The Cheek Perforation Dance

by Sean Thomas

  — I have to say it all seemed pretty fucking disastrous to me – He returns his gaze to Jenkins’s reddish, fattish, mid-fortiesish face – I mean how d’you reckon that went down with the jury cause it sounded bloody terrible if you were sitting in the dock? You know?

  The solicitor looks at the woman; she shrugs and looks back; Jenkins says:

  — Patrick. You mustn’t get too stressed. Juries are funny things – Yellowish teeth, wideish smile – Of course. It was … rather an eye opener. Of course. But – He smiles again – Shouldn’t be unduly concerned. Not if I were you

  — Really?

  — No

  — Really? Even though the entire court’s got me down as Hitler with a hard-on?

  — Well – Jenkins looks at Patrick. Then he looks apologetically over at the woman; who nods understandingly back. Then he says – Patrick. Listen – The solicitor puts his hand on Patrick’s upper arm; says – I know it’s stressful. But you have to take it. Remember this is the prosecution’s turn. OK?

  Patrick says nothing, stares at his drink; at length the solicitor says:

  — Come with me?

  Jenkins’s hand is now gripping Patrick’s shoulder. Using Patrick as a crutch, Jenkins rises from his bar stool, and gently pushes Patrick away and along. Together they walk up some sauna-y blond-wood steps, up to a slightly less crowded part of the pub. Here they pause. Jenkins stands alongside Patrick, looking out of the windows.

  On this upper floor of the pub, windows are wide open, open to the warm summer air, the mild London traffic noise, the as yet starless evening sky. Waving his hand at the view, the silver-grey Old Bailey walls, the surprisingly quiet, surprisingly empty, surprisingly beautiful summer-evening-in-the-City street, the solicitor says:

  —You know, Patrick. This boozer’s been here for … a very long time Patrick nods:

  — Uh-huh?

  — Yes – Jenkins sways slightly. Patrick feels the pressure of the solicitor’s hand vary on his shoulder. The variation makes Patrick realise, through his own maudlin drunkenness, that his solicitor is also pretty drunk. Jenkins gestures again:

  — Now. When the Old Bailey was Newgate Jail – The solicitor is tilting his head across the street, but looking back at Patrick; Patrick nods, half listening.

  Jenkins:

  — When it was a prison, they used to have hangings here. Ya see? – Jenkins smiles – And when the condemned men were brought out of the jail they used to hang them. Just over there, right there – Wristwatch, gesture, smile – And people would pay to sit in these very windows and watch the executions. Like it was a performance. They’d sit right here, by this slot machine. Even Byron, once

  Patrick looks at the slot machine: its Star Wars theme, its picture of Darth Vader with red lights for eyes.

  — Why are you telling me this?

  The solicitor chuckles:

  — No idea – Jenkins wheezes cider breath, slaps Patrick on the back; then says – Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick – Patrick half shrugs. Jenkins goes on – Patrick, you have to understand. I’ve represented all kinds here. All kinds

  — Yep?

  — Yes. I’ve represented people that make … you … that make your case seem … almost … humdrum – Yellow smile – I’ve represented a chap who tied his wife to the fridge and drank a bit of her blood every day for six months. I’ve represented a guy who … tried to drown himself with a kitten up his backside. I’ve represented a guy who got so pissed off with his girlfriend’s affairs – The smile thins into a grin – He raped her pet chicken. You see?

  — He raped her pet chicken?

  — Indeed so

  — Thanks, Gareth

  — So you see what I mean?

  — I … well … sort of

  The solicitor sways again, sighs, says:

  —Just remember what I promised you – He makes a face – You do recall?

  — Do I?

  — Yes you do. I offered you reasonable doubt for a reasonable price? Recall that? – The smile again, the teeth, the cider-wet lips – So … that’s what you’ll get. OK? Yes? Happy now?

  Despite himself, Patrick nods, sighs, says yes, says maybe, sort of grins.

  Then Jenkins laughs:

  — So … Go ahead. Get drunk. Have a laugh with your chums. But. Stop. Worrying – Half smile, half frown – And just make sure you’re not late tomorrow. Alright?

  Before Patrick can reply Jenkins lifts his hand from Patrick’s shoulder and turns as if about to go. As Jenkins turns, Patrick feels himself start to feel very sorry for himself. Again. Somewhere quite profound, somewhere near his heart, Patrick wants to blub: he wants to let his eyes fill with Rebecca and salt.

  To stop this, to curarise his heart, Patrick sips his now-warm lager-beer and gazes out of the wide-open Magpie and Stump windows. As he does he thinks about what Jenkins has said. About the executions. The executions of Old Newgate Jail. Glaze-eyed Patrick stares at the gigantic rustication of the Old Bailey walls. Dimly Patrick can imagine the crowds of costers and oyster girls barging the gallows platform, laughing, drinking gin, swearing, joshing. Stood here by R2D2 and a flashing yellow Chewbacca, Patrick can see the ranks of leaded windows full of periwigged Regency bucks, sniffing their cologne-scented hankies to keep out the smell of the mob …

  Then.

  — Gareth?

  The about-to-disappear solicitor turns:

  —Yes?

  — Gareth …

  — Yes?

  Patrick is trying to say, trying to ask the question he does not want to ask. At last:

  — Gareth … How much … how … much – Patrick looks at the modernist brickwork of the Old Bailey extension, its playfully bleak exterior. The tiny main door like the outfall of a medieval privy – How long do I get, anyway?

  — Mmm – Jenkins sounds like he’s stalling – Mm? What?

  — If I … do go down … If I get guilty … how … long in prison?

  Jenkins is eating a crisp he has found somewhere. Jenkins says, his voice slightly muffled:

  — How long would you get, custodially?

  — … Yeah

  — Oh. Don’t think like that. S’not going to happen

  — But if it does – Patrick leans nearer his solicitor – how long?

  The solicitor does an uncomfortable shrug:

  — Just thank God you’re not living in Norman times. They used to blind rapists – Sad smile – After castrating them

  Patrick says slowly, and carefully, and loudly:

  — HOW fucking LONG?

  The solicitor makes a reluctant face and says:

  — Depends. The Lord Chancellor recommends that convicted rapists should serve no fewer than five years. But as I’ve … – An even more uncomfortable shrug, an evasive cough – As I might have said. In your case … with your … form. It’s. It’s. It’s …

  Patrick nods, clicks tersely, says:

  — I’d get life wouldn’t I? Because of whatyoucallit … the two strikes rule? – Eyebrows up – Because of my previous conviction for violence and the two-strikes-and-you’re-out rule … – Staring at his solicitor – Because of that I’d get … life imprisonment. Wouldn’t I? Right?

  Gareth Jenkins seems to pause, to think. Then he says:

  — It’s being challenged under the Human Rights Act, but … – Drawing breath – The two strikes rule does indicate that if you are convicted of a violent crime, as you have been, and then of a sexual crime – Pausing again – As you might be, then well … yes … – The solicitor stares directly at Patrick – Then yes you would. You would – Still staring – You’d get life

  And with that Gareth Jenkins swivels on a heel.

  Quiet, Patrick turns. He looks at the Old Bailey, Old Newgate Jail, where all these men have been hanged. Once more picturing the scene, imagining the tumult of a public execution, Patrick narrows his eyes. Right at the back of the mob, beyond the rozzers and laundry girls and knife grinders and sellers of hot s
heep’s feet, beyond the thief-takers and match-girls and pure-finders and mudlarks and tipsy Victorian poets, Patrick can make out the distant figure of …

  himself, blinking in the sunlight, wearing his best Bond Street suit, cool in wraparound sunglasses, standing stiff to attention on the gibbet platform … until the hangman kicks the bucket away and the crowd goes Oooooh, and his handmade £200 shoes kick jerkily and futilely at the empty London air.

  10

  Thwarted on the steps of the nightclub by the jostling, joint-waving crowd of would-be nightclubbers Rebecca turns from the middle of the ostentatiously beered-up, drugged-up mob and she calls over to Murphy, who is still extracting her long legs from a minicab. Puffing, cursing, Murphy rolls her eyes at the throng, buttons her raincoat tight, and gingerly ticks through the crowd in her high heels towards her friend. Then she says:

  — Popular spot

  Rebecca:

  — It is the opening night

  Already at Rebecca’s side is Sacha. Her oldest male friend. Sacha is sneering, and sniffing: thus to inhale the evening air, the cold late autumn night air scented with cigarettes, with Red Bull, with lager and chilli-breath and chewing gum. Sacha checks his green-and-golden watch; sighs. Feeling responsible Rebecca raises plucked eyebrows at Sacha and says:

  — … Patch did tell us to get here early

  — We ARE early

  — Uhyes

  — Well?

  — I’m sure we’ll get in … in a minute?

  Hopeful, hopeless, Rebecca stares across the helplessly large crowd that stretches ten yards up the steps to the row of impassive black-blazered bouncers. Sacha mimics her stare, mimics agreement:

  — Any minute now, I’d say, Rebecca

  Murphy:

  — It’s not her fault

  — No, it’s his

  — You know what I mean

  — Perhaps we should come back later, like next year?

  — Look. We’re here for a laugh – Murphy stares Sacha out – So. Take some drugs. Anything. Please

  Sacha shakes his head:

  — Don’t think Becs would approve

  Rebecca makes a wide-eyed face, simultaneously scanning the faces of the already-in-the-nightclub people who are standing just inside the door staring smugly and triumphantly out at the crowds of not-yet-in-the-nightclub people. Rebecca says:

  — I don’t care what you two do

  Sacha:

  — Oh really?

  — Really. Take E for all I care

  — OK. Fine. Shall we get you some? A few uppity doodahs?

  Rebecca’s face shuts them both up: as she intended. Around them the crowd pushes forward, optimistically. But then a bouncer single-handedly pushes them all back, tipping the crowd three steps down the steps. Again Sacha grimaces, in an I’m twenty-two and rich and I don’t have to he here with all these plebs way:

  — Lowlifes

  Murphy:

  — We are on the guest list, Becs?

  — Of course

  Murphy:

  — So what’s the problem?

  — I think … I don’t … – Rebecca shrugs, she shrugs her coated shoulders at everyone around: at the giggling girls in embroidered indigo denim; at the lads with long hair and red ballroom shirts. Rebecca notices that lots of the girls are clutching the same big cardboard invites. Rebecca decides she has never seen so many dilated pupils. She sighs:

  — I think everybody’s on the guest list, they’ve all got invites

  Sacha:

  — Yes yes sure but he is your boyfriend, he runs the place – Making a face

  — Allegedly

  Murphy:

  — You really rate Patch don’t you Sacha?

  —And you love him, do you Murphy?

  — I think he’s … fun …

  — You think, Murphy – Sacha glares at the rucksack of a Japanese girl standing too close to him – That he’s a gangster

  — Well, maybe he’s a bit of a brute, but that’s what Bex likes – Murphy goes on – Why do you loathe him so much anyway?

  — He’s a fascist oik

  — Not cause he’s shagging Becs?

  — Shut up! Shut UP!

  Says Rebecca. Sacha and Murphy fall quiet. They all pause. Sighing, twice, Sacha tiptoes on his loafers and gazes across the postindustrial hectares of East London that stretch about them, that surround the old Victorian block with the retro blue neon Howie’s NightClub sign above the bouncered door. His survey done, Sacha says:

  — Charming area. Where are we exactly?

  — North Hoxton

  — Oh, North Hoxton

  — South’s too expensive Patch said, but Patch reckons the prices around here will go up as well so …

  Rebecca stops, self-conscious of parroting Patrick’s opinions, again. Murphy chuckles. Rebecca sighs and half laughs at herself and says:

  — Well there are lots of artists, students, it’s fairly low rent at the moment

  — You said it

  The three of them stare at the crowds. With an impatient tone, Murphy:

  — You could try asking the doorman

  — … shall I?

  — YES!!!

  Her two friends so obviously in agreement, Rebecca dutifully pulls away from the throng, edges round, and makes her way up the side of the crumbling redbrick steps. Rebecca can sense Murphy and Sacha watching her, as she approaches the biggest, ugliest, least evolved doorman. Girding, swallowing, Rebecca says:

  — My boyfriend manages this

  — What?? STOP pushing you DULL CUNT

  Rebecca watches the bouncer shunt an overeager boy in the chest, forcing him back down the steps. Rebecca stammers for a second but then manages:

  — uh I’m terribly sorry

  — Yes? WHAT??

  Rebecca wonders how to pithily explain that her boyfriend is running the whole show, is managing this opening night … and has spent the entire last year finding the venue, buying the property, arguing with brewers, bribing the council, organising acts who fail to turn up and, not irrelevantly, hiring apemen to work the door.

  She stays quiet. The bouncer says:

  — Ere! You’re Patrick’s bird?

  Rebecca smiles winsomely. The bouncer looks her up and down:

  —Inyergo

  One faint jerk of the bouncer’s thumb and Rebecca is inside. Yes!

  But then she remembers her duty: trying to stifle any smug, triumphant feelings Rebecca edges back to the door wherefrom she looks down at Murphy and Sacha, at their sarcastic faces tilted back up at hers. From her lofty position at the top of the stairs, just inside the club, Rebecca shrugs an I’ll-get-you-in-soon shrug and then she turns and pushes herself into the appalling crush.

  Noise; sweat; neon. Dropping her coat off at the crowded cloakroom, Rebecca feels her pulse quicken in the din and energy. The noise is profound; it thrills up Rebecca’s back and rattles in her head. Standing by five boys, all clutching blue beer bottles and drinking as one, Rebecca feels her heart beat in time with the enormous music: the Asian dub and Bhangra and lots of other loud percussive music. Five yards and as many minutes inside, Rebecca notices Joe amidst the crowd. He is drinking from a bottle of Indian beer, and eating a samosa, and grinning a suspiciously wide grin at Rebecca:

  — Scrunchyface!

  — Hi, Joe. Seen Patch?

  Patrick’s cute loser flatmate grins again and says:

  — Not really …

  — Where is he?

  — Guess is as good as mine

  — No it isn’t

  Joe nods acknowledgement at this, and confesses:

  — Well I think he’s freaked out about the council cause you know all hassle they only got a licence anyway they’re in the back cause he bought some from

  — What?

  — In case they find drugs or summat, so he’s probably out the back doing drugs – Rushing on – Ha anyway you heard they wanna close the place down already? Reckon they’re only
looking for an excuse you could try downstairs maybe he

  Rebecca looks at the little flecks of white saliva in the corner of Joe’s much-too-talkative mouth. Dexedrine, or cocaine, she thinks. For a second Rebecca wonders at how quickly and worryingly she’s got to know the precise signs of drug abuse since she’s started going out with Patch. Then Rebecca thinks: where’s Patrick? And she says to Joe:

  — If you see him tell him?

  Joe laughs, hiccups, nods, then turns and says something loud near the ear of his drinking buddy, a girl with eyebrow studs and a tattoo on her cheek and thick black-plastic-rimmed glasses. In tune, the girl laughs and slugs from her blue bottle of beer and looks appraisingly at Rebecca. But Rebecca doesn’t wait to get evaluated, doesn’t want to be evaluated. Into the boom, into the throb and reverb, into the overloud laughter and opening-night buzz and drifting clouds of sandalwood incense Rebecca presses.

  By a wall Rebecca finds a stairway. Downstairs? Downstairs. Walking past an unsteady girl leaning drunkenly against the stairwell wall, past a boy in shorts and bandanna trying to use his mobile, Rebecca pushes and jostles, and then finds herself standing next to another of Patrick’s friends. Nico. It is Nico, Patrick’s good-looking Greek friend: one of the nicer of his mates. Despite the noise Nico leans and tries to say something to Rebecca but Rebecca is not really listening; she is standing on tiptoes to look across the shadowy bobbing heads to see: at the end of the basement room a group is on stage spanking guitars and congas and electric snares. In front of the stage girls in white cricket hats and boys with bared torsos are throwing samosas at the band. Standing down from tiptoes Rebecca turns and shouts inside the ear of Nico but in reply Nico just drinks Kingfisher beer, grins, and shrugs in the noise and the darkness. Then Nico seems to work something out: he enthusiastically waves Rebecca to the rear of the basement.

  Hoping, trusting, Rebecca pushes and jostles that way, past the toilets. In the queue for the Ladies are two giggling boys in Japanese tee shirts and long yellow surfing shorts. One of the boys winks at Rebecca and Rebecca smiles back. Also good-looking, she thinks.

  Then Rebecca gets renewed energy: wilful and determined she thrusts herself through and between, whereat she finds herself in front of a black-painted door in a red-lit recess. It is a bit quieter here. Wondering if her hair is now a total mess, Rebecca pushes the door open and immediately she sees Patrick: he has his head down and he is sniffing the top of a refrigerator. Rebecca double takes: Patrick is sniffing a long line of coke off the top of a black-painted fridge. Irritated, intrigued, Rebecca watches: Patrick is swabbing his fingertip across the fridge top, licking his fingertip, and wincing; then he looks up and sees Rebecca. At once Patrick smiles, and gestures her into the room. A room full of saxophones, weird guitars, dressing-room mirrors, and two stoned-looking Asian girls drinking cocktails in a dim corner. Patrick: