Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012

by Gray, Alasdair

  8 A REVENGE ANGEL

  Senga says cajolingly, “Stand up and look at our Revenge Angel.”

  She helps June stand (there is a moment of difficulty: June has never worn such high heels before) and helps her advance to meet the fifth person in the room who is not invisible at all: has the face of a fury and a figure so suavely, proudly female in elegant gleaming black that June instinctively bends to worship and the figure bows. At which June recognizes herself, memory returns, the room and things and people lose intensity. She knows who they are, how they happened. Stepping close to the mirror she studies the face which is obviouslycopied from the star of The Rocky Horror Show. The features present no problem. Her mouth can in minutes be given back its modest colour within natural boundaries. The menacing scroll-work of the thin eyebrows can be wiped off and replaced by the dark feathers of her old ones, carefully redrawn where they will grow again. With rings removed the pierced nostril and ear will have no conspicuous scar. A turban can cover her scalp until hair returns, though not fashionable it will not look bizarre. But what can she do with the wasps? Not the ones above the hairline, the ones at the outer corners of each eye? June groans with despair and exhaustion.

  9 DEATH OF AN ANGEL

  begin says a small clear voice from the doorway.

  “She’s to blame!” cries Senga eagerly pointing to the figure in the doorway and putting a cane in June’s hand, “Remember what she did to you! Hit her anywhere you like! She deserves it! She wants it!”

  begin says the voice.

  “She’s not to blame. You are, but I don’t care,” says June wearily dropping the cane. The thought of beating someone has never excited her much and certainly doesn’t excite her now. She yawns, sits down and says, “I’m tired. Please unpack my things and go away.”

  “It hasnae worked,” Donalda tells Senga flatly.

  begin says the implacable little voice.

  10 FINISHING THE JOB

  Senga frowns and walks about the room, thinking hard, sighing and casting mournful looks at June who stonily ignores her. At last Senga tells June, “Listen, I know you’re sick of us but we’ll havetae be here a bit longer. We’ve a job to finish. But we’ll be as quick as we can.”

  begin

  Senga picks up the cane, offers it to Donalda and says,

  “You do it.”

  “Oh no. If Wildcat won’t do it why should I?”

  “Donalda, is this a strike situation?”

  “Definitely!” says Donalda, folding her arms and pouting obstinately.

  begin

  “Alright I’ll begin you bloody-fucking-upper-class-dyke-bitch-bully!” shouts Senga, “As usual at the end all the dirty work is left to me so here it comes! And I won’t stop till you ask to go home, right?”

  begin

  So Senga beats Miss Cane hard and methodically all over, eventually doing it with leather thongs, and Miss Cane weeps, sobs and in her small voice begs Senga to stop but does not ask to go home till long after dawn has broken. Senga and Donalda release Miss Cane and help her into the bathroom. June kicks off her shoes, unties the neck of a plastic sack, tips it onto the floor and picks from the spillage a shirt she can use as a nightgown. She takes the rings from her face, wincing slightly. She unbuckles, unzips, removes the leather clothes, pulls on the shirt, slips between her bed-sheets. Bewildered exhaustion is what she mainly feels, but feels also that she will not sleep until alone in her own home.

  11 AN APPOINTMENT

  Senga enters the bedroom, glances at June, stoops and refills the emptied sack.

  “Leave those things, they’re mine,” says June without force.

  “I’m going to take them all away,” says Senga sadly but firmly, “I know you’re sick of me because you didnae enjoy these games much. Still, I showed you a bit of life, eh? I gave you some views of the potential. Tomorrow you’ll likely hate my guts and the day after too, but in a few days you’ll mibby want to see me again. Anyway, I want to see you again. I’m removing all this stuff to make sure that happens. I’ll phone you near the end of the week.” June is too weary to argue and dozes while Senga drags the sacks into the lobby.

  12 CHEERIO

  June is wakened by someone kissing her brow, Senga of course who says, “I’ve left a few things on the dressing table you may find handy. We’re off now. See you later.” “Cheerio!” says Donalda from the doorway, “I’m sorry if we did anything to upset you, but some of it was fun, right? No hard feelings, right?”

  thank you fo a very agreeable night says a tall person behind Donalda, though three thousand is ratha steep I must have been mad to sign that cheque

  “It’s bought you credit with the firm for weeks to come. All out everyone,” says Senga briskly and switches off the light as she leaves. June hears the front door slam.

  And sleeps.

  NEW JUNE

  JUNE wakes in dark, feeling robbed of something essential to life and dignity. Aching muscles in arm, leg and shoulder, various throbs and ticklings in the skin recall what happened. She rises, puts on light, telephones speaking clock, is told by rich and manly English voice that on the third stroke the time sponsored by Accurist will be 2 hours, 27 minutes and 30 seconds. She has slept dreamlessly for over nineteen hours. She now sees the theft of her clothes, personal ornaments, souvenirs, hair, the piercing and tattooing of her skin are not the worst that happened, though they constantly recall it. Her body has been deliberately toyed with and teased into a sexual hunger she only now fully feels, gnawing and dreadful hunger. Her one hope of satisfying it is someone who said “I’ll phone you at the end of the week.” The time is half-past two on dark Monday morning. If she had hope of finding where Senga lived she would hunt her up, break in on her, DEMAND satisfaction, spank her till she yielded it. Is there nobody else she can break in on? A man is not what June wants but would be better than nothing. However, for three years she has tried to give men up, and succeeded. The only man she knows who can be reached by taxi and would love to be invaded is her ex-husband. She shudders at the thought of him – better use her fingers. Which she does, but not at once.

  First she wanders through the flat with a sheet twisted round her. She gazes at wardrobe mirror where she watched Donalda seduce her, the rug where they made love. She now knows it was opportunity missed, wonders why she was so passive. Like lonely old woman recalling childhood game she stands on tiptoe, reaches up toward two holes in lintel of bedroom door then goes to bathroom, wipes make-up off, has warm bath which fails to soothe as last one did. She goes back to bed and caresses herself as Donalda caressed her before Miss Cane said stop. June tries caressing herself more than that, but the extra caresses don’t feel right. She goes to dressing table, sits naked before it, legs wide open as if still manacled there. With half-closed eyes she imagines the hand caressing her is Miss Cane’s, that the face in the mirror is Senga’s loving face before she (June) turned revengeful and pretended rapture she did not feel, rapture she now tries to create. She gets pleasure from this but too little. A sandwich would be more satisfying. The rapists did not steal her food. She gets up to visit kitchen; halts at sight of shoes, garments strewn by bed, the only clothes left her. Sitting crosslegged on carpet she examines them closely.

  Pants, jacket have been made with love: all stitching in double rows, thread black as the leather but done as neat as if white: pure silk milk-white linings, exquisitely quilted, unstained by sweat from when she wore them last night. Embroidered on lining between jacket shoulders two small scarlet hearts both pierced by gold arrow, TO J LOVE FROM S underneath. June smiles, kisses embroidery, slips on jacket, zips up the long sleeves, fastens studs of front. A lot of her chest is bare, yet padded shoulders give warm protected feel. The pants have big outlined heart embroidered on lining of seat with IT ALL STARTS HERE and exclamation mark inside. Putting on pants takes many minutes. Seams down the legs are joined by small buckles and straps. She takes great care to exactly tighten each. The tightness comforts. She
stands turning about before wardrobe mirror admiring side of each leg: from waist to mid-calf an inch-wide lane of her naked self shows under the buckles and straps. Between belt and jacket most of her stomach appears, two brave little wasps crawling left and right from her navel. At last she faces her head, staring hard at what she feared to see clearly before: bald weather-beaten head of plastic doll once seen on rubbish heap beside roofless cottage when she was wee and wept at the sight with pity and dread but now she knows what to do.

  Go to dressing table. Sit. Choose cosmetics but not Miss Cane’s. Draw on eyebrows like her usual eyebrows, only darker. Ignore wasps. Paint lips, tint cheeks, shadow eyes just as usual. Unframed by dark hair this face is now definite as Rocky Horror film face and more boney, subtle, alluring. Baldness and wasps still give this head discarded doll look but look of expensive doll discarded because it is a dangerous plaything able to act for itself. June once took nightschool ballet lessons, stopped after third. She leaps up, pirouettes wildly round room, wonders why she feels free, happy. It comes from no hair: hair was half of her once, why women envied her, why men looked twice. It framed her head, curtained and cloaked her, a soft warming house she could move with. Hair was religion learned from devout mother who taught her to love it, worship it, serve and suffer for it handfuls grabbed and twisted before she was twelve by boys, also girls. A new life is starting without it, one she cannot imagine nor can anyone else – not even Senga. Yes, this is freedom. She strides to telephone, again dials one two three. On the third stroke the time sponsored by Accurist will be 10 hours, 40 minutes and 30 seconds. She is over an hour late for work. She is about to dial her office when the phone rings.

  Phone rings. She lifts receiver. Clear little voice says

  hello?

  June knows that voice. Her heart starts beating differently, a fact which astounds her more than the voice does.

  hello a you tha can you hia me?

  “Yes.”

  I’m phoning to thank you fo a truly lovely evening

  A silence.

  I say can you hia me a you still tha?

  “Yes.”

  good you see I feel I owe you a lot so in yaw case I feel bad about stopping that cheque I say a you still listening?

  “Yes.”

  I stopped the cheque first thing this mawning because three thousand pounds is much too much fo one night and the good bits wa just you and me we don’t need these otha little people don’t you agree?

  June nods. Her heart changed rhythm when Miss Cane’s voice reawoke this bodily hunger for love.

  I say a you tha?

  “Yes.”

  I’m besotted I need to see you I’ve money if money mattas I suppose it does can we meet to discuss it but three thousand was too steep

  Silence.

  when can we meet?

  June’s body wants to shout NOW but the eager woman pressing her had better be treated with the same caution as an eager man. June draws a deep breath and asks, “What do you suggest?”

  I’d love to buy you a meal in the ubiquitous chip or pumphouse or rotunda or anywha

  “I’ve never eaten in the Rotunda.”

  not great but good fun will I collect you by taxi say about seven?

  “If you like.”

  Silence.

  my name is harriet shetland I love you

  Click of receiver put down.

  “It is important not to go mad!” thinks June. What she most needs is going to be provided, but she is still a working woman, not a kept woman, and had better keep her job. She phones the senior executive of her department. He is delighted to hear June must stay at home today, maybe for several days. June has not said she is sick but, “I’ve overworked you, no wonder you’re sick!” he says happily, “I hear it in your voice. Yes, you’re tired, listless, completely worn out. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” says June.

  “Good. I mean, it’s good that you recognize your sickness, because sickness is the body’s way of telling the mind, leave me alone for a bit. You’ve been far too conscientious, June. When we started this thing together you had only me to advise. Now you have Bleloch, Tannahill and the new publicity officer. You need an assistant, June. It’s ridiculous that our office has only one trained legal mind to depend upon. Now promise me you’ll take all the time you need to recover. I suggest a trip to one of those places which are at their most charming out of season: Italy, the Canary Islands, Miami. Relax. Sunbathe. A bit of romance will do no harm! You’re, haha, a very attractive legal adviser, June, if a friendly male chauvinist swine may say so, and… and … yes, you’ll be a new woman when you come back to us. These are not doctor’s orders, they are boss’s orders.”

  This boss is worried and reticent when facing people but can sound like another sort of man along a wire. June quiets the gibbering receiver by saying, “Thanks Mr Geikie,” and putting it down. Very hungry now she makes pile of sandwiches, sits on rug before fire, wolfs food down with teacup of sherry (she never did that before), stretches out. Dozes off.

  Is wakened by buzzing entryphone, leaps to it at once. “It’s only me!” says Donalda. “I just want to tell you I’ve –”

  “Wait there!” commands June and races barefoot down stairs, pulls open front door. No Donalda. June leaps out and down stone steps to pavement, glares fiercely round. Mild autumn cloudy noon: nothing moving on terrace but old lady with shopping bag recoiling in terror, a distant departing Citroën canvas-topped car with two blue wavy lines on the side.

  “Sorry!” June tells old lady, goes angrily back up steps, through doorway, slams door. On floor under letter slot, padded envelope, her name on it. She takes it upstairs, squats on rug, rips it open. Inside a letter folded round thin clean wad of new banknotes: Clydesdale Bank fifty-pound notes, each engraved with a bewigged Adam Smith raising a reproving forefinger. June counts fourteen such notes. The letter is written in childishly clear, backward-sloping little words.

  Dear Dear Dear Dear Dear Dear I can’t seem to stop writing Dear Dear Dear June, I have been a cruel bitch but I am not a financial exploiter, hence the enclosed. You may wonder why it is not more, as a three way split between Dona, me and you would be £1000 each. The truth is, I cannot give anyone that much, will not have that much myself until Harry’s cheque comes through tomorrow or the day after. £700 is all I have except a bit in my purse to tide me over. I have not the kind of bank account which allows me an overdraft. This is deliberate. I belong to the sort of people who never get out of debt once they are in it. My mother was respectable, never in debt in her life. Dona’s dad had his legs broken because he owed money he could not pay back. I would steal (food from shops) rather than owe money. Which is why I am paying what I owe you right away though I know you will not break my legs! (A joke.) I want you to know as soon as possible that I am honest with money and not an exploiter. Dona won’t mind waiting a day or two longer for hers as she and me have been pals for years. Anyway, she has a very decent sugar daddy.

  Dear Dear Dear Dear (here I go again) Dear Dear Dear Dear June, I will not be paying you £300 when Harry’s cheque comes through because the firm has had to meet certain expenses. Good handcuffs cost more than you would think possible and my customers are given only the best. Plastic cuffs hold well enough but would have been an insult. You looked so lovely in real steel I’m excited just remembering it, more excited than I was at the time. As a professional I must keep a cool head when on the job or everyone else is disappointed. You stay amateur! Maybe you and me could be amateurs together one day soon? (Like Friday?) Do you like the suit? It too is of the best, I spent hours on it. I know you did not order it but it will fit nobody but you. Please wear it for me.

  Dear Dear Dear Dear I’m afraid you still hate my guts so I dare not phone you till Friday when maybe you will be calmer and ready for more. (Love.) Yours Truly, Truly Yours, Yours Truly, Truly Yours, Yours Truly, Truly Yours, . . . . . . . . . . . .

  These words are repeated to the foot of
the page and end with Senga PTO in the bottom right hand corner. June turns over and reads on the other side

  PS Harry is Miss Cane’s real name. She is a very famous artist.

  PPS All your things are safe with me.

  This letter astonishes June. On first meeting Senga she thought her an astute small businesswoman. In the past few hours she has thought her a sexual predator, a perverse psychologist, a social liberator. The letter shows she is still a small businesswoman, a sentimental and naive one who handles money stupidly. And money in crisp clean valuable notes is lovely stuff to handle. June lives carefully but comfortably within her income while buying her flat and adding to a fund that will let her retire at fifty-six with the same standard-of-living-index-linked income. She has nearly seven thousand pounds in two bank accounts and some British Petroleum and British Gas shares. She is careful to pay for everything which costs over a few pounds by cheque, and to note all the payments down. Like Senga she never accumulates an overdraft. She has never held so much money in her hands before: unexpected money, tax-free, free in every way. Like most who start their working life with very little June will never feel rich through her earnings, but this money makes her feel rich. She will not insult this love offering by turning it into numbers in a deposit account. She will buy magic, not security with it. She cannot imagine what will happen when she meets Harry tonight, but if she gets money (£1000? £1200?) she’ll make sure the cheque is cleared (may tie the bitch up to ensure it) and give some money to Senga, perhaps.