by Sean Thomas
— Great, thank you
— I just want to know if he’s there too
— Murphy – Rebecca gazes around – He’s not here. Alright?
The mobile is quiet again. Then Murphy’s disembodied voice says:
— Yer sure?
— Yes
— But Becs …
— But what, Murphy? Why are you so adamant he’ll be here anyway?
— Because – Rebecca’s friend’s voice sounds angry, yet confused – Because I just … rang the flat and … – Murphy stalls. Rebecca can sense her friend thinking. Then Murphy says – OK. I’ll tell you … He answered, Rebecca, Patrick answered, I’m sure it was him
A mutual pause. Rebecca inhales, gazes flatly ahead
— Well he’s not here now
— But, Becca
— Look, Murf, I’ll ring you back, alright?
Re-bagging the stified phone Rebecca stares ahead of herself and tries to assay her turbulent feelings. What does she feel? She now feels grief and sadness that Patrick is, seemingly, apparently, not here. Two years gone, two years he’s been in prison, two years she’s been torturing him, and now she really wants nothing so much as to have him back, to see him, to explain to him, to ask him things, to make love to him, to simply have him back in the flat, black-haired and unshaven and derisively laughing at the French clothes-shop shopkeeper across the road while he eats Rice Krispies noisily at three in the afternoon.
Rebecca shakes her head. She wants not to cry, but the flat is making her feel the wind of her loneliness: as if she has stepped outside the night and into this bleak and solitary room, into this flat so redolent of their love; it all makes her shiver, feel cold.
Totally alone, it seems, Rebecca wanders about the half-dark flat, listlessly gazing out each window in turn. The windows they used to gaze out of together are dirty. Ticking a vague to-clean list in her head, Rebecca walks over to the stairs, goes down the stairs, walks across the sitting room to the black table, where she hears a noise that makes her jump.
Patrick?
She says it aloud:
— Patrick?
Her grievous voice is answered by nothing but the noise of the fridge doing a shudder. Steadying her nerves, Rebecca breathes, breathes again, then picks up a plate from the table and carries the plate into the kitchen. Angling the plate into the sink she turns the tap and watches water, then she turns the tap off and turns to the fridge. Fridge door open she takes out a carton of juice from the otherwise empty, definitely handcuffless fridge. But the juice box is bloated, nearly gone, the juice is almost fizzy, so Rebecca swivels around and finds the rubbish bin she remembers their buying, and she drops the days-old juice carton in the bin.
Out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, she looks at the corner of the room: where a box full of her stuff sits: evidence of her half-hearted attempt at leaving the flat. Peering over, Rebecca looks into the box and there right on top of the box is a smaller, lidless, Selfridges shoe box full of his letters to her from prison.
She really means not to take out any of the letters and read them again; so she takes out just the top letter, dated, what … a month ago?, and she unfolds and she reads:
Rebecca I’m sorry. I’ve had enough. I cannot believe what I did how I hurt you. What I did. When I left you lying. How could I have done
Scanning down the letter, appalled at the candour and contrition, once again, Rebecca reads some more:
sometimes in here I get religious. I don’t want to feel Godless any more. Don’t laugh Bex but I sometimes see my soul as like some sixth former some English girl with long blonde hair, some girl who longs to matriculate, to go up to Trinity
Still scanning
but maybe we should be blaming God, you know? Sweetheart? Cause maybe it’s Him, after all. He’s the kiddie fiddler, the one who likes to look at us naked, his children, and maybe it’s Him who’s the sadist, the rapist, maybe He’s the one who forces us all to do stuff we never
Enough; enough; far too much. Going to fold the letter Rebecca hears her phone. Again. Setting down the letter, she picks up the phone.
— So is he there?
— No. He’s not
— You sure?
Rebecca does not even answer this. She falls silent. Undeterred, Murphy barks:
— So anyway you pulled the charges what the fuck for?
— Mn …
— Two years later??
— Because
— Why, Bex? Why?
— Because I love him, because he didn’t do it, because …
With outright anger in her voice, Murphy:
— You’re mad! Aren’t you? Jesus! What do you mean he didn’t do it?
— He didn’t do it
— Do you want to be a total cretin?
— No I
— Jesus, Rebecca, he did it, I remember. You told me
Rebecca starts saying:
— He didn’t and even if he did what does it matter. He didn’t do it …
But then she stops short. Rebecca doesn’t want to talk; she wants to hug someone. Someone? Him. At this moment she wants him to be here no matter how angry he is. She wants him to come round the kitchen door in that dark-blue shirt. She wants to fold her face into his unshavenness, his rough tousled funny angry brutal soft ironic cool dismissive manliness. His eyes the blue of that sky when she was in Crete as a teenager. Like that iridescent dragonfly hovering over the ponds in Hampstead when she was six.
— What is this?
— Sorry?
— Jewish guilt is it?
— Murphy, I love him
— He’s a monster!
— Oh, get over it. He’s not. He didn’t do it. I lied
— You … lied?
— Maybe, yes. Maybe I lied what does it matter now and maybe
— What?
— Maybe it’s all rape
— What? Duhh? – Breathing quickly, almost panting – What? The? Fuck? Are? You? Saying? That all sex is rape?
— Yes … If it’s good
— Listen to yourself! REBECCA!
A pause. Rebecca holds her mobile a few inches away and stares blue at the window. The many stars beyond. A young girl longing to go up to Trinity …
Murphy:
— God! We all believed you!
— Well … don’t
— And we still believe you!
— Well … don’t. I don’t want anybody to believe anything for me … don’t believe anything please, ever again
The next long silence is punctuated by another fridge-shiver. Then Murphy speaks:
— OK, Rebecca. Lookie here … – Murphy is talking slowly, sounding patient, angry, patient, angry – It … doesn’t matter what happened … we can sort that out later … – She sighs, sounding like she is about to get angry; but she says again slowly, says again softly – The important thing is … he must be there, or heading back there. He was there earlier on. K? So get out now – Rebecca goes to say but, but Murphy says – What if he reacts? What if he’s, like, just a tiny bit pissed off that you put him in jail? What if it isn’t all ‘oh what the hell it was only a life sentence’? What if he says … – Murphy changes her accent slightly – ‘Why don’t I go round and kill her for making me do two years in jail?’
— I …
— You?
— Murphy I just couldn’t bear to think of him in there
— You couldn’t bear what? Fuck!! Bex have you been looking at his crazy letters again? – Even louder snort – Oh God
— Sitting there thinking he did it. I couldn’t bear that
— They’ll prosecute you …
— Maybe – Rebecca thinks – Maybe
— Just get out NOW
— In a minute. I want to see him. It’s all rubbish and … wait … What’s that noise?
— Rebecca? REBECCA?
A noise has made Rebecca drop the phone. A different kind of noise. Him? It has to be him. It can onl
y be him. Who else?
But the noise is upstairs? But it can’t be upstairs, upstairs was empty.
No. It is upstairs: there it is again.
The … roof terrace? The roof terrace …
Rebecca stands, paralysed. She wonders what to do. The roof terrace …?
Rebecca moves nearer the stairs, the stairs to the bedroom. She wants to go up and she wants to run away. She wants to think about God, about rape, about love, about dying, about fear of death. Is he up there? And if he is up there what is she going to say? Is she going to blame him, or kiss him, or something else? Rebecca listens for the noise again, while she thinks about God. Maybe God was the culprit … handcuffing them all to the bedposts of lust, putting the gimp mask of orgasm on every human face …
Again: the noise. Unmistakable. It is.
Following her own darkest wishes, Rebecca takes the stairs. Dignified, dutiful, feeling like the innocent wife of a cruel Tudor king, she lifts the train of her thoughts and makes a slow sombre route up the stairs, into the bedroom. Here Rebecca crosses the floor of the room to the other door. The door that leads to the roof terrace. Up?
Up. Panting a little with the exertion, stooping her head in the confined space of the little stairway, Rebecca climbs all the way to the roof space.
Starlight, lamplight, office light … blinking in the fresher air, Rebecca looks out into the blue humid softness of the evening, seeing the first lineaments of lighter blue dawning over Welbeck Street. She can see a blanket, a bag, two books …
And then yes, then yes, then yes, indeed: she sees Patrick. Patrick Skivington. Patrick Skivington G4628. He is sitting on the edge of the roof swinging his legs over the side, looking down the three-storey height to Marylebone High Street. From the side Rebecca can see his unshavenness, his pale face, his prison face: thin and cheekboned.
He turns. She spies blue eyes. Does he have a knife?
— Be careful …
She says. He looks at her; and does not move. He says nothing. Two years? Three?
Rebecca goes over. She does not know what to do, whether to run away, or ring Murphy, or call her mother, or go over and let Patrick throw her off the top of the building as perhaps she ought. So she goes over to him. Very carefully she goes over and sits down next to him, dangling her two legs down next to his; now the two of them are both kicking their heels against the guttering.
— I … – He says – I … – He says. His voice is older. But still: it’s his voice. Rapt, frightened, devout, unsure, Rebecca watches as her ex-boyfriend sighs and puts his head back and looks fairly handsome again as he looks up at the stars. She watches as he reaches for her hand without looking; as blindly he takes her hand in his hand; as with a crushing grip he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.
Their hands clasped together, he stares up at the just seeable summer stars and says:
— Look, the constellations
Rebecca nods, and says, slowly:
— You In Prison?
— Me In Prison …
She pulls her hand away, and says:
— And … Me Accusing You Wrongly
Patrick laughs, a little strangely, then goes quiet. Then he says:
— What did you think of the trial then … bit of a lark?
She wonders what to say. She says:
— You looked sweet in the dock
— Like a rapist?
— Like my boyfriend
— A rapist …
— Ex-rapist manqué?
He says:
— Fucking hell, Rebecca, I was scared – He is turning to face her full-on. His face is wan but not unhappy, she thinks. Inscrutable. What does he want? She wants to know. Does he want to kill her? To kiss her? Rebecca stares into his eyes seeking an answer as he says:
— You know I never stopped loving you I always kept wanting you: have you slept with anyone else?
— … Not … really
— You know I wanked about you six times one day
— Six times?
— Maybe seven
— Well … my shower head needs replacing
He laughs, again. More like the old laugh. Then he says:
— Oh fucking hell Rebecca I hate you
Rebecca says nothing, says shh, feels weird, feels strange frightened sad but alive. So is this what? Is this when? Is this why? Is this true love? If love is forgiveness, who has more to forgive of each other than them? But where does the sex go then? What of the sex?
Still sitting next to him, still sitting on the edge of the roof terrace sixty feet above the empty pavements, Rebecca feels very very tired. Blonde and wordless she leans and rests her tired head on his shoulder. In response he rests his head on top of hers, likewise. Then they go quiet; then they both gaze over the Marylebone streets. Beyond them the quiet Georgian townhouses stretch towards Fitzroy; somewhere out there the gingkos of Cleveland Street flutter their leaves, in the tress-lifting breeze.
— Do you still …?
— What?
— Nothing
Taking his hand she lays his hand between her two hands. His soft hand, his soft innocent not-exactly-a-rapist hand. God. Where does she wanted now? As she lifts his hand and kisses his soap-scented hand she thinks: How does they go now? Why does love unhappy? Where is she happy to? She is not happy; she is not scared. She wants to laugh and slap him at the same time. Because, because, because
— Going to be a lovely day
Says Patrick, obviously.
Rebecca nods and says, also obviously:
— I’m tired
Patrick nods and says:
— Here
And he leans back indicating he is making space for her to lie on his lap. Nodding, obedient, still impressed by him, after all these years, Rebecca nods and does as she is told. Right on the edge of the roof terrace she tucks her legs back up and to the side, then leans and awkwardly rests her head on his lap and from this dangerous-but-horizontal vantage she also gazes across at the starry dawn sky. She senses with some relief how he could just tip forward: tip her to her death on the streets sixty feet below.
And then he says:
— Tell me about the Aztecs
— Really?
— One more time …
— What do you want to hear?
— Anything
And so she thinks. With his hand curling the hair of her temple and his kissing lips occasionally warm on her cheek Rebecca ignores the wet tears on her face and thinks what to say. What to say? Thinking wildly and laterally she wonders whether to tell him about the Tarascan Empire, or the demon women known as Tzitzime, or the hallucinating jaguars sacrificed on the Templo Mayor. But before she can say this, he touches her face with a hand and leans over and says down to her horizontal cheek:
— Sorry for raping you
— You didn’t
— Yes I fucking did
— So what if you did …
— So I did then?
— No you didn’t – She says, firmly – Rape me anyway
— Shall I?
— Yes. Forever
He pauses, says:
— Really? Do you want me to rape you forever?
— Till death us do part, Patrick
— Then I shall – He says – I’ll never stop raping you
— Thank you
She is nodding, determinedly. He is exhaling, as if relieved. Feeling his breath on her cheek, feeling a strange warmth inside, Rebecca kisses his thighs beneath her face, she squeezes his lap to her face; and then and only then does she turn towards the sky and decide what to tell him. She has decided to tell him about the fate of fallen Aztec warriors, who spend the afterlife as golden Monarch butterflies, as creatures of the sun: wholly without memory, without knowledge, mouths always full of sweetness; floating about the sun-lanced cloud forests, entirely bereft of desire …
But she doesn’t. Before she goes to say this Rebecca has a change of heart, and she decides to be quiet, t
o shut the fuck up, to say nothing. And so instead they just sit there, the two of them: with her head in his lap, just a few inches from the edge of the roof terrace. And then for what seems like hours they gaze into the eastern sky, where dawn glows soft indigo over Holborn, and the Inns of Court, like a choir screen of turquoise in this dark nave of night.
Acknowledgments
The quotes on pages 248–250 come from Biological Exuberance, by Bruce Bagemihl; I have interpolated two other quotes, on these same pages: from The Biology of Rape, a paper by Randy Thornhill, Nancy Wilmsen Thornhill, & Gerard Dizinho, and from The Evolution of Allure, by George L. Hersey.
I should like to thank Patricia Parkin, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Karen Duffy, Sara Walsh, Mary-Rose Doherty – and everyone else at HarperCollins.
If you enjoyed The Cheek Perforation Dance, check out these other great Sean Thomas titles.
Buy the ebook here
About the Author
SEAN THOMAS was born in 1963 in Devon. His first novel, Absent Fathers, was published in 1996; his second, Kissing England, in 2000. A full-time journalist, in recent years his work has appeared in The Times, the Independent and the Guardian. He lives in London.
Other Books By
ABSENT FATHERS
KISSING ENGLAND
Copyright
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Fourth Estate is a registered trade mark of
HarperCollinsPublishers Limited
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by Flamingo 2003
Previously published in Great Britain by Flamingo 2002
Copyright © Sean Thomas 2002
Sean Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
