The Cheek Perforation Dance

by Sean Thomas

  — Why aren’t you crazy about her then?

  — OK … – Patrick sighs – She’s got thick ankles

  — Thick ankles? Jesus! Dump her!

  — And the drug thing, her drug history, it’s a problem

  — The fact she hasn’t ever done drugs?

  — Exactly – Patrick goes quiet and pensive. Then he goes on – But that’s not it, that’s not the real problem. I do really like her, you know … I mean … – To fill the gap in his thoughts Patrick steps down from the bench, and goes to an overfull Soho Square rubbish bin; after carefully balancing his empty sushi tray on top of the enormous pile of rubbish he returns and sits back on the bench and says – Even though we’ve got less in common, or not as much as some … I like her … precisely because sh … sh …

  — Sh?

  — Because she’s different. Smart. Cultured – Seizing the theme, Patrick runs with it – Really. She’s amazing. She knows all about art, and politics, and history, it’s incredibly refreshing – Examining the tan mark where his forearm meets his rolled-up white shirtsleeve, he says – Maybe I’m just too used to Soho ladettes smoking rollups and farting, do you think that could be it? – Patrick looks over at Joe; Joe nods, says:

  — So it’s the hooters then?

  Patrick:

  — No, I like them big, and I love the arse

  — So what the FUCK?

  — I know, I know … – Patrick sighs – I knowwww – Feeling the heat now, he unbuttons another one of the buttons on his expensive white shirt and then he slumps back to let the sun run its fingers through his chest hair. After a few seconds, feeling properly relaxed for the first time this lunchtime, Patrick admits – Actually I think I know what it is

  — ?????

  — Yes. I think – Struggling to be honest – I think I just … like … girls to be … shorter, poorer, younger, and stupider than me

  — She’s certainly shorter than you

  — Ta, Joe

  — And – Joe says – She’s a lot younger, isn’t that enough? Not enough dimorphism?

  Patrick stalls, does not reply. For a moment the college friends are united in quietness, experiencing each other’s post-lunch metabolic low. Patrick is thinking about perhaps saying something else. Right now Patrick thinks he would like to confess to Joe that what he really needs is for Rebecca to be more submissive, because he’s now realised he needs something sexually very submissive in women, something more than Rebecca has so far given him. Then Patrick decides he can’t be arsed to talk about relationship stuff anymore. Instead Patrick looks idly and languidly at a beautiful girl in lowslung jeans and silver navel ring, as she swings her hips through the Square towards Oxford Street. For a full minute Patrick watches the girl’s walk. Then he swerves to take in another chick just behind that one. Then he looks back at the first one. And her friend.

  Stuck by lust to his bench, Patrick regards his own reaction to the girls, the parade of girls. Mostly he loves this, the constant catwalk of London, the fugue of female beauty, the sweet repetition with minor variation. But at this moment he also resents the power, he resents these girls’ power and fame and the way they get in clubs for free, like members of some manufactured boy band … like unwarranted celebrities with no real talent …

  — Dying for a smoke

  — What?

  Joe pats his pocket, rueful:

  — Need a cig …

  — So … smoke one?

  — Can’t, man

  — Given up?

  Still rueful:

  — Boracic

  Silence, traffic-thrum, Patrick’s hand reaches for his own pocket:

  — You want to borrow some cash?

  — Nah – Joe surveys the Square, as if looking for a different benefactor – I already owe you enough – Joe’s face is wide, sad, honest, wry – Anyway. I start some temping job tomorrow

  — Shipbrokers?

  — Shipbrokers …

  This sadly spoken word some kind of signal, Patrick checks his watch and says:

  — OK. Better get going … Got the lawyers round

  — Going over the contracts for the club?

  — Yep, some hitch with the survey

  — … what’s it like being more successful than me?

  Patrick replies:

  — I’m not

  Joe replies:

  — Haddaway and shite

  Now the two of them are up. Now the two of them are up, out the Square, and walking over the road towards Greek Street. Halfway across they come to a stop. Barring their way is a builder’s lorry making beeping noises as it reverses. Using the moment Patrick looks down Greek Street at yet another building site: at the place where a building is going up behind a vast theatre curtain of plastic. Watching the moving girders and big yellow machines and men in red plastic hats carrying lengths of scaffolding, Patrick says:

  — I remember when all this used to be fields

  — Yeah?

  — When I first lived in London there was … a meadow here, with sheep … and fallow deer …

  Joe, nodding:

  — God yeah, and there was, like, a little stream down there, and that’s where there used to be that shepherd with his long clay pipe, right?

  — Yep. And that – Patrick gestures, vaguely – That Starbucks coffee house, that used to be a little glade with crab-apple trees, and we used to make cowslip bells. Right next to that van, remember?

  — Seems like yesterday

  The lorry circumvented, the two friends cross the road and pace more briskly, until they come to the junction where they part. Jabbing his friend’s arm Joe says goodbye and good luck and then angles away and then jogs down the street towards Charing Cross. Watching his friend go, Patrick thinks about his friend’s drug habit for a second and then Patrick turns and walks, and sees, strolling towards him, a very pretty blonde girl, a beautiful blonde girl who gives him the usual feelings of resentment and sad yearning and powerlessness and why don’t I ever get girlfriends like that … until Patrick realises it’s Rebecca. His girlfriend.

  7

  — So he pinned you to the wall and said what?

  Out-staring the prosecutor Rebecca says nothing; then she looks frankly and somehow bravely above his head and says:

  — Kiss me properly you …

  — Yes?

  — Kiss me properly … you …

  Rebecca stops. The judge’s eyebrows go up. In the witness box Rebecca shrugs: a shrug that says she doesn’t want to say any more. With an inscrutable glance at the defence lawyer the judge leans towards Rebecca; and says:

  — Miss Jessel, I am aware this might be rather painful – The judge does an avuncular smile – But we have to have the exact wording as far as it is possible. It might well be very important, it might not, but that’s rather for the jury to decide – Again the smile – So if you could tell us just as much as you can?

  The smile turns into a nod at the prosecutor. Alan Gregory nods back at the judge, and then expectantly turns to Rebecca. Shifting her weight slightly in the witness box, Rebecca responds:

  — Well, he … he … came across and he pushed me back and … then he said ‘kiss me properly you …’

  Another silence. This time, before the judge can intervene, Rebecca says:

  — Jewish bitch

  A pause. Half the court is looking at Patrick; the other half is looking at the prosecutor. The prosecutor:

  — He called you a … ‘Jewish bitch’?

  — Yes

  — And by this time how long had he been in the flat?

  — About ten minutes

  — Just ten?

  — Yes. It can’t have been much longer than that because the kettle hadn’t boiled

  — Yes, I see – Alan Gregory QC caresses his own chin – OK. Yes. Now – Gregory glances momentarily at the back of the court, at Patrick – Now as the defendant kissed you, did you try to push him off?

  — Yes – Rebecca looks
slightly offended by the question; Patrick feels he doesn’t want to look at her; Rebecca regains herself and says – Yes. I pushed him away as much as I could but he … just laughed. He was acting weird …

  — In what way?

  — I’m not sure – Her face goes slightly blank – I remember wondering if he was drunk, I could smell beer, smell the pub

  — Were you scared by this time?

  Patrick can hear the big clock on the side wall ticking. Rebecca:

  — Yes

  — So what did you decide to do?

  — Well … I … uh?

  The lawyer turns to his notes. Says:

  — I’ll rephrase that. In fact, if I may – A half nod towards the judge – I’d like to go over the facts as they stand again … – Patrick notices the judge give a subliminal answering nod. Gregory says – Let’s take stock. This is a young man you used to live with but with whom you no longer have a relationship. Is that correct?

  — Yyes

  — And he’s only in your flat on the pretext of picking up some clothes, correct?

  — Uh-huh

  — Sorry?

  — I mean yes. Yes that’s right

  The prosecutor lifts the papers closer to his face, as if to scrutinise a surprising fact more closely; then:

  — OK. So. He’s come round to the flat to pick up his stuff. He’s been in the flat for ten minutes – A direct glance at Rebecca; Rebecca nods; the prosecutor says – So he’s tried to kiss you, he’s … abused and insulted you, he’s acting to say the least somewhat … strangely. And what do you do?

  — I … I’m – Again Rebecca looks like she is aggrieved by the tone; across the court Gregory comes back with a softer, more explanatory voice:

  — Miss Jessel I’m only trying to get the facts straight – A jaunty smile – Look at it this way, perhaps. Some people might say that you should have asked him to leave straight away. At this early point. You see?

  Realisation seems to cross Rebecca’s face. She nods vigorously like she has remembered her lines; then she says:

  — Yes I see what you’re getting at but you must understand. Yes he was a bit drunk but … he was still my ex. I still felt … you know … – She pulls her cardigan sleeve distractedly – That’s why I invited him around

  — And this is why you let him linger?

  The cardigan sleeve is released:

  — Yes. I still felt for him. I had been very much in love with him – Her face goes odd – I never thought he’d go and do … that …

  — Naturally

  The prosecutor flicks a tiny hardly detectable glance at the back of the court; in Patrick’s direction. In the dock Patrick tries to stay calm. His chin resting on a fist, the elbow on a knee, aware he looks like Rodin’s Thinker, Patrick stays calm and stares straight back at the prosecutor. Patrick is determined not to be fazed or angered. Patrick wants a calm detachment to enter his mind. He wants to think about something else. And so, as Rebecca goes on to describe, in tediously minuscule detail, their subsequent movements about the flat that fateful evening, that evening, the evening in question, Patrick sits back in the dock and decides to think about sex. Religion. Sex. Religion …

  Patrick wishes he’d masturbated this morning. He wonders why he always thinks about sex at the worst times. Trying to think about something else, about anything else … about religion, Patrick recalls a conversation he had with Joe about religion. This morning. Just this morning Joe had made the point that there were really only three arguments for the existence of God, the Argument from Design, the Argument from Ultimate Purpose, and, finally, the best of all the theological proofs, the Argument from Japanese Schoolgirls.

  Patrick sniggers. Thinking of Joe’s comment, Patrick starts chuckling. Quite loudly: wheezily laughing. By Patrick’s side the policeman looks quizzically at Patrick. Across the court the policewoman standing behind Rebecca glances over at Patrick, and frowns. Faced by these stares Patrick swiftly sobers: his chuckles become a smile which becomes a tense, engaged expression when Patrick hears exactly what Rebecca is saying. Rebecca is saying:

  — So he said he wouldn’t leave until – Rebecca takes a big breath – Until I let him … fuck me

  — And you were sitting across the table at this point?

  — Yes

  — Why do you think he should say something like that?

  — I don’t know … I …

  Rebecca stalls, looking excruciated, embarrassed, and at the judge. The judge flashes a significant glance at the prosecutor. As the prosecutor pauses, Patrick starts to feel sorry for Rebecca. This in turn makes Patrick feel slightly proud. Patrick feels good and proud that he himself should be so forgiving and noble as to pity the woman who tortures him; but then Patrick realises that inside him somewhere he also feels good and secretly happy that he and Rebecca are as one again, here, now: united in their shame; as one against a world which seeks to publicly bundle them in their own dirty bedlinen.

  Rebecca:

  — I suppose he rather thought it might … turn me on. I guess he thought that talking like that would be … arousing – Rebecca grips the stand and looks at the prosecutor, she looks him in the face – It wasn’t

  The prosecutor:

  — And this was the point at which you asked him to leave?

  — Yes

  — And what did he do?

  — He said he wouldn’t

  —Anything else?

  — He said … he wanted to fuck me up the arse

  Silence. Clock-ticking silence. Patrick looks at a middle-aged grey-haired woman in the jury who is sucking a boiled sweet with a wholly rapt expression: like she is enjoying a guiltily pleasurable afternoon at the movies.

  His head in his hands Patrick sighs. Then he regains himself, looks up at the prosecutor: who is now fiddling with his papers. Alan Gregory QC has turned to his left where a seated assistant is holding up a piece of paper. The assistant is pointing to a certain passage of writing. Taking the paper the prosecutor nods intelligently, and revolves on Rebecca:

  — And was it at this time that the phone rang?

  — Yes

  — And who was it on the other end? Who’d rung you up?

  — A friend …

  — Which friend?

  — I … can’t remember …

  — You told the police in your statement

  — Yes, I know …

  Taking her time, Rebecca glances around the courtroom, as if to remind herself of something; for a second her upward gaze comes to a rest on the visitors’ gallery, overlooking the courtroom. Patrick suspects she has probably recognised someone, one of their friends or a member of his family. Thoughts collected Rebecca turns back to the prosecutor and says:

  — Freddie

  — Frederick Legge?

  Rebecca shrugs her lambswooled shoulders:

  — Yes

  — And what did he want?

  — Nothing important

  The prosecutor refers to his piece of paper again:

  — You told him to … ‘fuck off’, is that right?

  Shrugging, again; again clearly embarrassed Rebecca nods, says:

  — Yes

  — You chatted for a few seconds and then you made it clear you didn’t want to speak to him and you put the phone down, correct?

  — … Yes

  — But – The prosecutor looks at the defence barrister and pauses and then says – I’m sure the defence counsel would raise this but for my own purposes could you tell me … why? Surely when Mister Legge rang this was an ideal opportunity to let someone know you were being harassed?

  Another shrug from Rebecca. For the first time Patrick leans forward with keen, optimistic interest. Clearing her throat, Rebecca:

  — At the time … I thought I could handle it all myself. I’d seen Patrick drunk like this before and I thought it was just another … time like that – In her dress, and her cardigan, she shifts girlishly from foot to foot; then – I had ab
solutely no idea that straight after that he would do what he did

  — I see. Thank you … – With a flurry of black gown the prosecutor makes a moving-on expression. He says – As soon as you’d put the phone down the defendant came around the table and began trying to kiss you, correct?

  — Yes

  — Did you struggle?

  — Yes – Rebecca looks at the wall as her face pales – But he was too strong. Too big …

  — Was he touching you?

  — Yes

  — How?

  — He had one hand on my throat and … one hand down my top. On my breast

  — Yes?

  — He’d undone the zip of my top and he was groping my breast

  — Yes, of course. Was it this top? – With his left hand, the prosecutor has magicked a zip-up top from somewhere, some bag on his desk. Intent, concerned, Patrick watches as Rebecca watches the top being flagged at her. She looks surprised and shocked to see it. Finally Rebecca says:

  — Yes

  The judge:

  — Miss Jessel?

  Rebecca’s voice is trembly:

  — Sorry. Yes. Yes it was that top. That’s what I was wearing – Rebecca allows herself a big long breath. While the lawyer re-bags the top Patrick finds his sympathy going unwontedly out once more as Rebecca breathes and breathes deep, fighting back obvious emotion. Rebecca Jessel gazes into the middle distance as she begins to describe: how Patrick put his hand down her jeans. How Patrick groped her breast. How she tried to stop him but he was too strong for her. How he nuzzled her breasts as she yelled. How he picked her off the chair and dragged her like a puppet over the floor and pushed her down on her back and

  — And you were screaming during this?

  — Yes

  — And this was the point where he unzipped himself?

  — Yes

  — Were you … totally naked by this time?

  — Yes

  — What had happened to your jeans?

  — I

  — Had he taken them off, too?

  — YYess … I think so

  — How?

  — I don’t quite know, I …

  — You’re not sure how he stripped you?

  — No … he’d somehow managed – Rebecca shivers visibly, she grips the side of the witness stand; Patrick can see her knuckles going white; for some reason he wonders if she still bites her nails as then Rebecca blurts – It was all a blur but he’d managed to get my jeans off and I …