'Yes?'
He gave her a secret smile. 'Come on, let’s find the car, I left it around here somewhere.'
They climbed the stairs.
'Goodnight, drive carefully,' Coral was saying to each of her customers as she waited to lock the doors. On seeing Virginia and Keith wearily mount the last of the steps arm in arm she said, 'I think you two would be better taking a taxi.'
They laughed and returned her ‘goodnight’.
'By the time we find the car we’ll be jober as sudges,' Virginia said, while Keith was deciding which way they had to go.
'Over there, I think that’s where I left it,' he said at last, pointing to the dark narrow alley of Matthew Street, and on the plot of land where the Cavern had once stood they found his rusting Austin 1100.
'It looks tired,' Virginia said, hearing it groan as she sat on the bonnet.
'It goes.' Keith took the keys and handed them to her. 'Here, you try.'
It did go, after Keith had patted the dashboard to placate the grumbling engine, and Virginia steered it through the one-way city streets, slowly at first, as she became accustomed to its particular idiosyncrasies.
'Where to?' she asked, crunching from second gear to fourth.
'Head for Sefton Park,' Keith told her, then settled back in the passenger seat and rested his knees on the dashboard.
He had hard, lean thighs.
Luck be a lady tonight! thought Virginia, the lyrics ringing about her tone deaf mind, and with eyes only for the slim legs at her side she failed to notice the police car until it pulled in front of her, forcing her to stop.
'Bugger!' she cursed, covering her eyes; the blur of the flashing blue light was an offence to the quiet of the night.
A voice came through the open window at her side. “Excuse me, madam, but I have reason to believe that you are in charge of this vehicle while under the influence of alcohol.”
'Don’t be ridiculous,' said Virginia, taking her hand from her eyes and looking up, flashing a grin.
The recognition was instantaneous.
'Well if it isn’t Virgin-ya! The one who wants the flowers handcuffed,' said the policewoman.
'Oh, Christ!' said Virginia.
'You know this woman, Wilkie?' said the second officer.
'Indeed I do.' Wilkie smiled and opened the driver’s door. 'If you don’t mind stepping out, Miss Virginia whatever-your-name-is. I think you’re going to have to accompany us to the station.'
'You can’t do that!' said Keith, coming alert at last.
'Really?'
'Not without reason.'
'Oh, we have reasons aplenty,' Wilkie boasted, her hours on patrol made worthwhile at last. 'There’s crossing lights on red by the cathedral, and again on Smithdown Road, almost knocking an old man off his bicycle which is undue care and attention-'
'Oh, come on! How many old men are out on bicycles at this time of night?'
Wilkie ignored Keith’s question, turned to Virginia. 'This your car?'
'No. It’s mine.'
Keith again, out of the car now, and perhaps Wilkie wondered if she would ever get rid of him. Referring to him as ‘sir’ she suggested that he get back into the vehicle and drive it home, assuring him that Virginia would be in safe company.
'Where are you taking her?' Keith demanded to know. 'St Anne Street?'
'No. Cheapside.'
'Then I’ll be in touch,' he promised. 'You hang on, Virginia. I’ll be down there.'
Wilkie said that he would be wasting his time.
Virginia said nothing. Meek and submissive she went to the police car and allowed herself to be bundled into the back. Through the rear window, as the car pulled away, she saw Keith waving as though she was setting off on some holiday.
*
How might Virginia describe what she went through? Dickens only knows and only Dickens would have had the words with which to sum it all up.
In the narrow cobbled street of Cheapside the world grew darker and the mood became more primitive. Wilkie knocked on a heavy door, identified herself to a person on the other side and they were admitted.
'What’s this one?' the sergeant at the desk asked, and Wilkie delivered the details with a theatrical fervour; suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol, and with undue care and attention.
When asked, Virginia gave her name.
'Virgin-ya,' Wilkie chuckled.
'Address?'
Virginia supplied her address, then listened carefully as the situation was explained to her and she was informed of her rights. She was escorted to a breathalyser machine and told to blow into it, one long breath without pause. The result was unfavourable.
'It looks like you’re staying here a while, love. Empty out your pockets.'
She did as she was told and the contents were noted, then sealed in a brown envelope.
No, she could not keep her cigarettes.
'How long do I have to stay here?' she asked.
'As long as it takes, Virginia,' said Wilkie, escorting her to a cell, gripping her viciously by the upper arm.
A mean cow was Wilkie, not big but well muscled, fit enough to worry Virginia.
'Get in,' she ordered, opening a door and pushing Virginia forward. The door slammed behind her, just as it did in the most contrived of dramas.
In the cell was a wood-and-hardboard construction made to look like a bed, even to the shape of a pillow at its end. Virginia sat on it and crossed her legs, trying to look nonchalant and other-worldly. She had read somewhere of cases of astral projection being reported among longterm detainees, these occurring when the boredom or fatigue or suffering became unbearable. Hoping for some such result she closed her eyes and dreamed the walls away. A brush would have been useful, and paints, then she could sketch out her liberation on the wall, a serene and distant panorama into which she could step. She opened her eyes but all she could see was the defaced brickwork, scarred by oaths and curses, promises and prayers. No calendars, though, ticking off the days one by one, for this was only a cell for people in transit; its occupants either went free in the morning or on to courts and detention centres.
The cell stank; there was a hint of urine, a hint of vomit, a hint of the restless souls who had left a part of themselves behind. To Virginia’s left was an open toilet, a corner where the stench was stronger, only partly hidden behind a low wooden screen. She vowed not to use this, not to be caught in the act; there was no knowing who might be spying on her. She had always imagined cells as having a tiny window, high up on the wall and only reached on tiptoe, but this place did not even afford that simple comfort. There was no suggestion of a world outside.
Noises came from time to time, from the other side of the heavy door which was pierced only by a tiny peep-hole, but they were not real noises of traffic and city and the things she knew; they were the complaints of the drunk and the injured and the scuffling boots of their overlords.
What am I doing here? she asked herself.
She had been more or less proven to have been drunk while driving. This she accepted, as she would accept the subsequent fine and disqualification. What she could not understand was why she had to remain in the cell, so she hammered on the door in an effort to attract someone’s attention. She wanted to put her question forward with reasoned sobriety.
No one came.
She returned to her bed and juggled herself into a reasonably comfortable position. Her contemplative mood almost worked this time; she did not escape to sun-baked sands, but did at least fall asleep.
'Come on, Virginia, wake up,' she was ordered, some time later.
'What’s happening?' she asked, blinking her eyes open.
'The doctor’s here.'
A clock in the corridor read two-thirty and it was something concrete for her to cling to; she started counting the seconds until morning.
The doctor was unpleasantly efficient, spoke with a slight foreign accent and had a practice in Rodney Street.
Only the best
for Virginia.
Virginia had her reflexes tested and her eyes were studied as they followed the movements of the doctor’s finger; her diction and her aptitude for mental arithmetic -never a strength of hers- were considered. Finally blood was drawn from her arm and transferred to two containers. These were sealed, signed and offered to her.
'Take one,' the doctor invited.
'What for?'
'You can have it analysed yourself, to see if you agree with our findings.'
Virginia took one and placed it in her pocket. 'Can I go now?' she asked.
'Yes, back to your cell,' said Wilkie, squeezing her arm and adding to the bruises.
'Why there?'
'Because you’ve been naughty, Virginia. You’re drunk and you’ve got to sleep it off.'
It was six-thirty before the cell door opened again but there was still no sign of morning, only glossy walls reflecting the unkind ceiling lights. Virginia was taken to the charge desk, not daring to ask if she was being released; she thought it unwise to appear too eager, to make too much of freedom. She was asked to blow into the breathalyser machine again.
'Failed again,' she was informed. 'Not many people do that.'
This worried her, hinting as it did at a further spell of confinement.
'It’s okay, though, we’ll let you go,' the desk sergeant told her. 'The fresh air will probably do you more good than being locked up.'
Compassion at last.
The brown envelope was broken open, her possessions spilled onto the counter and described, one by one in inimitable police fashion. She signed for them and took them back.
'See you in court, Virgin-ya,' said Wilkie, still there after all those hours; she, at least, had had a comfortable night, spent mainly indoors rather than out where the trouble was, where she should have been, catching criminals and earning her pay.
Virginia never bothered to curse; she was happy just to step outdoors and look at the morning sky.
*
After breakfast at the Pier Head -a fried egg sandwich at the twenty four hour cafe, in the company of the dirty and the destitute- she made her way home, weaving wearily between the morning commuters whose comfortable lives she envied for once. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, and she wanted to get to bed, to a soft springy mattress rather than the wooden thing she had spent the past six hours on. But first a little sympathy, she decided, to help her sleep more soundly, and when she reached the house she went to Goomer’s room rather than to her own.
Interpreting the sleepy sound which answered her knock as an invitation to enter, she pushed open the door. The room was warm, scented by dreams, and its contents were vague grey shapes mottled by the weak light which came through the curtains.
'Who’s that?' Goomer asked, his body ill-defined among the pile of bedclothes.
'Virginia,' she said, sitting on the bed and staring hard to bring him into focus.
His features sharpened as he sat up. 'Virginia? What have you been up to this time? There were two policemen around here in the early hours, checking that you lived here.'
Slowly, pausing dramatically at certain points, Virginia told him what had happened, her head sinking lower as her narrative became more tragic.
'Poor Virginia,' said Goomer, as her head fell onto his chest. 'Did the nasty men mistreat you?'
'I’m so tired,' she said, letting her weight lean more heavily against Goomer. 'I had no sleep at all last night.'
Goomer nodded, sympathising. 'Come on, lie down for a while.'
Virginia was sleepy and thought that she must already be dreaming. 'What did you say?'
'Get in and rest,' he said, raising her head so that she could follow the movement of his lips.
Trying not to appear too awake or enthusiastic, Virginia kicked off her shoes.
'And those jeans. They’re filthy.'
Arching her back to remove her trousers without getting up from the bed, she wondered what could have come over Goomer. It was a week or more since she had last seen him. Could he have changed so much in so short a time?
His arm slipped around her as she got into the bed, the palm of his hand against her cheek pulling her down to his shoulder. He stroked her hair as though to soothe her.
'Mm,' she sighed, showing her appreciation, and shifted against him, her head sliding down over his chest while her hand parted the loose dressing gown he wore, sliding across his stomach to circle his waist.
'You’re tired, Virginia, you need rest.'
Like hell she did, she thought, but sighed again to encourage the calm caress of his fingers across her neck.
'Come on, sleep,' he encouraged her, his hand never still, speaking as a mother might to a sickly child. 'Sleep,' he said again. 'Dean will be here soon.'
She laughed softly into his chest, thinking that he had said dawn. 'Dawn’s been and gone. It must be nearly mid morning by now.'
'I didn’t say dawn. I said Dean.'
'A person?' She raised her head slightly and his face smiling down at her seemed so exquisitely formed. 'Who’s Dean?'
'Dean. You know him. You’ve met him.'
'A bloke?'
Goomer nodded. 'A bloke. The loveliest.'
'Oh, Goomer, you’re not going to desert me for another man again, are you?'
'I’m afraid so, Virginia.'
'I thought you’d got over it after the last affair. And he’s coming here, is he?'
'Soon. So you go to sleep, then I can get up.'
He moved, only to make himself more comfortable but Virginia feared that he was about to leave her. She tightened her arm around his waist and buried her face into his shoulder.
'Poor dear Virginia!' Goomer laughed, his hand moving consolingly across her shoulders. 'You’re not trying it on again, are you?'
She was, but she was not going to admit it.
'I’m so tired,' she mumbled, rolling onto her back and trying to relax. Goomer’s body was too much of a comfort to ignore completely, however, and she kept her face pressed against his shoulder, her hand against his thigh.
What was it with the man? she wondered. Was he so innocent as to be untrue, too kind for this world, or was he the most accomplished teaser known to womankind? She didn’t know. Perhaps if she ever did fathom him out then his charm would be gone. As she was trying to convince herself that sleep would perhaps be the best thing after all there was a noise outside the door.
'That’ll be Dean,' said Goomer, leaping from the bed and running to the door, his fluttering dressing gown enveloping the person who stepped into the room. All Virginia could see of the embrace was Goomer and swathes of white towelling; whoever was being embraced was lost in the folds and Goomer’s tumbling blonde hair. When the excitement subsided and the dressing gown came to rest like a bird to roost Virginia saw a face peer out, almost angelically, from the crisp white frame.
'Him?' she said, sitting bolt upright.
The youth with no eyebrows, the one from the ‘Phil’ who had offered to take care of her.
'You remember Dean now, then?' Goomer smiled, bringing the visitor closer to the bed.
'Hello again,' said Dean.
Virginia ignored the greeting, again speaking of him as though he was not present. 'What’s he doing here?'
'He’s staying with me.'
'But he’s a weirdo.'
Goomer tightened his embrace. 'So willowy.'
'Still only a fraction over ten stone,' Dean said, as Goomer’s arm squeezed at his waist.
'Why is he staying here? What’s wrong with the ‘Beaumaris’?'
'That place is too seedy and he’s too sweet,' said Goomer, kissing him on the cheek. 'He needs someone to take care of him.'
'But he’s a nut! And I’ve got my doubts about you, too! Get him out of here while I get dressed!'
Though the youth in Goomer’s arms showed no sign of having been offended, Goomer came to his defence. 'Virginia, you will please be a little more polite in my flat. His name is Dea
n, so kindly do not refer to him in any other way.'
Since neither Goomer nor the one named Dean made any attempt to avert their gaze, Virginia picked up her jeans and blouse from beside the bed and struggled beneath the sheets until she had them on. Then she swung her legs free and stood.
'He -Dean- is loopy and you don’t need to be a psychiatrist to see that,' she told Goomer. 'You know what he tried on with me in the ‘Phil’.'
'Which is precisely why he needs looking after,' said Goomer. He turned to Dean, who was still smiling, impervious to any insult. 'Will you make some coffee?' he asked him. 'I think Virginia could do with a cup. She’s had a hard night.'
'Forget it,' said Virginia, buttoning her blouse and collecting her coat from the foot of the bed. 'After this what I really need is a drink.'
'See, Dean?' said Goomer, tutting as she left. 'She’ll never learn. That’s how she got into trouble in the first place. Lesson number one for you must be to study Virginia and profit from her mistakes.'
Chapter Six
Though Virginia disapproved, Goomer insisted on sharing his flat and his bed with Dean. He was still available for the occasional walk or talk or evening in the pub, sometimes with Dean and sometimes not, but the times that Virginia was alone became more and more frequent. The fact that she missed Goomer’s company annoyed her, mainly because she could not say what it was exactly that she missed about his company. His nearness had always been tantalising, flattering but frustrating, and his manner often irritating, sometimes comforting but frequently condescending. He was just too strange, too clever and too untouchable.
Sod it! she thought. He was nothing more than a bloody teaser; whether a prick-teaser or a clitoris-teaser you could take your pick.
'Have you seen Goomer lately?' Peter asked, as he refilled Virginia’s glass.
'You asked me that yesterday,' she scowled. 'And the day before that.'
'I did? Oh.' The glass was placed on the bar, the money taken and change given. 'This, er, friend of his, he’s still staying with him?'
'Yes.'
Peter leant his elbows on the bar, coming close enough for confidences; there were few customers and he had the time for an interfering chat. 'And tell me, Virginia, are they actually sleeping together?'
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