by Laura Marney
Chapter 9
‘Yeah okay, I’ll come back with you but I’m not doing anything.’
‘Sure, that’s fine, whatever you want.’
‘Just for a cuddle, okay?’
‘Whatever you want, baby.’
How many times has he heard that? Just for a cuddle. Pierce is not so cynical as to think that ladies are lying when they say it. But he knows that after two spliffs, The Best Of Marvin Gaye and a half-hour of snogging, fondling, licking, nibbling, sucking and dry riding it’s often a different story.
‘Great flat, you’ve got it lovely.’
‘Thanks.’
Pierce smiles as he remembers one of his precoital preparations: tidying the flat. In determining the likelihood of getting one’s hole an important factor was location, location, location. The flat with its understated furnishings and tasteful décor was a leg-opener for most ladies.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘It’s Pierce.’
‘I’m really sorry, I’m a bit drunk.’
She is half sitting, half lying on Pierce’s couch with her bra flipped up and her tights round her ankles.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Do you remember mine?’
‘Of course I do. It’s Marianne.’
‘Martha.’
‘Sorry. Martha. That’s what I meant to say.’
‘Pierce?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Will you fuck me?’
Result.
Pierce prefers a slower more seductive undressing but as they move to the bedroom Martha is whipping her kit off. She steps out of her pants and leaves them, sunny side up, where they fall.
She smells fantastic and her skin is soft and warm. He considers himself a gentleman and is old-fashioned enough to believe in Ladies First. He always gives it a good twenty minutes, longer if it looks like they’re going to come, before he takes the reins and goes for gold.
She is pushing his head down and her hand explores his balding crown. Recently Pierce has taken to picking up the shorter lady. But now that she’s found it he must acknowledge it.
‘It’s not a bald patch. It’s a solar panel for a sex machine.’
Martha laughs and he is relieved. He’s still got it. When all his hair falls out and his belly hangs over his trousers and his teeth turn yellow he’ll still be able to laugh them into bed. Except that the balder he gets the shorter the women will have to be. The older and fatter he is the uglier the ladies will be. He’ll have to start taking Viagra, not because he can’t get it up but because the only ladies he’ll be able to pull will be decrepit disfigured midgets.
These thoughts are having a deflating effect. Pierce returns to thinking about how great Marianne smells and how nice her tits are. This is going to be a quality shag, he can sense it. He hasn’t had sex in three weeks but compared to married guys he knows, Pierce gets plenty. If he could find a nice lady who offered quality sex and was willing to put out on a regular basis, he might even think of going steady. Maybe it’s time. Two weeks ago when the barber showed him it in the mirror, the bald patch definitely looked bigger.
Pierce is unaware that she has been moaning until she suddenly stops.
‘What’s that noise?’
She sits up, alarmed.
‘Somebody’s crying, upstairs, can’t you hear it?’
Pierce considers pretending he can’t hear it but the soundproofing in the building is non-existent and he’d have to be deaf as well as bald.
‘Yeah, it’s Daphne. She cries all the time, she’s mental, don’t worry about it.’
‘Oh God, the poor soul, what’s she crying for?’
‘I don’t know, I told you, she’s mental.’
The way this comes out sounds ratty and less sympathetic than Pierce meant and instantly changes the atmosphere. Backpedalling is required.
‘I’m sorry; it’s just that I find it upsetting. Poor Daphne crying every night like that. It’s the usual story. Dumped by a man. Bastard. She’s so depressed, you hear of people dying of a broken heart and I think that poor kid might. I’ve talked to her of course, tried to help but, oh I don’t know, what can I do? All I can do is be a friend, I just feel useless.’
Martha throws her lovely warm fragrant arms around him and holds him tight. The New Man thing is quite effective, and it isn’t entirely bullshit, he does feel rotten for Daphne. But it’s backfiring; Marianne’s sobbing in his arms now. At this rate he’s never going to get his hole.
Struggling to catch her breath after every word, she blurts, ‘I’ve been there. Damian left me three months ago. For the guy who sold us the new patio doors. We didn’t even need new patio doors, the old ones were fine.’
Now he throws his arms around her. How many times has he heard this? Damian or Michael or John left me. It’s always Pierce who has to pick up the pieces, to hold them, stroke their hair, assure them they’re desirable, fuck them, when he knows that what they really want is to be in the arms of Damian or Michael or John. Pierce is their substitute.
‘Shh!’
They listen intently to the silence.
‘She’s stopped!’ she whispers.
‘Good,’ Pierce whispers back, ‘she’s at peace now.’
‘Oh my God! What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing! I don’t mean she’s…’
It is at this point that Martha actually kicks him out of his own bed.
‘Quick, go and see she’s alright. She could be doing anything up there.’
‘It’s twenty past two!’
‘Please Pierce!’ Martha sobs; she’s becoming hysterical.
‘Okay.’
Throwing on his trousers he tiptoes upstairs and lightly taps his neighbour’s door. No doubt Daphne is sound asleep and completely unaware that she’s destroying his love life. He intends to wait a few minutes and nip back downstairs again but to his surprise she opens the door.
‘What’s wrong, Pierce? Come in.’
‘Eh, no, nothing’s wrong, it’s just, eh, just a social call.’
The fact that it’s after two doesn’t seem to bother her. She leads him into her living room, pours two large malt whiskies and hands him one. She’s wearing a thick fleecy dressing gown but Pierce’s eagle eye detects that Daphne is piling on the beef. Her face has filled out but it quite suits her.
‘I just came to see if you were all right.’
‘Me? Aye, I’m fine. Rinky dinky, never better.’
‘It’s just that sometimes I hear you, you know, the walls are paper thin in this building. Sometimes I can hear that you’re upset.’
‘Well I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you!’
‘Don’t take it like that Daphne. I’m just trying to be neighbourly.’
‘Yeah well, sometimes I hear you. You and your lady friends. Mind you, you’ve hit a bit of a dry spell, haven’t you, Pierce? I haven’t heard anything for about a month now.’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Oh excuse me!’
They are both smiling.
‘At least all you hear is me girning. I’ve got to put up with a full-on sex show,’ she says, and then shouts, ‘Pierce me baby, Pierce me!’
‘Shh!’
Daphne’s hand flies to her mouth. She’s whispering and pointing downwards.
‘You’ve got a woman there just now?’
Pierce nods.
‘D’you think she heard?’
He nods again and now they’re giggling.
‘Well, what are you doing up here?’
‘I’m just checking you’re okay.’
Though this is the perfect opportunity Pierce doesn’t have the heart to ask Daphne to keep the noise down.
‘Thanks Pierce, I’m fine. Don’t worry, I’ll ask for your help putting the noose up when I’m ready. And maybe you can read one of your poems.’
Twenty minutes later Pierce is heading back down the stairs when Daphne calls him back.
‘Pierce?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m developing a new method of silent weeping, look, what d’you think?’
Daphne screws her face up and mimes vigorous crying.
‘No, you’re alright, Daphne, you bawl away. It’s better out than in.’
Marianne has fallen asleep. Pierce climbs in behind her and makes spoons. She responds and throws an arm behind, hugging him to her. Just for a cuddle. She mumbles something but it isn’t real words. Just don’t say Damien, Pierce thinks as he tries to fall asleep.
Chapter 10
Donnie is having a bit of a clear-out. He starts at half past eight, just until the football comes on but after the football he’s still at it at quarter to three in the morning. I can’t stop, he laughs. Donnie laughs a lot now. He’s cleared three black poly bags full, mostly Daphne’s or Daphne-related stuff. He’s already given her the personal stuff back and that was difficult enough, he won’t give her this; he can’t bear to see how hard she’s taking this. Even thinking about seeing her makes his heart beat too fast.
She’s been phoning him. Usually when he’s out, probably checking if he’s there or not. He knows because when he comes in he always dials 1471. She never leaves a message, probably too scared to after the bollocking he gave her last time. He cringes when he remembers the harsh way he spoke but his nerves were in tatters, she knows that. The machine says we do not have the caller’s number to return the call. It’s Daphne. She’s masking her number so he won’t know it’s her but who else would it be? Sometimes she calls when he is in but she doesn’t speak. Donnie doesn’t speak either. He doesn’t know what to say.
He hadn’t realised how much junk had accumulated in his flat, in his life. Well, he thinks, a new broom sweeps clean. It feels good to get rid of all Daphne’s shit: all her arty-farty books. Donnie shakes his head in wonder now to think that under her influence he actually bought a book of poetry. Not even proper poetry that rhymed and had verses and had some sort of point to it. No, he bought a book of concrete poetry; fair enough, it had been at some charity fundraising do, but for fuck’s sake, it didn’t make any sense at all. It was just a bunch of words that had been shaken and thrown on to the page like dice on a table. He had paid good money for that.
Then there were the videos: total mince, there wasn’t one that was worth keeping. Most of them were French or Croatian or some such shit and either really boring or total porn or both. He can’t have that kind of filth in the house anymore, not with Bertha around.
And as for the CDs, hoighty-toighty classical music, it was nice enough to fall asleep to, but it had no beat, no words, nothing you could remember about it. Daphne always seemed to be able to recognise that kind of music, she knew the composer and the name. Sometimes just to test her he’d put on a CD and say, ‘Yeah, I really like that Mozart one’. And Daphne would say, ‘Oh, I thought that was Beethoven’. She knew it was Beethoven. But Daphne never knew how he’d tried to swot up her favourite pieces and composers just to get it wrong and fall flat on his arse again the minute he heard it. Donnie breathes a big sigh of relief. It feels so good he breathes another one, then he laughs. Never again will he have to pretend to know the difference between Mozart and Beethoven. There is a helluva lot of Daphne-related paperwork. There are birthday cards, Christmas cards, Valentines cards, there are the letters, the notes she left on his pillow when she went out early to work, remember to leave the bin shed unlocked for the bin men. Why had he kept all this crap? PS if you are a good boy you’ll get steak for dinner and a smoked sausage for supper – I love you, your very own Sweet Pea. He’d kept it as a receipt, a promissory note.
Donnie doesn’t suppose anyone would know what ‘smoked sausage’ means, a cryptic code only he and Daphne are privy to, but you can’t be too careful and something like that, if Bertha ever found it, would be embarrassing. The note is going in the shredder too.
Donnie is laughing until, out of nowhere, a cold shiver runs down his back. He’s remembering when he and Bertha told everyone they were back together again. Now that was embarrassing. His family at least had the good grace to pretend to be pleased but each of them, mum, dad and both his sisters, had privately asked him, ‘Are you sure this is really what you want, Donnie?’ It was a bit sudden, they said, he shouldn’t just jump back into this. He knew why.
His face flushed hot when he thought of all the nasty ugly things he’d said about Bertha six years ago when she left him, the dreadful, embarrassing, private husband and wife stuff he’d told them. Worse than that, he remembered the nastier, uglier things they’d contributed. And he saw it in their faces now, he might forgive Bertha, but his family would never forget.
He felt it coming when Dad decided to have a word. Donnie did his best to avoid it, trying not to get stuck alone with him but Dad wouldn’t be put off: Mum was worried, what had gone wrong with Daphne? He had seemed so happy with her. Donnie had changed so much recently, was he on drugs?
Donnie had to laugh at that. Little did they know that, for the first time in years, he wasn’t on drugs. And it felt great.
But if his family was sticky, hers was a nightmare. The worst was Bertha’s mother. He had never liked the old cow and she knew it. Within the first few months of Bertha and Donnie’s marriage, Gerty had tried to put her oar in. It had caused trouble between them, Bertha was loyal to her mother though even she realised what a controlling old bitch she was. With neither Gerty nor Donnie prepared to meet in the middle, their relationship deteriorated until it became a power struggle, a fight for the territory that was Bertha. Donnie, in the honeymoon period of the first year and still confident of his new wife’s love, forced Bertha to make a choice between them. Quite correctly, Donnie thought, she chose her husband and Gerty, ignominious in defeat, no longer held sway.
But Donnie’s triumph came at a price. Bertha, temporarily at least, lost her ally, Gerty lost control and Donnie only won a vengeful enemy. In the long run it was to prove a hollow victory. Later, when things got worse between the couple, when the ugliness crept in and then became commonplace, Gerty re-established herself as Bertha’s collaborator and worked tirelessly to make the marriage fail.
And she hadn’t changed. He was now summoned once a week to Gerty’s for a cold supper of humble pie where she routinely treated him with barely disguised scorn. She took every opportunity to remind him of her daughter’s earning power and affluence. It had always been an unspoken sore point that before they split Bertha was earning twice his salary, now it was even more. Donnie lost everything their double salary upwardly mobile lifestyle had financed: the house in the best part of town, the latest model car, the luxury holidays. Gerty didn’t bother to hide her smirks each time she interrogated him now on where he was living, what he was driving. How the mighty had fallen. And he had to smile and agree, to genuflect at the altar of the great big fat ugly stupid bitch, Goddess Mother-in-Law. It wasn’t enough that he had paid heavily in the shame of a failed marriage and the humiliation of divorce. From her position of strength Gerty made it clear she would insist on him paying obeisance and keeping up the payments.
*
Pierce is having a quiet one tonight, a couple of cans in front of the telly. He was out at a party last night but it all went a bit tit-shaped.
Used to be Pierce went to parties every weekend. Used to be he’d get asked. Girls he didn’t know would approach him in the pub and demand his attendance. Failing that, him and a few mates would crash whatever party they could hear from the street. A couple of handsome lads with a carry-out, they were welcome. Used to be.
He fucking blew it last night. That wee burd, Angela, she was up for it. He could have fired in, nae bother. No, but he had to be Bertie Bigbaws, didn’t he? He had to pull more burds than the other guys, drink more beer, do more lines than the other guys. The other younger guys. Came with the territory, the old geezer out with the young blades, he had to earn his place. And the thing is, the thing he’s kicking himself for is: he knew he shouldn’t ha
ve touched the coke.
Pierce had realised years ago that he didn’t need cocaine. They could all be coked out their nut and he was always more lively than everybody else. Apart from which, it did nothing for him. Well, no, actually it did. It loosened his bowels, replaced his libido with that of an amoeba’s and shrivelled his cock to the size, shape and texture of a peeled prawn. It also gave him a sleepless night and a stinking cold the next day, hence the quiet night tonight. He shouldn’t have touched the fucking coke. He should have walked away, politely declined. Used to be he had the confidence to do that.
If it had been one line he might have got away with it but Bertie Bigbaws had to do three. Angela was leaning her heavy tits against him, giggling – she was fucking gagging for it – as he snorted the long thin lines.
The coke was cut with laxative and the effect was immediate. He had to get out of the flat. He was touching cloth.
Pierce briefly considered using the toilet in the party flat but he’d been on the Guinness all night and, without the benefit of a splatterguard, he knew the effect that would have in the toilet. There were people standing in the hallway, they’d know it was him. He knew his precarious social standing would never survive the ignominy so, with quivering sphincter, he bolted. Never mind that he was on a sure thing with Angela or wasted the money he’d had to chip in for the coke, it was better to squirt in the privacy of his own home.
A wee Saturday night in the house, how long has it been since he’s done this? He should do it more often, although it would be more fun if he had a wee burd to do it with. They could get in a curry and a bottle of wine, watch Casualty, have a leisurely shag then off to bed and fresh as a daisy the next morning.
‘Sean? It’s me.’
‘Oh hello son, everything okay?’
‘Aye, why wouldn’t it be?’
‘No, it’s just that you don’t usually phone on a Saturday, I thought there was maybe something wrong.’
‘No I’m just having a night in the house and I though I’d give you and Bernie a phone. Is she there?’
