppings Fair. We swaggered through the muddy fields and crowds.

  During the day we watched police dogs and marching bands. We laughed at the womens’ gymnastic display. We danced and messed around at the edge of the roped-off arena. We pushed each other and pointed at the women. Dave Briggs fell on his arse in the mud. Then there were the Morris Men…we shouted at them until an old man in a blue blazer and a badge that said ‘Steward’ told us to stop.

  ‘Come on,’ said Neil.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the rides.’

  ‘This is crap!’

  ‘Lets get some hot dogs.’

  ‘I need a piss.’

  We went for hot dogs. I had my first drink of vodka. It choked me, so from then on I only pretended to drink it, simply holding it to my lips and tilting the bottle back. I let out a sigh and wiped my mouth with my sleeve each time I faked a drink.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Dave.

  He paid his money and was handed three darts which he fired off with wild windmill arms. Wham. Wham.Wham. Not one of them hit the tightly-packed playing cards he was aiming at.

  ‘Tosser,’ said Neil.

  ‘Yeah, tosser,’ I added.

  Dave pushed me, ‘You do better. Come on.’

  Across the grubby field the shanty town of the fair was beginning to light up. By now, most of the families were leaving. The people left were mostly couples or groups like us. The dodgems were surrounded by people that were all about our age. The fairground attendants were chatting up groups of girls. One of the attendants, a boy younger than me, had tattoos around his neck and tattoos up both arms. The girls he was talking to were laughing nervously. One of them put her hand up to her mouth to giggle. Eventually the girls moved off, only briefly looking back over their shoulders as they laughed and jostled with each other. The boy shouted something like, ‘You don’t know what you’re missing’ and began to talk to some other girls.

  ‘Look. There’s Mandy,’ said Neil.

  ‘Randy Mandy.’

  He pointed with his half-empty bottle of vodka to a group of girls who were getting into some of the dodgems.

  ‘I had her once.’ He hadn’t. I knew that. We all knew that. But none of us said anything. ‘She’s with her mates. Come on.’

  We pushed our way into two dodgem cars and began driving after the girls. As we chased them Neil drank from his bottle and tried to pass it to me but was seen by one of the attendants and he put it back in his jacket pocket.

  After we got off, Dave Briggs simply shouted, ‘Hey Mandy,’ and it was that easy. We were talking to them. Mandy took a drink; a real drink. Her mate, Sue Trenarry, took a drink too. She passed the bottle to me.

  ‘You’re Sue, aren’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Smooth,’ said Dave, butting in to take the vodka.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Come on with that vodka.’

  ‘Let’s go to the rifle range.’

  ‘Let’s get Dave to teach us to play darts.’

  ‘Piss off!’

  ‘Piss off yourself.’

  We all walked, not sure of where we were heading. I tried to walk next to Sue. Neil passed me the almost empty bottle of vodka and I took a drink. I almost choked. I passed it to Sue.

  ‘No thanks. I can’t stand it,’ she said.

  ‘But you had a drink before.’

  ‘No I didn’t. I faked it.’

  ‘I’ve seen you at the bus station.’

  ‘I’ve seen you too. With your mate Neil.’

  ‘I bet you fancy him.’

  ‘Not really. He’s a big head.’

  We walked behind the others and then let them move further away.

  ‘Want a hot dog?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘Hey Neil. We’re going for a hot dog,’ I shouted.

  The others turned around and jeered but kept walking.

  As Sue and I walked through the mud, her shoes kept slipping off. Eventually she put her arm through mine. ‘I keep slipping,’ she explained, briefly looking at me then returning her gaze to the ground ahead.

  Later, on a bench under the dripping trees, we kissed. It happened just like that. Kissing Sue Trenarry. My God! I was kissing Sue Trenarry.

  On the bus home I sat downstairs with Sue.

  ‘What are you doing when you leave school?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘I might do a trade.’ After a pause, I added, ‘Engineering or something. What about you?’

  ‘I want to go and stay with my sister,’ she said. ‘She’s got a flat and a job in London. She says I can go there for a while. I don’t know really. I think I might like to go to college.’

  And, as I held her hand, my mind swooped from the empty damp bus through the deserted street down motorways I had never seen and settled on my own vision of London. There it rested for the remainder of our journey.

  Walking from Sue’s bus stop we wove through back alleys and streets on her council estate. We passed a row of shuttered shops, with cars outside, parked half on the pavement. Behind the houses lay a deep silence. At her door I kissed her.

  ‘I’d invite you in but my dad’s probably still up,’ she said.
>
  ‘It’s alright.’

  ‘How’ll you get home?’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  And we kissed again. Bloody hell! Kissing Sue Trenarry. I tried to move my hands onto her bum, but she moved them back around her waist.

  ‘You’ve had too much vodka.’

  ‘Can I ring you?’ I asked.

  ‘If you want.’

  She took out her key and opened the door. She kissed me then put her finger to her lips to tell me to be quiet. She turned and went into the house.

  I walked to the end of the street. At first I walked just on the pavement. Then I ran with one foot on the pavement and one foot in the gutter. I ran past the barking dogs, passed the row of shops, the parked cars and down the hill, happier than I had ever been.

  After our house became a car park, Sue and I moved to our new house. It’s in a new development. Lots of low-rise units. It doesn’t have any real shops near it. There’s a video shop, a car accessory shop, a gym, and a tanning centre. There used to be a butcher, though. If I’d been asked to draw a butcher when I was six or seven I would have drawn Clive, who used to run the shop. Fat, red-faced and sort of funny. He worked hard at his humour, did Clive. For days he used a one-liner, getting the emphasis right; honing up the timing. Then it got used until it was blunt and useless and finally disposed of. He had a large plastic model of a butcher outside his shop, about half as big again as Clive. Dressed in a blue and white striped apron and a boater, the model was chained to Clive’s drainpipe. Some of the local kids wrote on the model in black felt tip pen ‘Fat Bastard Clive.’