The Cheek Perforation Dance

by Sean Thomas

  — Never thought I’d hear you say that

  Patrick comes right back:

  — The weird thing … The strangest thing is: she’s in control – Eyes on his friend, seeking, asking – Although she’s the one with the bruises …

  Another pause. Joe looks over at his friend. For the first time this afternoon Joe looks like he’s taking Patrick’s troubles with proper seriousness. Patrick observes Joe as Joe appears to think hard. Finally Joe says:

  — Golly

  And after that Joe falls quiet, strolls on. Catching up with Joe, Patrick laughs and shakes his head and says:

  — That’s it? That’s your advice: golly?

  Turning, Joe says:

  — Why don’t you finish it yourself

  Patrick:

  — I can’t. I love her. I love the fucking bitch. And the sex is so good – He smiles, vaguely – The most fun you can have without a sheet of tinfoil and a lighter

  — OK, so …

  — D’you really think I should do a runner?

  — Maybe

  Patch:

  — I will arise now and go, and go to Innisfree …

  — Good idea. Fuck off to Innisfree

  — God I don’t know though. Her cunt – Patrick looks at the sky – I’d really miss her cunt, I’d miss the way – He fixes his eyes on the hot sunny sky and speaks to someone, anyone, to Joe – The way the soft little hairs coil out … and the way she looks up at me when I come all over her face … and the way her stupid little nose wrinkles when she comes and the way she makes that eeky eeky noise when she goes down

  — eeky eeky?

  Patrick nods, sadly:

  — Eeky eeky …

  — You two are doomed

  — And because we’re not talking it’s even worse … – Patrick looks ahead, down the street, at the taxis queuing on New Cavendish corner, seeing an image of himself and Rebecca, her low sleepy eyes and her fiery tongue and her endless taking, taking, taking. Gazing at the rich people, the rich streets, the richness of the West End, Patrick sees a sudden and shocking himself as he probably is now: the pitiful gambler, making his furtive visits to the casino of sex, sitting down to the endless losing poker game of their sex, taking his place at the tables he cannot leave, cannot leave, cannot leave

  — Oh God, Joe – Rueful, really rueful – Reading her books doesn’t help either. All those Aztec books. They do your head in

  Joe nods, and sighs. Stood on his sunlit patch of West End pavement, Joe sighs and shakes his head and reaches into his corduroy pocket for his packet of cigarettes; as Joe does this Patrick looks down at the sparkle of the Marylebone kerbstones, sparkling in the sunshine.

  They are walking on. Towards a Japanese girl at the corner of Wigmore and Marylebone High with little blue and orange bobbly bits tied to the ends of her lovely hair; as Patrick approaches the girl reaches to adjust her hair and Patrick looks at the lovely white softness at the bend of the girl’s bare arm.

  Patrick turns to Joe, says:

  — I’m wanking too much as well

  — On top of all the shagging?

  — Yes

  — So is this why you’ve been ill? Are you wanking yourself ill? – Half grinning – Dude! You told me it was a throat infection …

  — It’s serious, Joe. I don’t do anything else. You know I’ve been wanking on the Web at the office?

  — Yyyyyeah …

  — Well – Patrick stops, goes on – All I do is surf for pictures of girls that look like Rebecca, I wank all day over girls that resemble her

  — On the Web you say?

  — Yeah – Patrick shrugs, confessingly – Jap girls. Upskirts. Hours a fucking day …

  Joe nods:

  — It’s another addiction, isn’t it? Wanking on the Web …?

  Patrick sighs:

  — Yep. And it’s not easy either. I mean, how do you wank in front of a laptop?

  — Sit back with a tissue?

  — Gets on the keyboard …

  — Kneel in front?

  — Tried that – Patrick nods sideways – I tried that but I got housemaid’s knee from kneeling too much – As they walk along Patrick glares at the upmarket kebab shop; he stares at the big white-green onions sitting in the window, between the racks of uncooked skewered lamb, the trays of minced lamb, the knitting needles threaded with chunks of meat and big red tomatoes. Patrick says – I thought of inventing something to help when you’re having a wank on the Net – They are walking on. Past Topkapi, Starbucks, NatWest – In fact I thought of inventing a special Rubberised Wanking Cassock

  Joe laughs:

  — So like you could like kneel in front of your laptop and not get … bunions on your knee?

  — Exactly …

  Patrick falls quiet. He is bored of the laptop-wanking thing now, but is also determined to keep the shark of conversation moving. Lest it once more stop, and look up and see him, alone, in the sea, floating, vulnerable, alone …

  — Funny word, bunions

  Says Patrick. Joe ignores him. Patrick goes on anyway:

  — You know when I was ill last week – Looking over at Joe, meaningfully – When I had tonsillitis

  Joe sighs:

  — I remember

  — Well I was looking it up and I found out on the Net that suppurative tonsillitis is also known as … quinsy

  Joe, half listening:

  — Yeah?

  — Isn’t that quaint? Quinsy? – Patrick stops and smiles at Joe who is gazing along the High Road towards the Conran restaurant – Isn’t it cute to get an illness that sounds like an Old English Pudding, don’t you think?

  Joe half nods; Patrick goes on eagerly:

  — I’m just glad I didn’t get Raspberry Cobblers. Or Plum Shuttles … – Watching Joe’s response, Patrick goes on – Huckle-my-Buff would have been interesting tho …

  Joe mms, and nods, and flashes an unappreciative smile; Patrick:

  — Laugh you miserable trouser-biter, that was my best joke, took me ages

  — Yeah, haha, can you see that chick up there? – Unlit cigarette lodged between two fingers, Joe points – Tits on that!

  Patrick turns to see; Joe is looking almost angry:

  — Christalive – Joe says, hissingly – Why is she trying to smuggle a couple of East German skinheads … under her tee shirt?

  Patrick puts his hands on his hips like a North Country butcher, and says:

  — Fookin’ asylum seekers – The accent unsuccessful, Patrick goes quiet. Then Joe says:

  — God, I can’t hack it any more

  — What?

  — Another summer of this

  — Sorry – Says Patch.

  Joe:

  — Can’t handle it. I can’t. Another summer of this, of like, having to constantly look at tits and stare up dresses and stuff, it’s … knackering

  — True …

  — S’like a sentence of hard labour, from puberty to old age, you know? – Joe curses – God, sumtimes I just wanna read the paper and have a coffee, I don’t want to have to look at some stupid girl just cause she’s got a tiny netball skirt on you know? I’d rather have a pleasant conversation not spend every minute checking out cleavages

  — What chance did we have – Says Patrick, beginning to laugh – We’re cursed from birth …

  Joe:

  — You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to give women testosterone, just for one day

  — Yeah?

  — Just to let ’em know – Joe stops and stoops to quickly light his cigarette, Patrick watches this, feeling an urgent desire to smoke again, for a second, to feel what it’s like to light a cigarette in the sunshine; as they turn and continue south down Marylebone High, Joe continues between drags on his cigarette – I’d like to let feminists feel what it’s like to have testosterone coursing through your bloodstream every day having to think about pussy every five seconds, they fucking bang on about how they want to be men well they
could be a man for one day and see how they like it – Blue smoke exhaled, Joe says – It would be like that Greek thing, the sword of Damocles, except this would be with a scrotum, they’d have a hairy scrotum hanging over their heads instead of a scimitar

  — A big pair of testes to symbolise masculinity and its perils?

  — Yep

  — The Scrotum of Blackburn?

  — Yes!

  Patrick laughs loudly, and says ‘Scrotum of Blackburn’ again as they pause on the sunny pavement outside Waitrose supermarket. The two of them are looking inside: at the Jewish matrons buying big jars of sweet yiddish cucumber from the kosher counter; as they do Patrick shrugs. The sun is hot and delicious on Patrick’s coolly summer-shirted arms; Patrick wishes he had a jacket to joyously swing over his shoulder. Patrick turns and says:

  — How do you get away with your name anyway?

  — Uh?

  — I mean it’s racist. Joe Blackburn. They should call you … Joe Tragic Racist Incident

  — Can we not talk about race again?

  Patrick goes on despite:

  — You know I never know which word we’re allowed to use for black people, is it coloured, black, what is it? Is it negro now? Or fuzzy wuzzy? Cocopop? – Thinking aloud – I’d like my coffee African-American please …

  Joe is staring into the gleaming and affluent brightness of Waitrose; Joe says:

  — Isn’t this where you get your cheese?

  — Yeah. They do a mean Lanark Blue

  Joe:

  — That the Irish one?

  — Scottish. And the Gruyère is good – Patrick is thinking aloud again – Jesus Joe what am I like? She’s turned me into a girl banging on about supermarkets and worrying about cheese counters

  They approach the door and Joe says:

  — You have started to sound a bit like her too

  Patrick pushes the door as he says:

  — Really?

  — Yep. Sometimes, when you talk about Aztecs. And religion. History. Those are her obsessions, it’s like it’s her talking

  Patrick shakes his head; they go into Waitrose; Patrick says:

  — They’ve got a fine fishmongers here as well, superb langoustines

  Joe laughs; turns to the cheeses, says:

  — Patch?

  — Yeah?

  — What’s mountain Gorgonzola?

  — Dunno – Patrick shrugs – Sounds good, try some. And try the Colston Basset Stilton. That’s great …

  As Patrick says this he looks at a girl on the checkout desk; she is speaking some Asiatic language to the girl on the next checkout desk. Hundreds and thousands, hundreds and thousands, thinks Patch, then he smiles. He is entertaining the possibility of buying some quince cheese; though Patrick is not sure what quince cheese is. Deciding against, Patrick says:

  — By the way Joe what did you think of Rebecca’s cunt?

  23

  Sitting around the expensively white-tableclothed Covent Garden restaurant table, the night before the last day of his rape trial, Patrick scans the faces of his solicitor, his brief, his brief’s junior. His solicitor Gareth Jenkins is looking at the menu. With an incredulous tone, Gareth says:

  — Laminated menus?

  — Americans like them

  — It’s like the caffs back in Cwmbran …

  — Thanks for doing this, Robert

  Head in the wine list, Robert Stefan murmurs:

  — Don’t worry about it. Please – He lifts an eyebrow – I always like to … have a chat with my clients … before …

  — You normally do this on the last night?

  — Mmmyes – Stefan’s eyes are intent on his wine list – God that’s pricey …

  — A condemned man’s last meal sort of thing?

  A tie-less Charlie Juson steps in:

  — Hey, Patch … stay cool

  Jenkins nods:

  — Grace under pressure man

  Stefan seems to wake up:

  — Sorry, so sorry – He lowers the wine list – Terribly rude. Of course you are worried, Patrick, and you’ve got questions, yes?

  Patrick sighs:

  — Well yeah … Yes I have – Trying not to fall over his own words Patrick says – I’d like to know … What’s it going to be like? I mean, when I go in the witness box … tomorrow, are you … are – He is starting to stammer – You … are

  After swiftly ordering some red, Stefan turns back and says:

  — Patrick. Relax. You’ll be articulate and convincing, I’m sure

  — You can’t be any worse than her anyway, that dress!

  — And the voice!

  Says Jenkins.

  Patrick looks at them all, and feels … trusting, but contemptuous. Hopeless, but dependent.

  — Let’s order …?

  — What about the partridge …?

  — Wrong season

  Says the junior; Jenkins looks at Charlie Juson. The junior shrugs, then turns to Patrick and says:

  — Hey, did you check out the girl doing the coats?

  — The blonde?

  — Was she blonde? Didn’t notice her hair

  At Juson’s tepid quip Patrick smiles; Patrick also feels a twinge of pain. At this moment Patrick feels too guilty about, and distanced from, his masculinity, to happily join in any laddish banter. Not tonight. So instead Patrick looks down at his big plastic menu, tries to think about food rather than rape trials. Then Patrick says:

  — snipe?

  — Sorry, Patrick?

  — snipe, uh – Patrick is trying to be interested – What’s snipe?

  — It’s a sort of … aquatic pigeon. The lamb should be OK

  Charlie:

  — Tiny little fuckers – The junior does a relaxed, out-of-hours laugh, then explains – Snipe. They’re small even for game birds

  Patrick goes to try and add something, anything, about snipe; Stefan turns and looks directly at Patrick, and adopts a storytelling tone:

  — There was a duke, in the mid-nineteenth century. He went to stay with a friend, who was a notorious miser. The duke was served half a snipe for dinner, just half a single snipe, and the duke said ‘I’m prepared to share most things with my friends, including my wife, but I draw the line at a snipe’

  At this, at last, the four of them laugh. This mutual merriment makes Patch feel a tiny bit more relaxed and normal. So Patrick laughs, and laughs more, as he slugs some of the cold new white. Patrick is aware he is probably laughing too long, too much, but he does not care, he’d rather laugh inappropriately than … think about tomorrow, rather embarrass himself by getting drunk tonight with his lawyers than … think about tomorrow.

  TOMORROW

  Sighing, Patrick thinks about tomorrow. The terminal rigmarole: when he’s got to stand in the dock and be examined. Be cross-examined. When he’s going to be examined, cross-examined, re-questioned, dismissed, docked, summed up, adjudicated, adjudged, sentenced, grabbed, slammed, taken, shoved, carted, decanted, stripped, hosed, pushed, locked up, forgotten, forsaken, and garrotted as a nonce by some Largactil’d sex murderer from Galashiels.

  The beef?

  The beef.

  After ordering the beef, Patrick pushes his chair back, rises from the table and turns and threads through the hubbuby restaurant. At the back of the restaurant he climbs stairs; he finds the shiny white urinal; unzips; sighs twice.

  Back downstairs, Patrick tries to remember where they are sitting; as he is about to sit he notices the girl at the coat-check that Juson the Junior mentioned: the blonde with the breasts. The girl with the breasts is young, and smiley, and she indeed has nice big breasts. Ohf, Patrick sighs, looking at the breasts. How bitterly desirous they make him feel, how reluctantly admiring.

  And how much these breasts also make him think of and yearn for Rebecca’s breasts. Her tits. God yes. The pair of them. God yes. Patrick wishes they were here now, all three of them, reunited; in fact Rebecca could come too. In his present sad and
anxious state Patrick decides he’d like nothing as much as to sink his lonely face against Rebecca’s big lovely bosoms, feel their soft forgiving cool. O those perfect Hampstead breasts, O the Lost Breasts of London.

  As Patrick approaches the table he hears Jenkins, who appears to be finishing off a story:

  — So these Japanese soldiers would keep lockets of the pubic hair. Cut from the Chinese girls they’d raped. In Nanking. In. Er … Mm

  — Patch …?

  Deciding not to be fazed, Patrick sits. As he does they all go quiet, so as to concentrate on their eating. Their food. Their dinners …

  Creamed leeks, pink beef, horseradish?

  While the four of them silently eat, Patrick wonders why he chose such a stupidly wintry, roast beefy dish on such a humid summer’s evening. Comfort grub? Sidelong Patrick notices that Stefan is eating a more apt and elegant dish: between mouthfuls of chilled white wine Stefan is forking cold salmon, green beans, new potatoes. Ignoring his own food Patrick watches, kind of fascinated, kind of jealous, as Stefan eats, chats, laughs, and points his lazy fork. Then Patrick realises the QC’s fork is pointed at Patrick. Stefan is explaining to Patrick why he is not calling any witnesses for the defence; witnesses other than Patrick. His fork pronged with very pale-orange salmon, Stefan leans past the lofted fork and says to Patrick that he believes Patrick is good enough on his own: a better witness on his own: more convincing in his isolated pitiability. Eating the salmon, setting down his fork again, Stefan picks up his wine glass, swallows some cold Sancerre, nods at the taste, then puts down the glass and explains that he feels additional witnesses might merely confuse the jury, blur the narrative, as it were.

  Juson joins in. Halfway through a mouthful of pork chop, the junior adds his own advice, the same standard advice about Patrick’s keeping his answers short and sweet, and preferably monosyllabic. Dumb, Patrick nods and drinks some of the burgundy chosen by Stefan. Dutifully, Patrick drinks, and drinks, and drinks and … drinks, and … tries to eat some more of his Galloway beef with mustard. But the mustard is so strong, especially when mixed with the horseradish: it makes Patrick want to sniffle. And anyway Patrick is not hungry. He can’t find it in himself to eat. TOMORROW is like a big cold jade-stone toad squatting in his stomach.

  Salmon finished, Stefan starts talking again, quite loudly, above the restaurant-goers, the honeymooners, the Americans, the sommelier. Stefan is loudly confessing that he does not usually get truly curious apropos his clients but he feels a certain mystification. With Patrick’s case. You see.