The Cheek Perforation Dance

by Sean Thomas

  — I missed her, I wanted to talk to her

  — To talk, that was all?

  — Yes

  — And what happened when you got there? To the flat you used to share?

  — I pressed the buzzer

  Exhaling, calmly:

  — And?

  — And I told her who it was, and that I wanted to pick up some stuff

  — And then?

  — … then she came down and answered the door … And … she let me in

  Someone in the gallery covers a laugh with a cough; Gregory looks sternly at the public gallery above Patrick’s head; before looking back at Patrick:

  — And what did you do then?

  — I went in … and we talked

  — Just talk, just conversation? That was all that happened?

  Patrick nods:

  —Yes

  — Then what? Could you tell the court what happened then?

  — Rebecca made some tea

  Gregory sighs, as if he is disappointed in a once favourite pupil. He looks directly at Patrick and says:

  — OK. At what point did you first … kiss … Miss Jessel?

  — After about half an hour

  — Half an hour. Really?

  — Yes

  — Are you sure?

  — Yes

  — Not ten minutes?

  — No

  — How did it occur? This first kiss?

  — … We were sitting drinking the tea by the window and she looked at me and she said

  — You don’t fancy me any more

  Patrick looks at Rebecca’s beautiful hair, the colour of … of Russian corn in the summer of 1941. He giggles at his own analogy and burps beer and says:

  — Course I fucking do

  — Patrick you’re drunk

  — No I’m not

  — Yes you are

  — OK OK yes I am and OK yes I mean it yes I love you

  Drunk, Patrick leans and puts his face to his ex-girlfriend’s lovely hair and inhales the scent, the honey and smoke. Drunk, still in love, Patrick trails his slave-running fingers through the silent Circassian blondeness; then he leans his face to her cheek, so close he can sense the warmth of her blush as he says:

  — Rebecca I love you God I love you

  And he pincers her sweet lips into a pout and twists her untwisting head and he says:

  — Kiss me

  — Patch

  — Kiss me go on kiss me kiss me now bitch

  — Did you say ‘kiss me you Jewish bitch’?

  Patrick looks at the wall slightly to the left of Gregory’s wig. Then says:

  — No

  — No? What did you say?

  — Nothing. We just kissed

  — I see. And that was it?

  — Yes. That was it. Just a kiss. Like you do. You know

  Gregory winces, then says:

  — You didn’t say anything?

  The court is silent. The unicorn rears. The lion roars.

  — No. Nothing. We just kissed … without words

  — Take it off!! Take it OFF

  His hand down her top Patrick grabs her beautiful breast; he feels like shouting out, he wants her so much; she struggles in his grip like a precious wild animal he has captured for the zoo; like a young Jewess in the Belorussian snow; like Rebecca, now. The zip scratches his hand and she says:

  — Patrick please, please don’t

  But he senses a struggle lessening and he knows that she wants him to take her now; to fuck her roughly as she likes; to do it again; to rape her again; to do what they like. Then he wonders if he is too drunk to get it up; if he will disappoint her. She is saying:

  — No Patrick no

  And as she says this she struggles, lifting herself away from him. This elevation allows him to put his hand in, further, into her unbuttoned jeans, down to where her cunt is as wet as he can remember

  — Did she say no?

  — No

  — Did she say anything?

  — No

  — You just took her clothes off – Looking up at Patrick – Without a struggle?

  — Yes

  He is trying to rip her jeans off; she struggles and sighs; he struggles and bites; she groans; he holds her tight; she slacks. Then he lifts her up and pulls the jeans down, along; allowing him to look at his handiwork, the flag of her body unfurled. And the cunt; of course; the cunt that he loves. O that, O the warning black triangle; O yes. Now Rebecca is lying back and moaning and saying:

  — kiss me

  Commanded, he leans his face to her face and kisses her deeply, on the lips, on the sweet little lips that tremble that go O that match tongue with tongue, like a candle flame, like a moth’s wing, flickering; she is like a moth against the leaded window. This brilliant kiss done he breathes her smell and lifts her up and feels her body draped like a sack of looted corn in his hands; hungry and desperate Patrick stoops and kisses her breasts the white breasts he worships; adores; is scared of; detests; he is drunk on. He is Wordsworth in the Alps of her breasts. He is drunk, he is Red Bulled, he is hers; he is saying:

  — God I love you you fucking slut

  — I told her I loved her

  — I see

  — And that I’d always loved her

  — So you didn’t call her … – A Gregorian pause – A slut?

  — No

  — Nor a bitch?

  — No

  — Nor a – Glancing at the jury, the judge, Patrick again – Little dirty cunt? A little cockteasing slut?

  Patrick sways, hands on rails:

  — No …

  — And this was the point that you dragged her upstairs?

  — No

  — No? Really?

  Patrick shakes his head; abandoning his restraint:

  — No! That’s not what happened, not then, that’s when I went down on her, when I went down on her and

  licking her out Patrick looks up above the carrion before him and he sees her face swaying from side to side as he licks at her cunt; Rebecca is biting a bent forefinger in her own mouth and is saying:

  — No no no no no stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop no no no no no no no no no no

  And so he goes on; thus encouraged he goes on; keen to pleasure her more than he has ever pleasured her, he licks and he licks at her, at the unresisting cunt; the beseeching rose; the helpless thing; the infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing; the cunt he adores. Helpless, careless, Patrick prostrates the Jesuit novice of his body and soul before the God that commands; the cunt far above him; the despotic tyrant; as she says:

  — Oh Patch stop oh Patch stop oh Patch stop

  He can sense her wetness inside; taste it; he stares; he loves her, he hates himself for loving her; he hates her for making him love her; he hates this cunt that transfixes them all, this source of all joy; this computer game he cannot win, this inescapable fate; this Aztec goddess, this heathen idol with its feathers and fur: this beautiful horrible thing that he stares at rapt and adoring like, like, like, like Ruskin staring at the narthex of St Mark’s Cathedral.

  — Stop stop stop – she is breathing near orgasmically, the words running on – stop stop stop stop

  — Did she at any point say – Gregory’s eyes narrow – ‘Stop’?

  — No

  — You expect the court to believe that … that despite everything we’ve heard … she at no point said … ‘stop’?

  —That’s right

  — Really?

  — Yes – Patrick stands back a few inches and stares at the ceiling counting the ceiling tiles and then he says again – She didn’t say stop, ever

  — So what happened next?

  — We had sex. On the floor

  —Just like that

  — Yes, she was wet. She wanted it

  Gregory smiles; stands stiffer; says:

  — Could you repeat that for the court, a little louder?

  Patrick shrugs; wondering what
Gregory’s about; whether Gregory is actually as crap as he appears to be; Patrick says:

  — I said … she was wet. She wanted it

  Gregory:

  — Thank you.

  Patrick feels like saying ‘no problem’, but doesn’t. He stays silent as Gregory stoops to read something from some scattered papers; hand hanging from black gown lapel as seemingly taught at lawyers’ RADA, Gregory then looks up with an air of resolution and says:

  — So at what point did you say … – Gregory does a special I’m-quoting-now face – ‘I’m not going to leave until you let me fuck you?’

  Patrick stares at Gregory’s left ear, just visible under the wig. Patrick:

  — I didn’t

  Gregory appears to flinch with amazement:

  —You didn’t??

  — No

  — Not once?

  — Nope

  — I’m not going to leave until you let me fuck you

  Rebecca looks up at him. Her face is impassive, her cheek twitching slightly. She looks at him with her head back on the carpet looking at him. He gazes down, and thinks. How he loves her moorland peat-pool brown eyes, so wet, so wide, so glistening dark.

  Full of love and desire Patrick looks at her gorgeous blonde hair; he has to run his fingers through it one more time, one more time. Doing this, one more dance of his hands in the hair that he loves, Patrick craves to sleep now, to fall asleep in her hair, to lose consciousness surrounded by the scent of her loveable otherness. Stooping his face to her face Patrick breathes her scent, her warmth, her youth and aliveness, and it makes him want to stop because it is too good. Too good. So he pulls his nearly crying face away; feeling the wet of her cunt dry on his lips …

  Patrick bites his lip because he doesn’t quite understand. The juices are drying on his lips; his kisses are now dry on her breasts; the sad sad song of love is playing endlessly in his drunken head as he opens her unresisting legs, as he holds himself and then he enters the place he misses, the happy family he never had, the coralline exhibit at that museum where his dad took him. And now he is inside her. He is sailing out the harbour on that sunny day. She is the wind in his hair, the sun in his eyes, she is him as a seven-year-old with his dad tousling his hair and jesus oh jesus oh Rebecca oh Rebecca ohRebec oh my father and mother

  — I got carpet burns

  — That’s why you went upstairs?

  —Yes

  — Where you continued to rape her

  — No

  — Could you explain to the court what happened next … – Heavy-duty emphasis – In your own words …

  — We went upstairs

  — Did you push her?

  — No

  — Did you drag her?

  — No

  — You’re saying she went of her own accord?

  — Yes

  — She didn’t struggle at all?

  — No

  — At what point did you ask her – Gregory’s eyes are open and yet half shut – To … – He stoops and seems to read from some paper – To … ‘lick the cunt off my cock’

  — I didn’t. I never said that

  — Lick my cock

  Rebecca shakes her head, dumbly, like a child. She is on the bed naked and beautiful and his: already fucked. Patrick’s knees are hurting. He looks at her and puts his hand in her hair; he fists the hair and drags her face to his cock and forces her face next and around; then he feels the gorgeous wetness and warmth as her lovely-soft mouth opens and yields and is all around. But it is too good: he nearly shudders straight into orgasm, so he has to pull her face away. Away.

  Loving, angry, grateful, he looks down at her face, puts her face back round his cock. She is sucking him. Suck suck suck like the endless tireless sea on the shale of his lust; his manliness; his helpless rocky promontory. Mute, he looks down, sees the sea of femininity that will always win, will always erode, will always destroy. Some reason Patrick thinks of his nightclub. Of his dad. Feels like crying; that sailing holiday. And God she is beautiful. Yanking Rebecca’s face away he looks with curiosity at her face and yes it is the face of an angel, a Botticelli angel with golden curls. So serene. When he slaps her, she just smiles. Ohyesohyes. How much he loves the altarpiece-gold of her hair, loves the beauty of it all. He would buy this painting if he could. Angel Sucking Cock, Unattrib., 1567. Naked Girl on Marylebone Bed, oil on wood, 1450.

  And her breasts! Patrick looks, exulting, marvelling. He is stupidly happy to be near those naked breasts. They make him happy; and anxious. He reaches for her silent sullen nakedness again, pulls her by the ankle next to him; hard and angry he slaps apart her thighs, but she just yawns with silent pleasure as he parts the softness and enters again.

  Angel In Orgasm, fresco, 1247.

  — She came

  — You claim she … orgasmed?

  —Yes

  — How do you know?

  — I’d been going out with her for a year – Flattening his voice – You get to know

  Gregory looks at Patrick and says:

  —You’re not telling the truth are you?

  — Yes I am

  — This is a complete pack of lies, isn’t it?

  — No

  — This is a complete and utter fabrication, isn’t it?

  Christ, Patrick sighs, what’s this? How crap is this?

  Patrick folds his arms and tilts his head and then wonders if this looks arrogant and cocky, so he unfolds them and says again:

  — No it’s not lies. It’s the truth

  Gregory nods curtly. He takes a piece of paper from his junior and scans it, puts the paper back on the blonde-wood tabletop next to his clear plastic half-litre bottle of Evian water, and says:

  — If we can recap a little

  Patrick shrugs. Gregory:

  — At no point did you call her a ‘Jewish cunt’?

  — No

  — At no point did she say ‘stop’, or ‘no’, or ‘go away’?

  — No

  — At no point did you force her to fellate you?

  — No

  — Nor did you – Gregory scans the courtroom quickly, looks back at Patrick – Nor did you ever use the terms ‘bitch’ or ‘slut’ or ‘tart’?

  — No

  — Nor did you drag her upstairs or throw her onto the bed or anything like that?

  — No …

  — So you claim you didn’t rape her?

  Big sigh, big breath, Patrick raises his chin a fraction and also looks at the jury and says as loudly and defiantly as he can:

  — I didn’t rape her

  — No further questions

  Gregory has sat down. The lawyer’s conclusion is so abrupt Patrick opens and shuts his mouth. Patrick feels like shouting: no further questions? Ask me how she liked it! Why she liked it! Please!

  — I’d like to ask something

  Stefan has risen. Patrick feels relief. The interrogative Gestapoid light on Patrick’s face has been switched off and now he is gazing at the friendly, smiling face of his own lawyer. Cleverly, professionally, Stefan is lobbing him questions, easy questions, patball stuff. Relaxing, Patrick answers them clearly and lucidly, these questions about his and Rebecca’s love life, their sex life, their home life. Then, just as he is getting in the swing of things, Stefan nods at him to step down.

  Obedient, silent, Patrick starts walking around the courtroom, back to the dock. As Patrick paces from the box to the dock Stefan turns to the judge and says he has no wish to call any more defence witnesses. So the judge says they might as well hear the concluding statements, as they still have an hour and a half before lunch. So Stefan stands up and makes his statement.

  In the dock, slightly bemused by the pace of it all, Patrick props a chin on a fist and listens intently:

  Bruises, doctor, consent, sex games, school dress, betrayal, never …

  Stefan sits down; Gregory stands up. Gregory makes his statement. Patrick feels exhausted, totally drained of lif
e and energy. Almost fatalistic and resigned. But he still listens as Gregory turns his verbal tricks:

  Alcohol, ordeal, police, protect, tragedy, condemn, punish …

  Patrick sits and listlessly stares up and counts the ceiling tiles. They are arranged in grids of eleven by eight. Gregory sits down. There are twelve brackets supporting the public gallery above. The judge is now doing his own summing up. Patrick looks at the clock as it ticks the minutes, he tries to estimate how wide the clock is – ten inches, fourteen? – as the judge does his speech:

  Assess, balance, believe, consent, reckless, alcohol, sex games, corroboration, unanimous.

  Quiet, sad, Patrick stares at his shoes and thinks about his dad’s funeral. He breathes in and out as the jury is dismissed to consider the verdict. One by one the jury departs; then the clerks file out, the journalists scamper out, other people disperse. Almost alone, now, Patrick finds himself staring at the face of Stefan, a foot from the dock. The courtroom is otherwise deserted …

  — OK how did I do?

  Patrick steps out of the dock. Stefan throws an arm around and says:

  — I think … pretty good

  — Pretty good?

  — Yes. Don’t worry

  — Oh sure

  — It’s out of our hands anyway

  — Hm …

  — Really, try and think of other stuff

  — But – Patrick looks at Stefan like Stefan is his dad; they walk towards the courtroom door – But …

  Stefan once more grips Patrick’s shoulder; says:

  — I never guarantee anything, Patrick, you know that

  — So …?

  — I think you did pretty well

  — Really?

  — But just remember juries are funny things

  — OK … OK …

  — Best get a cup of coffee. You know you can’t leave the building … you know that; right?

  — … Yes …

  Patrick tries to smile and nod but his head is hung too low. Stefan lets go of his shoulder as they single file through the door and out into the echoey marble lobby.

  Outside in the cooler air of the Edwardian atrium the sound of cellphone conversation surrounds them as Stefan turns and goes. Patrick also turns, and walks, alone, upstairs. He walks up stairs and more stairs and finds himself in the Old Bailey canteen, where journos with laptops and tabloids are sitting around a crisp-packet-strewn table, laughing. Some of them look at him. Patrick feels very very alone. He goes and sits down at a table and tries to twiddle his thumbs. Ridiculous: why do people twiddle their thumbs? Getting up again, trying to ignore the adrenaline surging through his system and the awful gut-killing tension in his heart and lights, Patrick approaches the metal tray-slide of the counter. Steak pie? Beef crisps? Choc bar? Suicide?