The Apple: New Crimson Petal Stories

by Michel Faber

  ‘Why, Mr Bodley!’ she exclaims delightedly. ‘Where is Mr Ashwell?’

  As all the best prostitutes in London know, Mr Bodley and Mr Ashwell are inseparable. Not in the sense of being Sodomites, for they are happy enough to trot into different rooms when each of them has been given a suitable female companion. But they are chums. They confer in all things, including the choice of brothel, the choice of wine, the choice of girl, and afterwards they compare their findings.

  ‘Ashwell is asleep, I expect,’ mutters Mr Bodley. ‘As all self-respecting men-about-town should be at this time of day.’

  ‘Some of us are early risers, Mr Bodley,’ says Mrs Tremain, motioning her guest to step inside. ‘You will find half the girls are available to you immediately, and all but one of them within half an hour, if you can bear to wait.’

  ‘Wait?’ says Mr Bodley mournfully. ‘I can wait forever. I shouldn’t have come. I should be at home in bed. I should be in my grave. My whoring days are over.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, sir. Come see what we have for you.’

  Mrs Tremain takes him to the parlour, where two young ladies are seated on the floor, barefoot, dressed only in their undergarments. Their white petticoats puddle all around them, touching at the hems. Their corsets are loose, sagging off their naked shoulders, the loose clasps glittering. Their hair is up, but untidy. They smell of stale perfume, soap and strawberries (a red-stained straw punnet lies discarded and empty in the corner, indicating the street-market origin of their breakfast). In the morning light the lack the erotic allure lent by lamplit shadows, and instead look domesticated, like a litter of puppies.

  Girl Number One is a pale, freckled lass whom Bodley vaguely remembers having tried once before. Girl Number Two is wholly unfamiliar to him, a sloe-eyed Asiatic with lustrous black hair.

  ‘Mr Bodley, meet our newest,’ says Mrs Tremain. ‘She is from the Malay Straits. Her name is something like Pang or Ping, but we call her Lily. Lily, stand up and greet the gentleman.’

  Nudged under the elbow by Girl Number One, Lily scrambles to her feet, and curtseys. She is perhaps four foot eleven, but very beautiful.

  ‘Fuck, sir. Fuck,’ she says, brightly.

  ‘We are teaching her English, sir,’ says Girl Number One, ‘beginning with the essentials.’

  Lily curtseys again. ‘Fucky fuck, sir. Fucky fuck fuck.’

  ‘Charming,’ says Mr Bodley.

  ‘Fucky fuck muck-a-muck wuck.’

  Girl Number One smirks, and pulls at Lily’s skirts, signalling her to sit down. ‘We’ve not had much time, sir, to teach her. But she’s powerful willing.’

  Mr Bodley nods, then turns his face theatrically towards the heavily curtained window, his jaw set hard.

  ‘The willingness of comely girls, the novelty of foreign flesh, the smell of strawberries – none of these things can mean anything to me now.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Tremain. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

  ‘Worse, worse,’ sighs Mr Bodley, perching his bottom on the armrest of a chaise longue, and resting his palms on his knees. Disconsolately he stares at the Persian rug under his polished shoes. ‘In this house, the candleflame of my manhood was snuffed out.’

  Mrs Tremain takes a deep breath, licks her lips, and comes out with it.

  ‘You haven’t a complaint about us, I trust, sir?’

  ‘A complaint?’ says Bodley. ‘No, no, madam. I have always found your house to be hospitable in the extreme. Although …’ (he looks towards the curtained window again, his face stoical in grief) ‘something unfortunate did happen here last time I availed myself of your hospitality. What bearing it has on my current state of distress, I cannot say for certain.’

  ‘Distress? Oh, mercy, sir: I don’t like to hear that. Not from a valued customer such as yourself. You didn’t use Bella, I hope?’

  ‘Why? Is there some problem with Bella?’

  ‘Not any more, sir. She’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t believe I ever had Bella.’

  ‘Just as well, sir.’

  ‘Although … what would have happened if I had?’

  ‘Nothing untoward, sir. We use only the best, the purest, the friendliest, the healthiest and the delight-fullest girls here, sir. Until they cease to be so. Then they must go elsewhere.’

  Girl Number One examines her fingernails. Lily leans over to see what is so remarkable about them.

  ‘I believe it was Minnie I had,’ says Mr Bodley, his brow wrinkling with the effort of recalling the name.

  ‘A paragon, sir,’ affirms Mrs Tremain. ‘No part of her falls beneath perfection.’

  ‘Indeed not, indeed not. Only, I could not help noticing … when she was positioned before me, on her hands and knees, with her dress pulled up to expose her arse-hole and cunt, for we had not yet established which of these I would select …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A fly settled on her left buttock.’

  ‘A fly, sir?’

  ‘A common fly. A fly such as one sees buzzing around a fruit stall in the street.’

  Mrs Tremain blinks slowly. The temperature in the room is rising gently as the day advances.

  ‘Well, it is summer, sir,’ she reminds her guest. ‘There are millions of flies about. Is it really so miraculous that one of them should have got into our house?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘We keep a clean house, sir. The Queen’s palace won’t be as clean, I’ll wager. But we must keep it ventilated, sir. That’s part of good health: ventilation. And where there’s an open window, a fly may enter. And even be so bold as to settle on a girl’s behind.’

  ‘Understood, madam. I don’t mean to criticise …’

  ‘The fly didn’t crawl somewhere it shouldn’t, I hope? I mean, somewhere that might have come between you and your pleasure?’

  ‘No, no, no. It flew off at my approach. Minnie and I were soon conjoined. I was fully satisfied, and in fact paid her extra.’

  ‘And yet today you are distressed?’

  Mr Bodley embraces himself with his arms, and inclines his head pensively to one side.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, madam. About that fly. About flies in general. Flies feed on rotting matter. They lay eggs in it. The maggots that decompose us when we are dead are laid by flies.’

  ‘I assure you Minnie is very much alive, sir. She’s in the bath just now, but if you were to give her fifteen minutes, I’m sure she would be able to demonstrate to you that she is frisky and entirely maggot-free.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s exactly it, don’t you see? We are alive for but a fleeting moment. Millions have lived and died before us, millions will come after us, and for what?’

  Mrs Tremain’s shoulders slump visibly, despite the puff sleeves of her dress. It’s five past eleven in the morning, far too early to solve the libertine’s recurrent crisis of will.

  ‘I’m a purveyor of pleasure, sir, not a clergyman. However, I can assure you that we have plenty of clergymen coming here. A man can spend only so much time pondering Death before he gets an appetite for other things.’

  ‘Well, my appetite is gone. Quite gone.’

  Mrs Tremain regards Mr Bodley for a few seconds, taking his measure. Then she winks towards Lily, saying, ‘Would you consider a few minutes with Lily, sir, free of charge? If she fails to kindle your … your candleflame, we shall know how serious the problem is. If – as I’m confident will be the case – you are quickened to action, the price will still be reasonable. Lily is inexperienced, after all.’

  ‘Fucky fuck fuck,’ Lily pipes up.

  ‘No, no, really I couldn’t,’ groans Mr Bodley. ‘What would be the point? Even if my flesh were to respond according to its animal design? I am a normal, robust man, this girl has lips and tongue and all the rest of it. There is no impediment to our carnal competence. Except its sheer pointlessness, madam. I have performed this act thousands of times before.’

  ‘As have we, sir,’ Mrs Tremain reminds him, bu
t he is lost in his own lamentations.

  ‘Thousands of copulations. Thousands of repetitions of the same motions. The stroking of necks and cheeks. The baring of the breasts. The unclothing of the hindquarters. Ministrations to ensure the cunt’s lubricity; ministrations to ensure the cock’s rigidity. Always the same sequence of frustration, negotiation, expectation, capitulation, then, uh …’

  ‘Release? Rapture?’

  ‘Alleviation.’

  Mrs Tremain sniffs. ‘You are an idealist, sir, and your idealism is making you miserable. Most of us manage to find joy in routine pleasures. Like eating, sleeping …’

  Mr Bodley snorts irritably. ‘I’ve been sleeping damn little lately.’

  ‘Ah, there you may have your problem, sir,’ remarks Mrs Tremain, suddenly inspired. ‘Sleep is essential for the soul’s good health. I make sure all my girls get a portion of sleep every night. Otherwise they’d go mad, I’m sure. Which may be what’s happening to you, sir, if I may be so bold.’

  ‘No, I have merely stared deep into the abyss of human futility …’

  ‘How did you spend last night, if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’

  Mr Bodley reacts as if someone has just flicked his nose.

  ‘Last night? Uh … I spent it with Ashwell. We went to a rat-fight in Whitechapel, almost got ourselves murdered. Then we found a place to drink, and drank. Then the sun came up and I caught a cab home. Unable to recall the location of my bedroom, I dozed for perhaps an hour in my vestibule. Then a volley of letters was pushed through the mail slot in my front door and hit me on the face.’

  ‘And the night before?’

  Mr Bodley frowns with the effort of penetrating so far back into history.

  ‘I was with Ashwell again. We went to Mrs Foscoe’s in Brompton Road. Ashwell promised me that two of our old dons from Cambridge would be there, getting whipped. They never came, but we had to get whipped while waiting; it would’ve been impolite not to. Then I had a little accident which required immediate attention. Ashwell said he knew a doctor, a good friend of his, in Beaufort Gardens. But we were so drunk, we ended up in Hyde Park, and I fell into the Serpentine while attempting to wash. Then … uh … my memory is indistinct. Something involving horses, I think, and a policeman.’

  ‘I suppose you slept much of the next day, sir?’

  ‘Scarcely a wink. I had to go see my father, to explain certain matters arising from a publishing venture of mine. Also, the people upstairs have bought a dog, a very argumentative dog whose throat I have not yet found time to cut.’

  ‘I see,’ says Mrs Tremain. Indeed, she observes that her guest’s eyes are bloodshot and that his hands are trembling.

  ‘But these are trifles,’ groans Mr Bodley. ‘Mere flotsam on the vast accumulated ocean of pointless endeavour. All human satisfactions are lost to me.’

  ‘Just mislaid, I’m sure, sir,’ says Mrs Tremain, in her most soothingly maternal tone. ‘The sleep’s the main thing, I believe. You are weary, terribly weary, I see that now, sir. Wouldn’t you like to lie down in one of our spare beds? We’d barely charge you, sir. A night’s sleep for the price of a glass of good wine.’

  Mr Bodley stares stupidly at her. His lower lip swells, making him look like a boy of six.

  ‘I haven’t a nightgown with me,’ he protests feebly.

  ‘Sleep naked, sir. Our beds are warm, and it’s summer.’

  ‘I can’t sleep without a nightgown,’ says Bodley, covering his eyes with his tremulous hands. ‘It’s not natural.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Mrs Tremain gestures at Girl Number One, a complex mime with wrist and fingers. Girl Number One jumps up and hurries from the room, returning within moments holding a white nightshift.

  ‘Oh, but really …!’ Mr Bodley begins to protest, as the feminine garment is unfurled before him.

  ‘You won’t know the difference, sir, when you’re asleep. On a luxurious, soft pillow, sir, in a darkened room, in a house full of languorous women, and no dogs.’

  Mr Bodley somewhat resembles a dog himself, gazing in hope at his mistress. Before his shame can overcome him, he reaches for the nightgown and gathers it to his chest.

  ‘Take Mr Bodley to bed, dear,’ says Mrs Tremain to Girl Number One.

  Mr Bodley shambles towards the stairs, led by the girl whose name he still can’t recall, and whose nightgown he is about to wear. ‘Much obliged,’ he mumbles. ‘But I am sleeping unaccompanied, do we understand one another? The bed is for that purpose only. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Girl Number One.

  ‘Fucky fuck bed-sleep, sir,’ says Lily.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ says Mrs Tremain.

  ‘Good night, ladies,’ says Mr Bodley. ‘Sweet ladies, good night.’

  The Apple

  In Mrs Castaway’s brothel, at an hour of morning when decent folk are already awake and busy, Sugar is roused from a deep sleep by the sound of an urgent voice. It’s not in the room with her, thank God. It’s coming from down below, from the mews behind the house, where only horses, drunks and thieves usually go. The voice is singing, serenading her, right under her window.

  To Hell with you, Sugar thinks, and covers her head with a pillow.

  The voice sings on. It is not the voice of the man who shared her bed last night. He’s lost in his own drunken slumber miles away from here, hidden inside his respectable, fragrant family home. No, this is a woman’s voice, fruity and righteous.

  Dark and cheerless is the morn

  Unaccompanied by Thee …

  Sugar groans. The morn is nowhere near as dark as she’d like it to be: sunlight streams through the windowpane, winkling her out of her sweet oblivion. The pillow over her head is no help at all, nor does the extra swaddling provided by her fleecy hair make any difference. Worse, the pillowcase stinks horribly of a man’s hair-oil, despite the fact that her last customer was dispatched sixteen hours ago; if she presses the pillow any harder against her face she’ll suffocate. And still the singing penetrates, only slightly muffled by the cotton and the feathers.

  Oh happy house! supremely blest!

  Where Christ is entertained

  as its most dear-beloved guest

  with selfless love unfeigned.

  Sugar tosses the pillow aside, blinking in the golden glare. An evangelist! A female evangelist! Here in Silver Street, Soho! Is this woman stupider than most, or cleverer? To sing about Christ being entertained with selfless love, right outside a bawdy-house – that must be an act of purest sarcasm, surely? Nobody could be so innocent.

  Unsteady on her feet (for she had wine last night), Sugar shambles to the window and looks down into the alley from her top-floor vantage-point. Her tormentor is a fat matron in a black bonnet, accompanied by a miserable-looking child toting a basketful of pamphlets: two dark blots on the brightly-lit cobbles.

  Set thy sights on Heaven’s gleaming,

  Look about thee for employ;

  Linger not in idle dreaming;

  Labour is the sweetest joy!

  Sugar shivers where she stands. It’s spring, but not exactly warm. In fact, despite the brilliant sunshine, there’s a wintry nip in the air. She’s slept in her clothes all night, and her sweat is now cooling, making her feel as though she’s stepped out of a bath and wrapped herself in an unpleasantly damp towel. She hugs herself and rubs her thin arms vigorously with her palms.

  The missionary in the street below, sensing movement above her head, glances upwards, but Sugar steps back at once. She’ll display every detail of her naked body to her customers, but she won’t allow passersby to ogle her outside of working hours. Let them pay if they want a look.

  The do-gooder sings louder, sniffing an audience; her voice almost cracks with the force of her delivery, as she flings a new song at Mrs Castaway’s top storey.

  Have I long in sin been sleeping,

  O, forgive and rescue me!

  Lord! I crave Your showers of blessing

  Let Your mercy
fall on me!

  Fall on me? Sugar momentarily considers pulling on a glove, fishing a turd out of her chamber-pot and throwing it down onto the head of this caterwauling ninny – there’s God’s mercy for you! But she’d probably miss, and ruin a glove for nothing. And there’s no guarantee the singing would stop, anyway; these Christian crusaders can be as tenacious as a dog in heat. Better to lose herself in an activity of her own.

  She gets back into bed, still fully dressed, and wraps the bedsheet around her bony shoulders like a shawl. Yawns like a cat. For the duration of the yawn, the sound of the evangelist is suppressed, lost in the bloodstream commotion inside her ears. If she could only yawn for half an hour on end, the woman outside her window would surely hoarsen and go home.

  Next to Sugar’s bed is a stack of books and periodicals. Trollope’s He Knew He Was Right, collected in book form, is topmost, but she won’t read any more of that: she can see where it’s heading. It wasn’t so bad at the start, but now he’s put a strong-minded woman into it, whom he clearly detests, so he’ll probably humiliate or kill her before the story’s finished. And she’s fed up with Trollope’s latest serial, The Way We Live Now – she won’t buy any more instalments, it’s threatening to go on forever, and she’s wasted enough money on it already. Really, she doesn’t know why she persists with Trollope; he may be refreshingly unsentimental, but he always pretends he’s on the woman’s side, then lets the men win. They all do, these novelists, whether they’re male or female: the game is rigged. And the latest Mrs Riddell is worse than usual, and there hasn’t been a tolerable serial in The London Journal for months, only garbage about ghosts and forged wills. In every story she reads, the women are limp and spineless and insufferably virtuous. They harbour no hatred, they think only of marriage, they don’t exist below the neck, they eat but never shit. Where are the authentic, flesh-and-blood women in modern English fiction? There aren’t any!

  She turns her face away from the stack of books and periodicals. She was foolish to buy them in the first place. (Well, granted, a few of them she stole.) What is the point of reading other people’s stories? She ought to be writing her own. Reading, by its very nature, is an admission of defeat, a ritual of self-humiliation: it shows that you believe other lives are more interesting than yours. Sugar suddenly wishes she could scrape her soul clean of all the fictional heroines she has ever cared about, claim back all the hours she has wasted worrying about star-crossed lovers and tragic misunderstandings. All of it is trickery, a Punch and Judy show for the gullible masses. Who will write the truth if she doesn’t write it herself? Nobody.