Then at about six o’clock the phone rang. My heart sank. I was sure it would be Mrs Shapiro. But it was Penny from Adhesives.
“Hiya, Georgie—have you got any plans for tonight?” she boomed. “I’m having a bit of a bash round at my place. Some of the work gang’ll be there. Just bring a bottle, and your dancing shoes.”
She told me the address, just off Seven Sisters Road. I hadn’t realised she lived quite close by. I wondered briefly what to wear, then I remembered the green silk dress. I had intended to get it dry-cleaned, but what the hell.
21
The Adhesives party
I could hear the music as I turned the corner into the street. Penny greeted me at the door with a hug, helped me out of my coat and took the bottle of Rioja out of my hand. She was petite and curvaceous, in her mid-forties I would guess, wearing a short black skirt covered with swirls of sequins and a low-cut red top that plunged right down to her bra. Her short curly hair was dramatically bleached and fluffed up on top of her head, making her look like a buxom elf.
“Thanks for inviting me, Penny. It’s great to meet you at last.”
I kissed her on each round warm cheek and followed her through into a room where the lights were turned off and a PA in the corner was pumping out such a volume that I had to put my hands up to my ears. The room was packed with people all swaying and shuffling and the air was thick with several types of smoke.
“They’re all in there.” Penny was swaying her hips as she talked. “Nathan’s brought his dad.”
She gave me a little shove. I lurched forwards. I hadn’t really been feeling in a party mood, but suddenly the atmosphere caught me, and shuffling in time to the beat I worked my way through the press of bodies into the room.
“This is Sheila.” Penny introduced me to a girl of about Stella’s age, wearing a little strip of red satin—the minimum amount of material that you could call a dress—and smooching with a young black guy, about six feet tall, slim and gorgeous. He was holding a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. There was a lot of hip-thrusting going on. Penny pushed past them and led me deeper into the room.
“Over there, that tall guy. That’s Emery, one of the freelancers on Prefabrication. I told you about his little operation?” she whispered.
“No, er, what…?” I wondered what she’d told them about me.
“Here, meet Paul.”
“Paul, this is Georgie. You know, from Adhesives.”
Paul was slightly built with a shy stoop and a yin-yang tattoo on his forearm.
He nodded in my direction and carried on dancing, mesmerised by the tiny dark girl spinning her torso in front of him. When I turned round again Sheila had disappeared, and the slim gorgeous guy was thrusting towards me. I felt my knees droop and my pelvis liquefy but somehow the rhythm got hold of my feet, and I found my hips doing unfamiliar gyrations. He moved in closer.
“Hi, beauty. I’m Penny’s cousin,” he shouted above the boom of the music. “Darryl Samson. I’m a doctor.”
Having a doctor like that would be enough to keep anybody in bed, I thought. A bit different to seedy Dr Polkinson at the Kippax surgery.
“I’m surprised any of your patients bother to get better.”
His laugh was deep and juicy.
“I’m Georgie. I’m a…writer.”
“No kiddin!”
I could feel his hips—and not just his hips—pressing up close against me. Then Penny appeared at my side, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away.
“Come on—you need a drink.” She threw Darryl a warning look, and he spread his palms with an apologetic smile.
“Take care with that one. He’s my sister’s brother-in-law. Don’t believe anything he tells you.”
“Is he a doctor?”
“Ha!” She threw her head back. “I’ve had a few complaints. He told Lucy he was a gynaecologist. And she believed him.”
When I looked back, he was moving across the floor with the same languid insolence as Wonder Boy, thrusting himself in between Paul and the girl with the spinning torso, and in no time they were grooving together, pelvis to pelvis. I stood in the drinks room clutching my glass of red wine and feeling mildly annoyed with Penny, when suddenly she dived into the crowd and pulled someone else towards me. “Georgie, here’s someone you gotta meet.”
I stared. This was incredible. Horn-rimmed glasses. Deep blue eyes. Dark hair swept back from brainy forehead. Yes, definitely hunkily intelligent—all he needed was a white coat. And maybe a few inches. Okay, he was a bit short—but did that matter? Was I so shallow that I couldn’t fancy a man half an inch shorter than me? I was pondering on this when the small intelligent hunk stretched out his hand.
“Hi. I’m Nathan.”
“I’m Georgie.” I felt myself blush. “Good to meet you at last.”
“The Chattahoochee rose.”
“What?”
“Georgia. You know, on the Chattahoochee River.”
“Oh. Geography’s not my strong point,” I mumbled. Already I’d revealed myself as an ignoramus. I noticed he was wearing a midnight-blue silk shirt that matched his eyes, and that the dark designer stubble that shadowed his chin and jaw was attractively flecked with silver.
“Awesome dress.”
“Thank you. It came from…” There was a small vomit stain on one sleeve, but probably he hadn’t noticed.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Georgia.” That low, confiding voice, with maybe just a touch of the mid-Atlantic about the vowels. I realised that our only topic of conversation over the years had been glue. Should I mention my thoughts about polymerisation?
“Me, too. I was thinking about what you said…” I remembered his New Year’s joke. Glue and a screw. No, that wasn’t the right way to begin. “I mean, after all these years. You know, talking about adhesives over the phone. I thought you must be…” No, that wasn’t right, either. I blushed.
“Mr Bond?”
“Something like that.”
Then an elderly man I hadn’t noticed before, thin and wiry, with a bushy white beard and a glass of red wine in his hand, moved in beside me.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your young lady, Nathan?”
I thought I saw a quick glimmer of annoyance flash through Nathan’s eyes, but he just said, “Tati, this is my colleague Georgia. Georgia, meet my father.”
“Georgia! Aha! State or republic?”
“Er…” Was this another geography quiz? I hadn’t done geography since I was fourteen. At Garforth Comp in those days you had to choose between history and geography. I felt myself turning pink under Nathan’s curious gaze.
I was saved by the chimes of Big Ben. The lights came on. Corks popped and everyone held their glasses out. Nathan grabbed a bottle and topped us both up. I took a great gulp that went straight to my head. Putting his glass aside, the old man crossed his hands, took my left hand in his right one with a surprisingly firm grasp, and reached the other hand out to Nathan. Then he took a deep breath and started to sing. Should auld acquaintance be forgot…The room went still…and never brought to mind…His voice reverberated unexpectedly deep and mellow. What happened next was a bit like polymerisation—suddenly the individual people-molecules milling about in the room grabbed hands and formed a long covalent chain. Soon we were all holding crossed hands and swaying, everybody kissing everybody. I even got a quick snog with Darryl. That was nice. Then Sheila pulled him away and the old man pushed in and covered my face with his bristles. He started kissing me vigorously, a whiskery, spicy kiss—vindaloo. I struggled, but his grip was tight. Nathan came to my rescue.
“Happy New Year, Georgia,” he murmured, as though it was our special secret. For a moment, he held me in his arms. Our lips met. The room started to spin. But the old man squeezed in between us, coming in for another round, so I pulled myself away, grabbed my coat from the pile in the other room, and was out in the street in a flash.
It was i
ncredibly cold. I started to run. The streets were full of revellers, and the sky was full of stars.
§
The house, when I got home, was quiet, dark, and warm. I didn’t put the lights on. I flung off my coat and shoes, lay down on the bed, and almost immediately fell asleep. I woke up two hours later feeling cold, with a disgusting taste in my mouth. It was a mixture of rough wine and vindaloo. But it set me thinking how long it was since I’d been kissed. Actually, it had done me good. I should get out more often.
I had a wash, cleaned my teeth, put my nightie on, and went back to bed. I tried to call Ben, but his mobile was switched off. I suppose he didn’t want his mum ringing to embarrass him. I drifted off to sleep wondering where he was, and thinking of New Year’s Eve in Kippax in 1980, when I’d snogged Karl Curry, and wondering where he was now.
I woke up again just after dawn and wandered across the landing to see whether Ben was back. The curtains were drawn and the light was out. The air had a musty smell of sleep and old socks. But he wasn’t in his bed. A red light was flashing on his computer—it was the screen saver whizzing about—a garish geometric vertigo-inducing pattern of white-and-red swirls. I went to shut it down, and as I touched the mouse, the screen he’d been looking at came up.
I remembered it was the same red-on-black text as before. This time, the single word flashing in red on black in a circle of dancing flames was Antichrist. What was this rubbish he was looking at? Out of curiosity, I hit the ‘back’ button, and found myself in some sort of chat forum. There were only two names: Benbo and Spikey.
Spikey:
hey benbo happy newyear this is the year of antichrists rein watchout
Benbo:
who do you think is the antichrist putin or bush?
Spikey:
putin is the king of the north who will join forces with the king of the south at the battle of armagedon daniel 11:40
Benbo:
where is armagedon?
Spikey:
its in the north of isreal
Benbo:
phew quite a long way from highbury who is the king of the south?
Spikey:
gadafi or sadam hassain or osama binladin take your pick
Benbo:
do you think obi is still alive?
Spikey:
check out http:⁄⁄www.dramusic.com⁄endtimeprophesies⁄obllives.html he has gout in his toes but is ok apart from that
Benbo:
i think saddam is still alive did you notice something wird about those hanging photos the angle of the head is wrong and the eyes when someone is hanged their eyes bulge out from the pressure but saddams eyes look normal
i think the head has been copied and pasted from a different photo
Spikey:
your right if the pictures are fake mybe the execusion was fake too have you seen http:⁄⁄www.saddamhusseinlives.com?
Benbo:
i read somewhere that prince Charles is the anitchrist because of the duchy of Cornwall bar codes
Spikey:
666 is the mark of the beast check this link Antichrist
Benbo I supposed was Ben. How did he know so much about hanging? But who was Spikey? Whoever he was, I didn’t think much of his spelling.
I clicked on the link, which took me to the webpage of someone who called himself Isiah. He was a middle-aged man with a crew cut, drooping eyelids and a chunky wooden cross on a chain around his neck. Beneath the picture was a banner heading:
WHO IS THE ANTICHRIST?
Many Christians used to believe that Communism was the Antichrist, and Armageddon would be nuclear war between Russia and America. However, it seems that now the forces of Islam and Christianity are lining up for a definative battle before the third Temple is rebuilt in Jerusalem and Christ comes back to rule the earth in all His power and glory.
Infact all the signs are that Antichrist, Satan the great Deceiver, is already stalking the earth. “Take heed that no one deceives you. For many will come in My name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many.” (Matthew 24: 4-5)
In the Book of Revelation the Mark of the Beast is revealed as 666.
I rubbed my eyes. It was too early in the morning for this sort of stuff. But I was curious about how Ben spent his hours cloistered up here. There was a list of names, each underlined with a link and marked with a little flaming crest.
Osama Bin Laden
Saddam Hussein
Pope Benedict XVI aka Joseph Ratzinger
Vladimir Putin
Prince Charles of Wales
I opened the last link.
This English aristocrat is a surprise candidate—but look at the evidance. His full official name both in English and Hebrew adds up to 666 as described in the ancient Hebrew Gematria, and his heraldic symbols are based on the beasts of Daniel and Revelation. Also, he really is a prince, as predicted in Daniel 9. Rome is obviously the new Babylon, and the evil European Union is the new Holy Roman Empire. It’s constitution is under discussion, and Prince Charles could one day be it’s ruler. Infact the fact that he seems unlikely is the strongest argument in his favor, because as the Bible tells us in Revelation 12: 9 The Devil and Satan deceives the whole world.” Check out www.greaterthings.com⁄News⁄PrinceCharles⁄index.html.
Up to this point I’d been reading with a kind of fascinated horror, but the bit about Prince Charles made me laugh out loud. Poor lad, I thought. And the spelling. How could anyone take seriously anything spelled infact, definative, evidance? I must definately (ha ha) pull Ben’s leg about this. Out of curiosity, I clicked on the 666 link.
The Mark of the Beast may already be in your home. Take a look at the bar code which is on every product you purchase. You may have bought goods marked with the Beast’s sign 666 including products sold from Prince Charles’s own sinister Duchy of Cornwall brand. Check out www.av1611.org⁄ 666⁄barcode.html.
Smiling to myself, I clicked on Start, Shutdown, then I went downstairs and put the kettle on. When I took my coffee through to the front room, I found Ben there, asleep on the sofa, clutching a large traffic cone to his chest, dead to the world. He stirred and opened his eyes.
“Happy New Year, Mum.”
“Happy New Year, Ben. What’s with the traffic cone?”
He looked down at his chest, and shook his head in surprise.
“I’ve no idea, Mum.” He grinned sleepily. “Absolutely no idea.”
Before I could ask him about the webpages, he’d drifted off to sleep again, his feet sticking over the end of the sofa, the traffic cone cradled in his arms.
The light was flashing on my answering machine.
“Georgia. It’s Nathan. Tati says sorry about last night. He gets a bit carried away when he’s had a drink. Hope you got home all right. Happy New Year.”
I was going to ring him back, but I would probably end up making a fool of myself. Quit while you’re ahead, I thought. Instead, I phoned Penny and left a message on her answering machine.
“Great party. Thanks.”
That was it, then: Christmas and New Year, the Festive Season over. I’d survived.
22
Changing the locks
One of the hardest things I found, after Rip left, was sleeping by myself in that great empty bed. In the day I could keep myself busy, but at night the hours seemed to swell and expand, losing their definition. It wasn’t just sex I missed, it was having someone warm to cuddle up to, a solid presence beside me on the cruel nightmare ride from dusk to daybreak. Sometimes I would wake to find myself snuggled up to the spare pillow, my arms and legs locked around it.
About three weeks into the New Year I came downstairs very early in the morning to make myself a cup of tea after a restless sleep. I’d woken up before dawn to find my pillow wet with tears. I could remember nothing about my dream except a faceless malevolent shadow dragging towards me. Somewhere in the still-dark streets a siren was wailing, a persistent, unsettling call like a sinister bi
rd of the night. It was cold, the central heating hadn’t come on yet. I shivered as I poured the tea, and was about to go back to bed when the phone rang. It was Mrs Shapiro.
“Georgine—please come quick. There is a burglary. Door is brokken.”
Feeling mildly irritated, I got dressed, put on my coat and went around straightaway. It had started to snow—not proper snowflakes, but miserable powdery stuff flaking down out of the sky like frozen dandruff. Mrs Shapiro answered the door wearing her pink dressing gown and Lion King slippers, her hair dishevelled, lipstick smeared on hastily. Violetta was hanging around, miaowing at her feet. She led me through to the kitchen. It was bitterly cold. One of the pretty Victorian blue glass panels on the back door had been smashed and an icy draught was whistling through. The key on the inside had been stolen. Nothing else seemed to be missing.
“Maybe it was your Peki. Maybe he is a teef.”
“Why would it be him?” I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “He didn’t even charge you for coming out last time. He didn’t steal anything, did he? You should be grateful, Mrs Shapiro, but all you do is moan.”
Okay, I know it wasn’t a very nice thing to say, but I wasn’t feeling very nice.
“Hm. But if not the Peki who can it be?” She gave poor Violetta a petulant little kick and shuffled across to put the kettle on.
“It could be anybody. A burglar or anybody.” I saw the look of terror flit across her face, and wished I’d held my tongue. I hadn’t told her that Mr Ali had already changed the lock once—I hadn’t wanted to alarm her. But now I was alarmed myself.
“But why they want to frighten me? Why they don’t come into the house? Why they just tek the key?” She looked as if was working herself up into a state.
“It might be someone who’s planning to come back.” It was hard to imagine the sheer malevolence of someone who would terrorise a defenceless old lady in her own home. “Listen, you’d better get the glass mended and the lock changed today. You should call Mr Ali. Unless you know of anybody better.”
2009 - We Are All Made of Glue Page 14