by Clay, Josie
“No baby”, bringing her fingers to my lips. “We're getting better”.
Chapter 14
Forty one, forty two, forty three: my latest obsession, counting pigeons. The ones that pecked the pavement were easy; it was those perched in trees or flying in flocks that were tricky. My head whipped round to confirm or dismiss each peripheral float and bustle. I disregarded a squadron of screeching parakeets as I cycled past Highbury Fields (only pigeons mattered). I still marvelled at their exotic jubilance faced with the British battleship sky.
By the time I turned into Palladian Road I had sixty one; a tall order to reach my target of a hundred before home. There were some, a good number, swelling and skirting about the uninterested females, not far from Nancy's. Damn, my calculations compromised by a gaggle of teenage girls, coltish, cotton-tailed in collapsed court shoes, the sum of their knowledge swung over their shoulders.
Screams and stamps elevated the birds, some flapped past my face, sixty two, sixty three, sixty four, six'five, six'six. Others returned to the ground, sixty seven, sixty eight. The girls, hormone riddled, hysterical except for one who fixed me with a singular focus as if contemplating a picture. Looking behind me, sixty nine, seventy, I could no longer pick her out. All the same in various shades of each other, they might just as well have been pigeons. In fact, I wished they were.
“You need this” said Dale, lifting my shaggy hair to fasten the star necklace. “Phwoar, what a cutie”, reviewing the Agnes B suit she'd bought me. She chauffeured me to the Old Jam Factory, the chamfered edged summons clamped in my sweaty hands.
'An Introductory Gathering of Sponsors and Selectors. A Sense of Place. An Exhibition of Women's Work, aged 16-25'.
Her eyes locked with mine in the rear view mirror as she drove away, blossoming flowers on my skin and between my legs. I hoped I wasn't going to have one of my blushing attacks. Come on Minnie Bracewell.
Plastic silver platters floated past my ear, born on the spread fingers of budding Blanchetts and Streeps, playing waitress part-time. I was struck by the uniformity of fitness and how refreshing it would be to see, say, a wheelchair bound individual offering canapés; ideal actually, just the right height. A glass of red in one hand and a span of sesame prawn toast in the other, I stood in a corner motionless, unable to eat the stack with any decorum. Turning to the wall, I crammed the lot and Dale laughed in my head.
Spotted by Rosamund . “Ah, Minette!”. Her milk pudding arms challenging the seams of her ill-advised white dress. Lipstick tooth-smear and creeping wine bloom on her tripey chest, she was nestled amid men in suits like a fridge in a forest. “May I introduce our lovely Minette, she teaches here at Potarto and has kindly agreed to sit on our selection committee. A murmur of manners as I was consigned, along with Rosamund, to the 'perhaps if I was pissed pile'. There was much more titillating totty on which to feast the eyes.
She began a litany of Richard, Robert, Stephen, Gordon, Simon, Clancy Bateman, Tyler Neat, Arcadia Housing, Dunbar Thompson, White Frame.
“Hang on ...rewind”. They stared at me as if I'd belched. The busy eyes, the face now altered with a carefully clipped white moustache and matching goatee. Rosamund cocked her head for danger.
“Hello Minette” he said.
“Simon Sweet”.
“How are you?” He clutched my hand warmly and prickled my cheek with his. “You look fantastic”. Rosamund visibly relaxed. “Still wearing the boots, I see”, not taking his eyes from mine.
“It's so nice to see you” I said. “I hope you're on the selection committee”.
“Of course” gushed Rosamund, “Simon is an invaluable stakeholder and I'm sure we will all benefit immeasurably from his expertise and experience”. She placed a hand on his cuff.
“As we will from Minette's” he raised his glass, deflecting both her touch and her flattery.
“Quite” she said, unsure, turning to Sir Robert of Tyler Neat; at least she knew the nature of his disdain.
“Poor Rosamund” I whispered.
“She's insufferable”, rolling his eyes. “I detest fawning women”.
I could have gone either way, but given the theme of the evening I chose sorority.
“But you can't deny she's effective. Look at all these men throwing money at this place, she works it, a means to an end”.
“But doesn't it bother you that women operate in this way?”
“Nah” I said, “we're all whores when necessary”.
“No Minette”, beckoning a wine waitress. “Stand Rosamund next to you - funny, strident, talented - you don't suffer fools”.
“Simon” I groaned.
“As far as I'm concerned, you're a paragon”.
I rocked on my heels. “You forgot to mention I'm a twat”.
“Yes, you can be” he said. “For balance”.
“Simon, you sound as if you're in love with me or something”.
“I respect you” he muttered. “And yes I am...a bit”.
“But you hardly know me”.
“I don't pretend to, but I like the cover and I've read the first chapter and it's a page turner, as they say”.
“I should warn you that in chapter two, our heroine is revealed as a lesbian. Sorry about the spoiler”.
“My dear” he said patiently, “that was evident from the cover”.
“There's nothing to be done”.
“On the contrary, all love is imaginary”.
“What did you do with the boots?” I said, changing the subject.
“I had them set in a perspex cube, they're housed in my private collection”. Everything in a box.
“That makes me feel sad” I said.
“That is your perspective. Mine is quite different”.
The wine waitress, rich in ornamental value, topped up my glass.
“Thank you” I said.
“My pleasure, Ma'am”. Her eyes massaged me in a subtle overstay and she smiled a gambit.
Lordy, they were coming from all sides.
“Simon, isn't it odd that our paths have crossed again?”
“Not at all my dear” he said. “You leave giant, googly footprints”. He did zombie hands.
Should I be worried? He was definitely a freak, rarifying himself in theory; the getting of the girl unimportant, the idea of her the purer possession. I could almost relate; didn't we all just seek out people on whom to drape our concepts? But that's where he lost me - he preferred a clean white plate, unsullied by the meat and potatoes of others. He was living on fumes and meditation - an anorexic of sorts.
“Should we mingle?”
“Absolutely not” he said.
Unfortunately Rosamund had other ideas.
“I'd like you to meet Leonard” she trilled. “Lovely Leonard is director of the Makepeace Arts Trust”.
After shaking hands I excused myself without explanation, a woman's prerogative , and stumbled , fumbling with cigarette paper and mobile, out into the night.
'Come and get me please x' I texted.
'Are you OK? It's only 8.30 x'.
'I miss you x'.
'Sit tight, Mummy's coming x'
Out of sight, canal-side, I sparked the flint impatiently. Smoking, now so sinful one had to perform it in secret places. The handle of a fire exit dipped of its own accord and the wine waitress stepped out of the steel kitchen. It was her depression.
“Do you have a match?” she said. Her face illuminated as she cupped her hands around mine and the guttering flame. I don't care what they say, smoking is sexy. “Thanks” she said, pouting and exhaling a genie. Young, but self-assured as they are these days. “I like your suit”. Probably a month's wages for her.
“Thanks, it was a present” I said in justification.
She was aware that her accent was a primer for small talk. “You're American” I obliged.
“Sure am”, a porch swing sway and gardenias, “Pensacola, Florida” (except she said Flahda). She examined her short red nails. “
I'm guessin’ you're an important lady”.
My ‘phone beeped. 'Am outside x'. I texted a kiss.
“Yes, I am” I said and left her far from home.
Chapter 15
I thought of Simon's zombie hands because the streets of Highbury were teaming with hordes, pied and vacant. Mostly fat, bald and drink-clumsy, giant toddlers. The image was enhanced by the sweatpants they favoured, like romper suits. Quick to ire and stubborn, they wilfully stood in the road, shouting 'Gooners' as if learning to talk, tugging at their tackle - would they ever grow out of it?
“I forgot there was a match on” Dale said as we nudged round Highbury Corner, our exit blocked by a dangerous baby. She nervously checked the rear view mirror as a clarion of horns accused us. The man was bellowing to another and when Dale pipped the horn politely, his feeble mind, impaired with alcohol, deemed it an insult. Taking leave of his corpulent playmate, he swatted the air like a tin pot despot, before a bottle arced towards us in a pinwheel of froth, smashing across the windscreen.
“Windows up” I shouted and we wound for dear life. His legs in the headlights and as the windscreen smeared then cleared under the wipers, he peered at us.
“Fucking bitch”. Gall gathering, “You fucking bitches”. He clapped his buttocks sumo style and thumping his fists on the bonnet made a chance synaptic connection. “They're fucking lezzies, you fucking lez!” He began to mount the bonnet and I heard the brief yodel of a police van. His bloodshot eyes found Dale. “Cunt!” his spittle flecked the windscreen.
With that, I was out of the car and hauling him backwards by his trackies. Failing to comprehend, he grabbed at the wiper and missed, his trainers losing purchase on the beer- wet paintwork. His arse cleavage became the whole hog as I yanked his bottoms down. The surrounding tribe roared with laughter. “Fuck me, it's like the rising moon” said one, poetically. Momentarily stymied, the oaf froze in the blue whoop of a black Mariah, which was white.
A badger haired police woman, one of our kind, donned her hat and strode forth, tailor-made pouches bristling with deterrents.
“Problem?” she said.
“Yes, this man has attacked our vehicle and aggressed us”.
“I never, I swear” he spluttered.
“You want to press charges?” She rubbed her cheek as if there were stubble.
“No we just want to go home, but I'd like an apology to my friend”. She surveyed the traffic which had grown patient.
“OK, sunshine”, manhandling him to Dale's window. “You heard what the lady said”.
Hissing and squinting. “Sorry” he mumbled and Dale nodded.
“You can do better than that” barked Badger.
“Sorry about your car” he said, but looking to his Nikes, a furtive flicker. “You fucking dyke” he added with relish.
Before you could say Cagney and Lacey, Badger had him on the ground, knee on his neck.
“They're all fucking lezzies” he wheezed in disbelief.
“Yep” she said, “and you're nicked”, tipping me a wink of acknowledgement. More plod filed in and waved us through. “Be careful, ladies, and enjoy your evening”.
“Thank you, officer” I beamed. Justice had been done.
“Minky, I know you hate it, but this is the biggest high five moment of our lives”. She raised her hand.
“Well” I said, “maybe I could manage a low one”.
Our plot thickened into a bundle, most of the time wrapped together, trailing each other to the toilet, eating dinner holding hands, not fearfully - just because we could. Dale joined the gym to watch me crawl the pool, while she solemnly rowed behind plate glass.
Late for dinner, a meeting at Potarto had overrun. M8 and Eve's voices already in the kitchen. Peering through my glasses to touch up my lippy in the hall mirror, I noticed my wild hair. Furiously working my hands behind my head, constructing a backwards bun.
“Hey Mink” said Dale.
M8, awestruck, her nose wrinkled in mirth.
“M8” she gasped, “you are The Lady”.
The kitchen table spread with a red cloth, candles stationed in corners. Airline eye-mask in place, I lay naked, sacrificial, a brocade cushion beneath my head, coccyx complaining. 'N.O.R.W.I.C.H. x', the text had read and after wracking my brains to recall the stupid playground acronym – I'd come up with this. Prudence's inquisitive whiffle at my ear, a tentative paw on my breastbone. Climbing on, she settled herself, folding her paws beneath her, a comforting weight. Lifting my head, her furry form against my nose.
“Prudence, get off” I blew at her. Standing, she wobbled gingerly down my body, finding each pressure point and sore muscle on the way, before dismounting at my ankles. Her address capsule tinked against her food bowl.
The hum of the Hilux, brake squeak and ratchet. Dale in my mind's eye, corresponding to the sounds. Door slam, 'prip prip' central locking. A jingle of keys fidgeting the lock, the protracted creak and the swish of local paper across the mat, slam and letterbox rattle.
“Minky?” A pause and sifting mail . “Mink?” The kitchen a muted glow, she noticed and the floorboards grumbled towards me. Keys collapsed on the dresser and a thickening of the air, a circumnavigation of the black mass tableau. Plinth screw and the bell of her ring on whisky bottle, clink of glass and ripple pour. Fridge puff and icebox squeak. A throat clearance. The splinter of ice from the tray and its sister tinkle. And then, soft on my lips, the reek of Christmas . I understand and accept the whisky cuckoo, its spill left to travel my jowl like mouth tears.
A pinch of white cold burns my nipple, the frozen bud revived by hot, wet velvet. She toys with this a while, shocking and consoling each one in turn. And then, in a draught, she is gone, pounding the stairs. A vulgar torrent above, the mechanism of a flush. In the bedroom, a drawer shunt search. The rumble of Zulus, armed and intent, and me pale and outnumbered, inviting the massacre.
Prudence said 'hi', but the kitchen door snubs her. The be-blink and fake shutter click of a digital camera alarms me, but a reassuring hand papers my cheek and throat and familiar fingers tug my nipples, which I realise are connected to my heart. The hands, so big they cover my ribs, firmly so as not to tickle; I hate tickling. The calluses whisking against my skin, raising goosebumps into a standing ovation.
A dull brute is placed across my pubic bone, be-blink, click. It is taken up and passes rubber resistance over my belly and thighs. It waggles between my knees playfully, but implies a command. It rolls up my thigh and down the other, be-blink, click. A tiny sound, like a dying mouse. Then a glacial fluid drips viscous between my legs, in which the dildo is battered like a saveloy, turning itself until its nose is between me, be-blink, click. It flutters teasingly and is parked undriven, while her hands lift my knees, like a pervert doctor. The tip is steered again and I dip onto it. She tuts a warning and I lay still to tempt the timid creature back. It returns, wiggling and for every inch it enters, it withdraws a centimetre, until it is up to its shoulders, be-blink, click.
“In flagrante delicto” she whispers husky and proceeds with long, slow strokes, a basic slick splutter. Her mohair arm brushes my thigh and the very thought of her focus and prowess sends my hips rocking in a figure of eight. Her thumb works me obliquely; I don't like pressure, she knows that. But my mind is wrong I can't get past the interloper and now the thing is bumping my belly and possibly my skin is stretching, like that pre-alien burst. Can she see it?
“Oh oh oh, sorry baby”. She presses my tummy and withdraws the savage. “Förlat mig, Minky, misstag”. She knows I like her Swedish. “I'll make it better”. A sentient, more dextrous inquisitor feels me. “Look at that”, she says to herself, “like a beautiful dessert”. I rise to her touch, be-blink, clink. Moaning as she controls my tits as well, steering and pedals. The cushion is tugged from my head and she taps my bottom to place it underneath. Running her hands up the back of my thighs, she pushes my knees to my chin. “I'm going to eat you like a sundae”. Her mouth upon me, her ma
stery of the language supreme. “Mmm” she says, “läcker”. It's always unfeasible, her tongue inside me, so devout, so deviant, so clever, so good. She augments it with a finger and I can hear her feast.
“Är det till rackligt bra? Mmm? Min sanna kärlek, säg till” she breathes.
“Oh good, yes, so good”, her nose rubbing me. “Oh baby, fuck me”. Her fingers chop into me, now pinning my knees to my forehead, reaching inside, playing me . I am all cunt and she is all. Bringing me “det stämmer, Minky”. She spits on me, she knows that implodes, her thigh under my back, nursing my rhythm. I know I'm coming and so does she. “That's my girl, that's my Minky, come on baby, show me ...show me”. She wants ejaculation, she loves that.