The other two chat windows are flashing:
> closes my eyes and kisses it lightly
> Now kiss it properly my girl – I want to see Daddy’s shaky stick going right into your mouth
> opens my mouth a lil and sticks it in my mouth
> Hmmm, that’s right my girl, just like a lollipop. Now Daddy’s going to be nice and play with your butterfly. Does that feel nice?
> nods a lil
*
> Would it be impertinent of me to suggest a rendezvous, in order to engage in dialogue, should we be able to find a mutually convenient time and location?
> It would be fascinating to encounter in person such a seasoned traveller of the four corners; I am presently lodged in the fair borough of Southwark and would venture to advocate a meeting within its confines. Should that prove convenient to your esteemed self? Perhaps a beverage at one of its plenteous hostelries this Sunday afternoon, if fate should decree that the emerald shores of England can retain you from your economic tendings for sufficient duration?
*
> Now I think it’s time these two made friends. Why don’t you lean back and I’ll give your butterfly some kisses and then we’ll see if your butterfly can help Mr Shaky Stick calm down. Mr Shaky Stick really likes Butterfly doesn’t he – looks like he wants to go inside. Ooooh, it’s very squeezy isn’t it? Daddy’s going to push it all the way in nice and slow – does that feel nice?
> it hurts
This response triggers a switch in Sammy’s head. Is this just fun or is this profoundly wrong? Who exactly gets off on fantasies about incest and abuse? Alanis? Does he? His fingers tap the laptop like a guitarist warming up as he debates whether he wants to take this to its conclusion. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound:
> Oh, but you’re being such a good girl for Daddy. And you’re making Mr Shaky Stick feel so much better. He really loves sliding into your butterfly…
> Excuse me!!!???
Oh shit, shit, shit! Sammy’s laughing as he shuts down the window he’d accidentally flicked over to, with the anti-cockcentric ‘Autumn Fire’.
“Boring anyway,” he mutters.
> Oh, but you’re being such a good girl. And you’re making Mr Shaky Stick feel so much better. He really loves your butterfly.
> nods
> Daddy’s really proud of his little girl, she’s been so good. Now shall we play a bouncing game? Daddy’s going to roll onto his back and his little Cutie Pie’s going to climb on top, like the bouncy castle. That’ll be a nice time won’t it?
> nods
> Hmmm, such a good girl, up and down, up and down. Oooh, does it still hurt a bit baby?
> yes
> Well Daddy’s going to go nice and slow. Oh look what Daddy’s found on top of Cutie Pie’s butterfly – her secret button. Shall we give that a gentle rub – does that feel nice now? Is that a bit better? Hmmm and Daddy loves his girl very much, from the tip of her nose (kisses) to the tips of her toes (kisses)
> mmm daddy
> Is my baby girl starting to feel all warm in her tummy tum? Hmmm, and all tingly in her butterfly? Mr Shaky Stick’s going really fast now, isn’t he? Oh baby girl, kiss Daddy now. Hmmm Daddy loves his girl
> kisses u
> Ooooh, you need to be quiet my girl, we don’t want anyone to hear about our secret game. Daddy’s got to cover your mouth. Ooooooh. Quiet baby, quiet
> screams into your hand
> Oh my girl, such a good girl, Daddy loves his girl, oh my baby. Now we have to remember that this is our special secret, OK?
> nods
Sammy is staring hard at the screen. He is not so foolish as to try and over extend an obvious conclusion, so he closes the chat window and sits thinking for a moment. That was weird. That was so weird. Sammy gives this particular exchange very low odds at ever leading to a physical encounter, but still, something happened just there that was strangely, curiously and perversely exhilarating.
Sammy’s been perfecting his internet dating technique for well over a year now. He still cringes at the memory of his first pitiful forays into cyber-dating: it was hopeless, like being dropped into a foreign country without any of the necessary linguistic abilities, but, though he was not what you’d call ambitious or driven in terms of a career, he was extremely persistent when it came to pleasurable pursuits. Through painfully slow trial and error, he’d moved from site to site, perfecting his approaches and studying his marks, talking dumb to the LOLs, spouting filth to nymphos, feigning sincerity to the lovers, failing again and again, until finally a result (reached more through mutual pity than attraction), shortly followed by another, then a gap and then he snared (or was snared) by a real veteran, a teacher, a linguist. She lifted the veil, showed him how to take the initiative, how to not care, how to keep filling his leaky cup of confidence so that he might stay in control. She gave her willing and eager student the seductive power he yearned for and suddenly everything clicked.
Now the moves were no longer conscious; like a skilled chess player, he merely studied the flow, guiding it to his advantage, allowing his opponents to open up to him before scything through their defences.
He leans back and stretches, then drags his hands down his tired face – how long has he been sat like this? His back aches from T3 to T9 and he’s got Cayenne eyeballs. He listens to the sounds of the house around him: occasional pans are clattering downstairs in the kitchen, accompanied by Elsa’s off-key singing; next door Billy is watching Countdown; somewhere across the hall someone is stringing a guitar; and above him he can hear Ben and Anna chatting and occasionally bursting into fits of hysterical laughter as Tom Waits drawls along in the background. Ben is the newbie in the house and it’s pretty hard not to like him: incredibly bright and witty, generous to a fault, an absolute party animal, sweet and sensitive just when you need it. Secretly, Sammy hates him a little, but never for long and certainly not when he’s in the same room. Definitely hard not to like.
Another burst of hysterics from upstairs. Ben’s ultimate gift to the house seems to be the effect he has had on Anna. Up until 3 months ago, when Ben moved in, she had made no attempt to disguise her morbid depression, which she indulgently dragged from room to room. Sammy was not alone in considering mechanisms for evicting her. Pedro had casually offered to hit her over the head and bury her in the garden with the same shovel. Sammy had actually felt it necessary to turn this offer down – you just never knew with Pedro.
He rolls another smoke. A new chat window has flashed up on his laptop. He views the profile: ‘Chloe 69’ is a fit youngish-looking MILF, who is clearly not on this website for the chat. She is definitely attractive, but there is something about her photo which makes him feel slightly uncomfortable – maybe the red suspenders?
> Hiiii how r u?? r u free this weekend for a quick fuck??
> Hi there, I’m good thanks. That could be possible – when are you available?
> Wat bout u?? R u ok anytime? How about 2night or Saturday night?
> Tonight 9-11pm, Saturday 12-3pm or 10-late
> 2night looks perfect…
> Shall I come to you? Where would you like to meet?
> I willarrage for a place… My friends out 4 the weekend so can take her pace near Clapham… so 9pm 2night? My pussy will b waiting for u
> Can’t wait – my number 07*********
> Soo 2night after 9 right? How long can u stay?? Need to tell my friend? R u ok going back late night??? Or any limitations
> Should be able to get to Clapham for about 9.30 – can stay all night or head back late if you prefer
> Perfect… Heading back will be better… If it was my own apart would love to stay bak all night but… :( … Next time will arrange at in my own place.
> No problem – really looking forward to getting my tongue inside you x
> Cant wait – texting adress now. Door will be open x
Seconds later, Sammy’s phone pings. Even an easy roller like this
still gets his adrenaline pumping at the moment of capitulation. He looks at the profile picture again – still a hint of discomfort. Those suspenders are really standing out now. What is it with the suspenders? Suddenly he thinks of his mother.
“Woah, what’s going on in there?” he mutters to himself as he starts digging around in his bag, trying not to think about what he’s thinking about, but controlling this flow of neural activity is like a skydiver falling from a plane in a car and trying to push the brakes.
He wet himself during Dhuhr. All the other kids got up and started making their way to the next class whilst he remained in humble, clammy genuflection on the dark area on his prayer mat. Ten minutes later he was walking home from the Ecole Anwal in Menara district, drying fast in the early afternoon sun. It was eerily quiet: no birds, few people, no breeze, just the oppressive heat emanating from every surface. He slipped quietly into the cool of his house, just off the Rue El Jaouze, using the side door and sneaking up the back stairs. He got to the first floor landing safely unseen and was about to climb the second flight of stairs to his bedroom when he heard his mother talking oddly to Hanif, who was answering in muffled monosyllables down the corridor. He crept towards the voices. His parent’s bedroom door was open and, reflected in the cracked glass of their wardrobe mirror was his mother, stood with one leg on the bedside chair, wearing black stockings and suspenders and a white bra. Hanif was on his knees, with his head nodding in between her legs. Sammy could see a splash of blue, pink and yellow in Hanif’s right hand, bunched on the cool white marble – the omnipresent multi-coloured feather duster that cleans mantelpieces and tickles naughty boys.
Sammy is still looking for his pills. He is looking in places that he has already looked and he is also looking in places that they cannot feasibly be.
His parents never spoke about their separation. He remembers being questioned briefly about where he had been that afternoon, after the school informed his parents about the incident at prayer time. He recalls his mother’s face as she listened to his honest but undetailed answer: serene as ever, with just that delicate finger at the corner of her mouth, her body angled slightly away from his father, towards the window, trees, sky.
They’ve escaped! Somehow they must’ve fallen out of the bag, or the wallet, or the pocket, or the whatever, and ended up somewhere that isn’t in the pages of this book, which was found in the strange little space above the door, where they cannot possibly be! Not even in a world where people genuinely fall off ladders and accidentally impale themselves on cucumbers whilst they were fixing the curtains naked would the pills end up here. Not even there!
He had never been punished for wetting himself. They never punished him for anything again.
This is bad. Pedro is away till tomorrow, so there’s no way he can get more from him. Kal in 6 is reputed to stock such things, but without guaranteed discretion this is unthinkable. To go without is to risk more holes in the cup of confidence and the red suspenders have raised the stakes beyond any reasonable level. He looks at his phone; he should be leaving. He should be leaving 5 minutes ago.
Suddenly his phone buzzes into life in his hand, making him jump. It’s an image file from ‘Chloe 69’. He opens it and looks at it, expressionless for a moment, then, finally, he sags into his chair and rolls another cigarette.
Snood
Anna had bought the guppies because she thought they looked like little gypsy dancers, with their multi-coloured velvety tails flowing out behind them: three males (which turned out to be the more attractive sex) – a marbled dark blue version, a powder blue lyre-tailed one (her favourite) and a crimson one – and a female, which looked rather bulky and drab in comparison. Now she looks through the algae green glass in disgust at the teeming mass of fish that seethes at the surface of her small aquarium. They are almost exclusively hybrids of the dark blue and crimson varieties (it turns out the lyre-tail isn’t a very competitive design) at every stage of life, from the clouds of fry to the half-eaten, white-fleshed skeletons that patrol the sediment at the bottom of the tank. Weird mutant hunchbacks had started to evolve as the tiny little gene pool had become increasingly inbred and all the other fish (excepting one mud-coloured, sturdy sucker catfish, which she rarely saw) – the neon tetras, the marbled hatchet fish, the chocolate gouramies – had long since died.
Her father had given Anna the tank as a gift. He’d said it was the gift of life and that it would do her good to get closer to nature. Initially she’d been enchanted by the tiny little microcosm at the end of her bed, but slowly her sense of wonder had turned to distaste as she watched the male guppies’ relentless rape of the female and the ensuing death of the other fish, which seemed unable to compete with the increasingly numerous guppies for food. No matter how much she feeds them, nothing seemed to get past the gluttonous little fish. And here is another thing to worry about: someone had told her that if you keep feeding the fish, they keep eating until they burst, so when are you meant to stop? Gradually the accumulation of shit and algal blooms had slowed the filter down and the tank had stagnated. If this is the gift of life, she can do without it.
She lifts the little feeding hatch, watching as the guppies’ efforts to get in front of each other intensify. It is always at this moment that she hates them the most; her stomach coils as she watches them fight with each other to get on top. She opens the blue tub of flakes – green, red, brown and amber like fishy autumnal leaves – and drops a pinch through the feeding hatch, which is coated with a thick layer of both crusted and soggy deciduous mush, then sniffs her fingers, cringes and goes to the sink to wash her hands. By the time she returns to the tank, the flakes have disappeared, so she repeats the process, this time with even more displeasure as some of the flakes stick to her slightly damp fingers.
She makes one last check of Facebook, Hotmail and MySpace before logging off her computer, then picks up her mobile, car keys, purse and green snood (a very snug tubular scarf), locks her room and goes downstairs.
Sammy is in the kitchen smoking a cigarette and flicking disinterestedly through a magazine that has been on the kitchen table for so long, it has become attached to it.
“Hey.”
“Alright,” he says.
“How are you doing?”
“Alright.”
“Have you seen Ben today?”
“Nope.”
“It’s just that he was meant to be coming with me to Oxford – I’ve got this bloody Speed Awareness Course and we were going to go out after…”
Sammy is looking at her with unfeigned boredom.
“What are you up to today?”
“Oh, you know….” Sammy doesn’t elaborate.
“Can I pinch a rollie?” Anna doesn’t actually want one, but she knows it will irritate Sammy and the miserable git deserves it.
“D’you think you’ll ever buy your own?” he says, handing her the pack.
“Thanks mate.”
She rolls quickly and efficiently, helps herself to Sammy’s lighter, and with the cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, she picks up her things and says:
“Listen, if you see Ben, can you tell him I’ve had to go without him, but I’ll be back later – and can you tell him to turn his phone on once in a while? Oh, and thanks for the smoke. Right gotta go, see ya later, have a good one –”
“Anna.”
“Yes mate?”
“My lighter.”
“Whoops, sorry, here ya go.” She throws it towards Sammy more forcefully than he’d expected. He fumbles and it goes clattering to the floor. “Ooh sorry, bye.”
The air is cool, but the sun has momentarily shown itself through the grey and Anna is humming something as she smokes her way to her car. She is one of the few residents of the housing co-op who owns a car, as most cycle, but she wouldn’t be able to get all of her juggling clubs, hula hoops, poi, stilts, etc., that she needs to run her circus skills classes in schools and festivals and so on without her Lean, Gre
en, Juggling Machine – a new shape VW Beetle that her parents gave her. When she gets to the car, she finds her passenger side wing mirror has been fractured. No note, no apology; just another serving of anonymous London blight that has become a regular feature of her life in New Cross.
Despite the cracked wing mirror and the fact that she has to drive a considerable distance to pay penance for a speeding offence, Anna is in particularly fine spirits. She can’t bring herself to be pissed off about the speeding ticket, because every time she thinks of it, the context makes her smile.
It was about a month ago: she’d been to the cinema with Ben and they were having dinner and discussing what to do next. At this point in time, Anna was getting concerned that they were going to end up caught in the friendship trap. Everything was so natural and fabulously easy between them that they had become incredibly close in a very short space of time. What if they decided that they were too important to each other to risk spoiling it? And of course, there was the unspoken rule that you should never date anyone else on the street, not that anyone paid any attention to that – the street was littered with broken hearts from previous heedless couplings.
“Let’s climb Snowdon.”
“Ben, Snowdon is in Wales.”
“I know, it’ll be great – my dad used to take me and my sister when we were kids. He’d wake us up in the middle of the night and throw us in the car and then we’d climb the Watkin path in the dark. Every twenty minutes, Dad would stop and read some of Wordsworth’s poetry from The Prelude. I remember getting to the top on one occasion and Dad reading a passage about the mountains poking up through the clouds and it was exactly as described, with ‘A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved’. Honestly Anna, it’s a magical place – you’ll love it.”
“Ben, it’s 10pm – we’ll be driving all night.”
“I’ll drive, I don’t mind. Hey, think about it; it’s Wednesday tomorrow – what better way to see in Wednesday than at the top of Snowdon?”
The Laundry Basket Page 3