by Miles Gibson
“In the old days, I mean the Middle Ages, it was a good time to be a butcher,” he said wistfully.
“I thought the people starved,” I said.
“Ah, yes, some of the people starved. But not nearly so many as starve today. I mean, there were fewer people in the world. There were fewer mouths to try and feed,” he explained.
“It was a struggle to survive,” argued Dorothy.
But Archie wasn’t listening to our doubts about the quality of life in the Middle Ages. He was dreaming again of meat.
“They used to fatten up a swan – they ate swans in those days – and then they would stuff it with a goose. They’d stuff the goose with a duck and the duck with a chicken and the chicken with something else. Each time the bird got smaller and smaller until they’d finish the very centre of the thing with a little budgerigar.”
“They didn’t eat budgerigars in the Middle Ages,” protested Dorothy.
Archie gave her a long, old-fashioned look. “Well, whatever it was they used, it was damned small and the butchers must have been damned fat,” he said.
We talked and sipped at the port for an hour or more before Archie began to grow uncomfortable, yawn extravagantly and knead his eyes with his knuckles. Finally, mumbling his apologies, he staggered to his feet and shuffled away to bed. He looked happy, exhausted and very drunk.
Dorothy was left to entertain me. She filled my glass with port and smiled.
“They’re very beautiful knives,” I said.
“He likes you,” she said carelessly, as if she were discussing a dog.
She led me from the kitchen and through into a smaller room at the back of the house. It was filled by an ancient sofa and a huge display of potted plants. Tiles on the floor and the walls of raw brick. It was hot and aromatic and dark.
The only light came from the embers of a small log fire that cracked and fizzed in the hearth. She sat beside me in the lap of the sofa and stared up at my face.
“He looked tired …” I ventured.
“He is tired …” she said with confidence. “He’s so tired he’ll probably sleep until this time tomorrow.”
“You spiked his port,” I whispered.
Dorothy smiled again. “While he’s asleep I can give you my Christmas present,” she said.
She threw back her head and unclipped the little bow-tie at her throat. She flipped off her jacket and stood up to unfasten her skirt. I sat and watched her undress in silence. Her fingers picked at the buttons of her shirt. A log flared in the hearth and her fingernails flashed like flakes of glass. She was wearing white silk stockings. Her legs were so long that the stockings barely seemed to reach above her knees. She peeled the stockings off and used them to tie my hands behind my back.
“Are you comfortable?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. The knots were so tight I thought the silk would cut my wrists.
When she was satisfied that I was harmless she guided me from the sofa and made me kneel down on the floor. Then she picked up my port, stood before me and let the thick crimson wine trickle down her belly and worm its way between her legs. I was amazed. My mouth dropped open and my tongue fell out. I began to drink.
*
London seemed unlovely and forlorn when I returned. The crowds in Victoria Station were bleary-eyed somnambulists, dragging themselves into the city, wretched and silent. But God had not been slumbering. During the twelve days of Christmas an earthquake in Italy had destroyed seven villages and killed fifteen people, an Air France 747 had burst into flames over Chicago and dropped 280 people from a great height, a family had drowned in a Greek flood and an avalanche had buried an hotel in the Alps. These were all described as Acts of God and the police were not prepared to detain anyone for questioning.
I sat at home through the worst of the January weather and dreamt of my sport. Whenever the storms lifted I went shopping for knives. I favoured street markets and charity shops, hunting for old kitchen knives that could not be traced back to some fancy department store. I bought a small whetstone and amused myself by sharpening the blades and trimming the dull shapes into narrow spikes.
It was such an absorbing occupation that I quickly acquired a large collection. But I resisted the temptation of carrying a favourite blade in my pocket when I went walking in the streets. I was determined to deny myself the pleasures of the kill for as long as I could possibly endure it. Frank’s observation that the Soho murderer was an addict still worried me and I wanted to test the extent of my addiction. It wasn’t easy. Several times I packed a bag with my Polaroid and rubber gloves, but each time refused to surrender to the excitement and drugged myself by watching television until I fell asleep.
It was Frank’s birthday in the first week of February and we went out to supper with two of his lady friends. They were called, I remember, Thumper and Frosty and were waiting for us when we arrived at the restaurant. I usually avoid eating in restaurants and I did not relish the prospect of meeting Frank’s friends, but it was a special occasion so I wore my best suit and my widest smile.
The one called Frosty had hair the colour of pulpit brass, cropped very short to expose her ears. She had a pudding face and a small but very lugubrious mouth. She seemed to be on the most intimate terms with the birthday boy who kept patting her rump and chuckling to himself.
The one called Thumper was a tall, pale woman with dark hair that had been lacquered into stiff ringlets. She had a long, narrow face cut like a tribal mask, the nose straight and the eyes slanted. The eyes were painted with little blue rainbows. She was wearing a strawberry satin skirt and a black blazer. Beneath the blazer she seemed to be wearing nothing at all except a long gold thread that hung from her neck. She sat next to me and when I asked her why she was called Thumper, she laughed and told me not to be so impatient. Her laugh was like a fire alarm and made me blush.
It was a huge, sprawling restaurant with a dance floor and orchestra. But Frank directed us to the shelter of a corner table and, when we were settled, asked his friends what they wanted to drink.
“Champagne,” said Frosty without hesitation.
Frank only laughed and ordered red wine. Thumper gulped down a glass of the stuff as soon as it was poured and then asked me how I earned my living. I tried to explain about the book I was writing, the history of conjuring and the lives of the great magicians. I hesitated a few times because I knew Frank was listening and he knew as much about the book as I did and would notice if there were any obvious mistakes in my account. Sod it, I thought as I blushed and mumbled my way through the deceit, I’ll start writing this damned book tomorrow instead of just talking about it. But before I had finished talking I saw Thumper smirking at me.
“What’s wrong?” I said, blushing again.
“Do you have one of those little magic wands?” she said.
I frowned, I didn’t understand.
“He can do tricks with it,” spluttered Frosty and the two women roared with laughter.
“You shouldn’t laugh,” sniggered Thumper, “He’s a conjurer and you never know what he’s got up his sleeve.”
“I’m not interested in his sleeves,” wheezed Frosty, “Show me what he’s got down his pants.”
“Stop teasing him,” said Frank. Frosty winked at me and filled my glass. Beneath the table I felt Thumper squeeze my knee. I tried to ignore them. But they would not stop their silly whispering or translating my most innocent remarks into their own filthy language.
I was afraid it might spoil Frank’s evening but to my surprise he became quite drunk and could barely fit three words together. He didn’t touch his food but chain-smoked and chuckled and ran his hand under Frosty’s dress.
It was hard work trying to keep Thumper engaged in any sensible conversation. She began to press herself too close against me and leered at my blushes. I was explaining the principles of levitation when she suddenly cupped my chin in her hand and squeezed until my mouth popped open between her fingers. Then she slid a
finger inside, running it along the edge of my teeth. While she examined my mouth she stared at me with her strange, slanted eyes.
“It’s time to go home,” she said.
I glanced helplessly across at Frosty and Frank. They were so drunk they couldn’t see across the room and it took them several attempts to stand up and stagger free from the table. It was a nightmare. I don’t know how we struggled home but, somehow, we managed it.
Once I had dragged Frank into the safety of his apartment I was anxious to say goodnight and escape. But Frank seemed to recover his senses, produced a bottle of Scotch and demanded that I stay for a final birthday drink. The fumes as he pulled the cork were enough to knock me out but Frank threw back his head and took a swig. The Scotch splashed his chin and he tried to wipe it with his sleeve. Then Frosty made a grab for the bottle but she was too drunk to hold it against her mouth and fell down in a heap, nursing the bottle in her arms.
“Perhaps we should put her to bed,” I suggested to Thumper but she only sniggered and said something foolish.
While we watched, Frosty grunted and began to crawl towards the bedroom on her hands and knees. Frank saw her disappear through the door and, with some difficulty, managed to follow her into the dark.
I wanted to leave but Thumper took hold of my arm and dragged me off in pursuit of them. She was very strong. Her fingernails punctured my wrist.
We found Frosty and Frank sprawled together on the floor beside the bed. Frosty had managed to remove one of Frank’s shoes but could not find the strength to throw it away. She sat nursing it in her arms and grinned blindly at the ceiling. The birthday boy had torn open the buttons of his trousers but had pulled out nothing more deadly than a thick twist of his shirt He tweaked the shirt in his fingers and looked puzzled, as if he suspected it did not belong to him. When he saw us approach he promptly buried his head beneath Frosty’s skirts. They giggled and wriggled together for a few moments and then Frosty fainted. Frank began to snore.
I turned to leave but Thumper clung tighter to my wrist and pulled me back into the room.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“I have to go home.”
“What’s your problem?” she demanded impatiently. “Don’t you like women?”
“Yes, I like women,” I said, “My mother was a woman. But I would prefer not to – you know – get involved with you.”
“You don’t have to fucking marry me.”
“I’d rather go home, thank you.”
“Well, it’s Frank’s money,” she yawned, “I don’t care if you don’t have the balls for it. I’m tired. I could use the sleep.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
“What’s the mystery?” she shrugged.
“I have some very unusual tastes,” I said darkly. It was a hollow boast but I was trying to cool her ardour and make her release me.
“Would you like me to fetch you a choir boy?” she sneered.
I was wounded by her insults. My ears were burning. I could have snapped her silly neck across my knee. I wanted to tell her about the risks she was taking in taunting such a dangerous killer. I wanted to shake off my disguise and frighten her with the face of death.
“You might regret those words,” I threatened.
“Yeah,” she sneered, “And you might shit a string of pearls.”
“Shut your mouth,” I gasped, “You’re disgusting.”
“Go home and play with yourself,” she said and stumbled back to her friend beside the bed. She poked about under Frosty’s skirts for a few moments and recovered Frank’s head which she cradled gently in her lap, stroking the hair from his eyes and pulling at the buttons of his shirt. I could have throttled her with my bare hands. But I turned instead and left the room. It had not been a great success.
For the next two weeks I stayed at home, sulking and planning my grand history of conjuring. I wasn’t going to be teased again. I had no doubt that I could write such a book and the more I thought about it, the more excited I became about the idea. I had already collected all the important reference books on the subject – including a rare copy of Hubert’s Conjuring Encyclopedia – and assembled quite a valuable collection of old theatre programmes. So I sharpened my pencils and started to scribble and dream of my masterpiece. The weather was foul and I was happy to be sitting at home beside the fire.
Everything was fine until I cracked a tooth. It was a big molar and it seemed to explode in the middle of a bacon sandwich, leaving me with a mouthful of bread and shrapnel. I swallowed a lot of it but rescued some of the sharper fragments. I put them in an envelope for safety because I thought a dentist might want to see them. It didn’t give me any pain but the stump looked dreadful and I knew it would need some attention. Frank, who still couldn’t remember anything about his birthday, gave me the name and address of his dentist and insisted that I make an appointment the same day.
His name was Israel Casper and he worked in Belgravia, restoring the shine on the smiles of the rich, or repairing them, tastefully, in porcelain and gold. The waiting room contained six armchairs gathered around a flower arrangement on an antique table. I sat there for ten minutes, sweating and pretending to read Country Life, before I was led blindly to the chair. Casper was as big as a walrus and nearly as bad-tempered. He gestured towards the chair. I sat down and he adjusted the machine, unfolding me until I was staring helplessly at the cracks in the ceiling.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded.
“I’ve broken a tooth,” I said. “I’ve brought along the bits and pieces – you know – in case you want them.” I offered him the envelope containing the precious relics.
He snorted and took hold of the packet with a finger and thumb, as if he were handling a turd, and cast it aside.
“Throw it away, nurse,” he muttered.
He tried to force all his fingers into my mouth at the same time, as if he were measuring something. When he was finished he washed his hands.
“Will you take out the stump?” I asked gingerly. I wanted to know about anaesthetics. I appreciate a good anaesthetic when I visit a dentist.
“Good God, no, we’ll use the stump as the foundation for a new tooth,” he said. “I don’t believe in extractions.” He made Extractions sound like a lewd branch of the Quakers. “Your mouth is horrible,” he added as he dried his hands in a paper towel.
Then the telephone rang. He snatched it up, snorted, swore and dropped it again with a clatter.
“I’m sorry, I have to go out for a few minutes,” he announced, “Keep him amused, Jane.”
It was not until he called the nurse by name that I noticed she was in the room. But when I tilted my head against my shoulder and swivelled my eyes I could see her legs and her white canvas shoes.
“Would you like to sit up for a few minutes?” she asked me as soon as the walrus had left us alone.
“Thanks.” I said, struggling to regain my balance and knocking my head against the lamp.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No,” I gasped through my tears.
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked as I rubbed my head. She was no more than twenty years old and as delicate as a pixie. Was it the sight of the buttons on her white nylon coat to remind me of the voluptuous Figg or was it simply the warmth of her face as she smiled at me that ignited my desire? I don’t know. I stared at her as if she were the first woman I had ever seen. I could not stop myself.
While I drank the water she moved about the room, arranging instruments in a metal tray, and my eyes followed her everywhere. She asked me if I had been treated by the walrus in the past and I said that I hadn’t, although he had been highly recommended to me. She asked me if I worked in an office and I said, no, I was studying magic and then, for fear that she might misunderstand me, I explained about the book. She didn’t snigger or ask me if I played with my wand. It was a good moment She asked me if I ever went to see foreign films and, in an effort
to please her and keep her talking, I nodded and smiled. Her face was small and full of freckles. She wore her hair short but it was growing wild and as curly as brambles, falling over her ears and into her eyes. She kept sweeping it back from her face as she talked. She was chattering like a little bird about some old Japanese character who made samurai movies and she said that the film was showing in Oxford Street at the Academy but she hadn’t managed to go and see it although it was already in its last week.
“Perhaps we could go and see it together?” I suggested and blushed at the sound of my own voice. I had caught myself thinking aloud! I sat, flushed and tense in the sudden silence, and tried hopelessly to find more words so that I could cover my mistake and manoeuvre the conversation into neutral territory. I felt ridiculous. I was already in enough trouble without Nurse Jane trotting out and complaining that I was making a nuisance of myself. But asking the question had rendered me speechless and I could only sit there with my mouth open.
“Yes,” she said, “I’d like that.”
The answer was almost as alarming as the question and I continued to sit speechless and peer anxiously at my shoes while Jane smiled and quietly polished a metal probe.
“Tonight?” I finally managed to croak.
“Tonight would be nice, but tomorrow would be better,” she said after a moment’s thought.
“Where shall we meet?”
“I’ll meet you at the box office at seven thirty,” she said and smiled again.
I don’t remember what happened to me in the following ten minutes. The walrus came back and poked around in my mouth, made my gums bleed and told me to make another appointment. I went home and practised smiling in the mirror.
Was it so simple? Can a love affair begin with a smile, a gesture, a few polite words? Nothing more had happened and yet I felt transformed, exhilarated by the experience. I had taken a broken tooth to the dentist and gone home with my heart bubbling and my eyes cloudy with happiness. If the memory of my ordeal at the hands of Frosty and Thumper had not still rankled in me I am sure I would never have found the courage to approach Nurse Jane. So perhaps Frank’s birthday really had been something to celebrate.
