Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  I close my eyes, try to shut my mind off, but the pictures keep on coming. I can see his body bursting into flame as he sits beside the corpse of his best friend; see him sick and silent in the hospital, watch the dials on a life-support machine record each twitch and shiver of his illness. I can’t see Laura – only the diamonds flashing on her hand, and all her letters, long and loving letters, written in a neat and childish writing, with red biro kisses at the bottom. He was loyal to her. That’s rare. I’ve seen too many clients betray their wives and girlfriends, even two-time a fiancée the day they bought the ring. Oafs and rotters, all of them.

  No, not all. I suddenly see Victor, young and bearded Victor, sitting in a bar in Vietnam. Half the bars were brothels, so he said. Sudchit’s there as well, ogling him, haggling, trying to lure him in. He’s smiling, saying no, saying no to Le Thi Sang, to Sun-Hee, to all those gorgeous Eastern girls. He can have hardly slept with anyone in all these years and years. While I’ve been through a hundred men in just eleven days.

  I sit bolt upright in the bath, splashing water everywhere. It’s as if only now I realise what I’ve done. I hear my own voice, stupidly offhand: “A hundred pricks. So what?” How could I have shrugged them off like that, pretended they were nothing, believed that I was shielded by some footling plastic cover? I stare down at my body. I’m scarred – like Victor – scarred indelibly.

  I reach out for the soap, a brilliant yellow bar in the shape of a whole lemon, lather it between my hands. I can’t smell soap or sharp astringent lemon, only sweaty heaving bodies, unwashed underarms, the stink of men on heat. All one hundred of them are crowding round the bath, as if to prove exactly what I’ve done, really rub it in. “No!” I whisper, horrified. “Go away. Get out of here.” They don’t. They only press still closer, digging in their nails, gasping, panting as they come, tugging at my hair. That Jewish guy, he’s there again: not Reuben – Nathan – though I was angry with him just the same; his onion-flavoured breath, only half disguised with peppermints, the long hairs in his nostrils, coarse hair in his ears; his bristly chin butting at my bum as I kneel down on all fours and he comes in from behind, ramming ramming ramming like a piston engine. Is he furious as well? It feels like it. We’re hating one another as we make what he calls love.

  Make love. Victor’s word. I’m tainted for him now, tainted by a hundred pricks. Con-men’s pricks and thugs’ pricks; pricks which almost choke me as they hammer down my throat. Semen in my mouth, slimy adult snot. I smack my lips, pretend to swallow it, pretend to come myself, pretend to smile. Everything pretend, to make those jerks feel supermen.

  God! I sound like Naima, angry and embittered, despising every client. A lot of whores are angry, get worse with age, tougher and more cynical – anti-life, anti-men, anti the whole human race. I was right in one way – a hundred men is nothing, not compared with Naima. A hundred in eleven days, three thousand in a year, fifty thousand by the time I’ve reached her age. I cling onto the bath. I’m trembling, shivering. Of course I wouldn’t stay that long – except that’s what all whores say. Naima did herself, and Joanne, who’s forty. They all intend to quit, get out before they’re lost, but the majority slag on, because there’s nowhere else they’ll fit, no one who’ll accept them. So the spiral just continues. They’re bitter, they’re unlucky, so they keep on losing, losing, like Victor did at cards.

  I must escape; I’ve got to, break the spiral now before I’m just burnt out. I pick up Victor’s sponge, hold it in both hands. Victor said I had the power to heal him, but it could work the other way. He’s already shown me that men can still be caring – sensitive and gentle, that I can’t dismiss them all as pricks and tricks, that at least there’s one exception, one guy in the world who’s got a heart, a conscience. He’s already tried to buy me out, get me free of Carl, offered me a lifeline. The word’s quite apt – it is a lifeline – a way to stop me becoming dead inside, dead and hard and toughened like his skin.

  Instinctively, I flinch. That’s the problem, though, the reason it won’t work. I just can’t accept that skin. I’m not as brave as he is, nothing like as decent. The age thing doesn’t bother me. He’s boyish, in a way, and so crazily in love with me, he’s like an adolescent, bashful and passionate at once. But his body and his cock, those ghastly creepy scars …

  Mind you, I could accept his help and bugger off. He offered me a let-out with no strings attached, not a quid pro quo. I don’t have to sleep with him, or love him back, or save him. I stare down at his sponge, its tiny holes, its uneven squashy shape. It looks alive, as if it’s breathing. I’m clutching it too tight, squeezing all the life out. I cradle it more gently, sniff its soapy sweetish smell. No, I couldn’t just run off. Not now. He’s showed me what love is – giving, not just grabbing, caring, staying loyal. Loyal like Norah. She can love as well. She’s always put me first like Victor does, came to Las Vegas in the first place just to make me happy, when the whole idea probably scared her stiff; risked God knows what to buy my wedding dress. I’ve been pretty cool to her, used her when it suited me, ignored her other times.

  Have I ever loved anyone, ever really given in my life? Oh, I use the word a lot. I loved Reuben, didn’t I, maybe love him still. Sexy handsome Reuben, kissing me all over; lying faithless Reuben, grabbing all I had. Do I love him? Did I? Do I know what the word means? I’m better at the bad things – anger and revenge. I know what anger means. I’m furious with Reuben for taking all my cash. I could have used that money to start a different life, included Norah, set us up together in a decent London flat. And I’m furious with every guy who’s bought me, even the pathetic ones. I can hear my silly voice again. “Yeah, I love you, Dad”; see that raddled father whimpering “Kay, my little Kay.” His daughter – Kay – was grown up now, he told me, never wrote at all, refused to even speak to him. No, wait – she’s speaking now, lisping through my voice. “Pop,” she’s saying. “You’re the best Dad in the world.” He’s preening, on cloud nine. His clammy flesh is squelching into mine, his clumsy hands with their bitten broken nails fumbling for my nipples. “Dad,” I mouth again, as he pulls me on his lap, holds me closer, his stubble to my breast. My arms are round his neck. I can feel the boil swelling on his back; hot and lumpy, throbbing; its pus erupting, spilling over; pus inside me, running down my legs.

  I slap them with the sponge, slap my eyes as well. What’s the point of blubbing? He paid me, didn’t he? They all paid bloody well, and I’m in this game purely for the cash – cash I’ve wasted, most of it. I sold my cunt to buy an instant wine-glass-froster, screwed my father for an electronic Wonder Key Ring which finds lost keys, lights up in the dark.

  I jump up, turn the tap on, just the hot one, let it run, hotter, hotter, hotter, till the water’s almost scalding me. That’s okay. I’ve got to burn away my pain and shame, sterilise my body, kill off all the germs. I snatch up the bathbrush, dig it in the soap, scour my naked breasts, scrub down my whole body, scrape off all those men – their nail-marks, tooth-marks, fingerprints, their sweat and sperm and slobber; dislodge festering little pockets of revenge, grimy coils of anger and resentment. I can smell lemon now, stinging cleansing lemon cutting through the reek of sweaty men. They’re leaving, shuffling out, fighting through the door, elbowing and jostling one another, swearing, swapping insults. The last half dozen swagger off; last two, last one. I hear the door slam shut, let out a deep breath. I’m absolutely knackered, as if I haven’t slept a wink for years and years, instead of just one night. My body feels quite raw, but at least it’s clean now – gasping tingling clean, not even anger left.

  I put the bathbrush down, let myself lie back. The water’s tamed a little, still hot, but lulling hot. I’m too tired to go on thinking. My mind is raw as well. Too many shocks and problems, too many guilts and fears. I haven’t any answers, but it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much. I want to simply drift, float away in a haze of pine and steam. I close my eyes. Frightening things like wars and scars recede; dangerous
things like love condense in tiny droplets on the walls. I’m falling, flowing with them, sinking even deeper in the water. Only water, only warm green water, the scent of summer pinewoods, lemon groves in flower …

  I jump when Victor knocks. He’s calling through the door. I think I’d just dozed off. His voice sounds very distant, as if it’s coming from a thousand years away.

  “What?” I shout.

  “I wondered if you’re nearly through? Your coffee’s getting cold.”

  “Bring it in, then. I’m too whacked to get out.”

  He’s never seen me naked. I reach across, tip in still more bath salts, stretch out flat so only my head and feet are showing. He can’t see me now. The water’s like a thick green coverlet.

  My eyes keep closing. I open them to a second knock, a loaded breakfast tray. He’s spoiling me again. Not just coffee, but bacon, muffins, fruit juice, and two melon halves with strawberries piled on top. I’m instantly awake. It’s amazing the effect he has. I’m no longer an angry raddled whore, too fagged to move a muscle, but a precious guest who’s hungry, even happy.

  “I can’t eat bacon in the bath,” I smile.

  “Sure you can. I’ll feed you. Want your melon first?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Soon, we’re both giggling as I lose strawberries in the water and get juice all down my chin. Then he spills coffee on my breasts which shouldn’t be showing, but somehow pop up from the water while he feeds me with hot muffin. I can see him trying not to look at them. He’s eaten nothing himself, hasn’t had a chance yet.

  “Why don’t you get in as well? Then I can feed you.”

  “In where?”

  “In the bath.” Why in God’s name did I say that? Am I mad or something?

  “You mean, with … you?”

  “Yeah, why not? There’s room for two.” There isn’t, ’ course there isn’t.

  “I … I’ve had a bath.”

  “Have another.” My voice sounds harsh and strained. “You’re not short of water, are you? Actually, I ought to let some out. Otherwise we’ll flood the place again. I’ve filled it far too full.”

  I spend longer than I need fiddling with the plug. He’s taking off his clothes. I can’t look, daren’t. The room’s so tense now, I can feel my breakfast burning in my gut. He’s undressing very slowly. I can hear a shirt or something slither to the floor, a tiny creaking sigh as he unbuckles his belt. I keep staring down, staring down. Whole hours seem to pass. Then a large cold foot jabs against my stomach; a nervous voice says “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I mumble. ’Course it’s bloody not. Those scars are almost touching me, that repulsive puckered skin pressed right against my own. I can suddenly see Reuben in the bath – his smooth unblemished stomach, his long but slender prick. I fight a whole tidal wave of feelings: regret, resentment, anger, fear, desire; force my voice to make some trite remark, concentrate on Victor. Reuben’s gone. He went out through that door, with all the rest.

  “Quite a squash,” I mumble. Victor’s bent his thighs up, one each side of my legs.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve said ‘yes’, Victor.”

  “What d’you mean? I’m always saying yes.”

  “No, you’re not. You normally say ‘yeah’.”

  “Ah, but I’m learning English now, you see – while I take my barth.” He lengthens and exaggerates the a.

  “Well, you can’t have sourdough muffins if you’re English. We don’t have them back home.” My voice is doing well. I sound quite normal now, chatty and relaxed. “Here, open wide.” I feed him with a soggy piece of one.

  He chews and talks at once. “That’s weird. We even call ’em English muffins here. And what about your muffin man?”

  “He’s just a song, a dead one.” It’s all right – I can’t see the scars, not even when I look up. That green good-mannered water blanks out everything, especially now he’s straightened out his legs. He’s like any normal guy: nice face, smooth chest, strong and muscly arms. I’m so relieved, I burst out laughing.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “Nothing. Just that silly muffin man. Let’s sing it.”

  “I don’t know the words.”

  “They’re easy. I’ll teach you. ‘Oh, have you seen the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man?’ Right, that bit first.”

  We sing together, though I keep breaking down in giggles. I don’t know why. We go on and on, me laughing, Victor singing. I feel really quite peculiar – elated, almost drunk, pissed on juice and coffee.

  He taps my foot. “What’s the next line, honey? We’ve sung those first two more than twenty times.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “You mean, that’s all you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. Oh, Victor, stop me laughing. It hurts. By the way, what’s an axolotl?”

  “It’s a kind of aquatic salamander.”

  “Gosh! Have you got one?”

  “No. But I can offer you something even more exotic.” He reaches behind him, floats a yellow plastic duck on the little pond of water between our two hidden stomach reefs. “That was a gift from one of my poker-playing buddies.”

  “Would it like some muffin?”

  “I would.”

  I lean over for the plate. “They’ve gone all sort of hard now.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I feed him. I even let my hand brush along his thigh. Not so bad. The skin feels dry and rough, rather like a loofah.

  “How about a strawberry muffin, Victor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A sourdough one with strawberries on. Damn! That’s another strawberry gone. We’ll turn bright pink if I drop any more in.”

  “You’re pink already, darling. This water’s far too hot. We’d better get out now. I think we’ve had enough.”

  “Okay, you first. I’ll dry you.”

  “No!”

  I can feel the tension surging back again; hear it in that strangled “No”, see it in my stupid shaking hands. Why in God’s name did I spoil things when we’d just relaxed?

  “Yeah, I want to, Victor. I’d like that, really.” Of course I wouldn’t. It’s all a fucking lie. I’m terrified. I’ll puke. I’ll shrink away. He’ll only be more hurt, feel totally rejected. I can see it now, the scarring, as he stands up, clambers out. God! It’s horrible, revolting. I’ll never touch it, never, not even through a towel.

  “Is this your towel?” I ask.

  He nods. They’re all his towels, for God’s sake, but I’ve got to keep on talking. “We … er … never ate the bacon.”

  “No.”

  “We could have it cold in sandwiches, for lunch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said ‘yeah’.”

  “Did I? When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Victor … ?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not drying you too hard, am I? I mean, it doesn’t … hurt?”

  “No. It’s kind of dead, that skin. Like the muffin man.”

  “It looks rather like a muffin.” I force myself to see not skin, not scars or horrors, but a cold dead hardening piece of muffin.

  He laughs. “One of the nurses in the hospital said it reminded her of a moonscape. With little craters.”

  That’s better still. A moonscape. Something very far away. Something almost abstract, dead grey lunar rocks. Death Valley was like that – a warped and twisted landscape, dry and barren, but somehow still impressive. I trace the craters, let my fingers touch the fissured rock-face. Nothing dreadful happens. I don’t throw up, or faint away. The earth keeps turning on its axis.

  I pick up a second towel, dry his lower back. That doesn’t look too bad. Or am I simply getting used to it? I let my hands feather down his spine from neck to cocyx, then stroke slowly up again.

  “That’s lovely, darling. Yo
u’re spoiling me.”

  “I like to.” It’s funny, but I do. I’m good now, truly good. Kind and loving, like he said. I feel triumphant inside and glowing.

  “You’re shivering, Carole.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m boiling.”

  “Let me dry you now.”

  “Okay.”

  He takes the towel from me, swathes me in it, top to toe, then holds me close against him. I can feel my heart pounding into his, feel he’s got a hard on.

  “Carole, I just can’t tell you what …”

  “Ssh,” I whisper, pull away a moment, release the towel, let it fall around my feet, then press close to him again. They’re right against me now, the scars, the ridges, that thickened lumpy prick. I don’t care. The feeling’s quite fantastic. I’m brave. I’m a hero. I can love.

  “Carole, you’re still cold. Here, put this round you.” He wraps us both in his giant-sized dressing gown, sits me on the stool with him. I’m angered by that gown. He chose it so he could hide away, so nobody would ever see an inch of him. I slip my hands beneath it, rest them on his thighs.

  “My Dad used to dry me after my bath. Years and years ago. And tell me stories. ‘Once upon a time …’ No, he never said that, actually. I don’t know why. Shall I tell you a story?”

  Victor nods.

  “It’s a story about Victors. They’re very special creatures, Victors are. They’ve got this very thin and delicate white skin. It’s so sensitive, the slightest thing can hurt it, so they have to wear another skin on top. The second skin is tougher, to protect them, but when you peel it off, they’re all white and soft and shining underneath, like … like … unicorns.” My voice is wobbling. Stupid voice. I force it to go on.

  “Not everybody understands. Ordinary women can’t – girls like Laura. Only fair princesses. Sometimes it’s a long wait till the princess comes along – years and years and years. Then everything’s all right. The princess and the Victor go to bed together and they wake up in the morning and … and …”