The Lesser Bohemians (15 page)

Up out of the world back into his realm. All tidied and hoovered. Expecting someone? Maybe, he smiles but subdued for him. Get that bottle from the fridge. I do. Is this champagne? For you, for the last night of your play. Thank and kiss him and sit on his desk. Open his shirt while he opens the cork. Turn from the pop, then swallow the fizz. Drip bottle mouth to mouth. Kiss. And make what I want, my own normal with him. Belt first. Next his fly. Both now falling back into time where all the past waits outside. It doesn't matter to me, I say. Then it doesn't matter tonight, he says Now take off your clothes and show me yourself, I want to remember every freckle when you're gone. And I. And bra. Kneels down to my breasts. I. Watch his mouth there. Teeth making twitch running right up to my scalp. How he knows me – and all of me – so much. Kiss. Touch. Already damp his. Slip down where he knelt to. Lick. To put. Oh Fuck, he says, gone so hard in there and now neither us care for she's away to the back of him. Let her. Let her. His hand in my hair God I love how you do that but    lie back on the floor. So do and wait for you on me. In me. This is my father. What? Mine. Just beyond. Little girl in a photo who looks like him. He made me doing this, what he'll do with you. He made you with it but did he mean to? And after, did they know they had? In that other life? On that far-off bed? This is my father. So? What of it? He's taken care of me. And me, from the first.
But he is my father. And your father taught me this, showed me how until I love to and know him like you never can. This is my father. Taking my knickers down. Putting his fingers. Putting his mouth. This is my father. The want he makes and I have no father. Who cares? Who cares? You can never do what he and I can. So sayeth the latest in the longest line. How many have gone before? I am the kingdom. I shine above because he is my father. Do I ever shine? Let me just get a, he says     You don't have to. Why? I'm on the pill. But Sunday. Wasn't safe, now it is. Are you sure? Yes. And. All him in me. The work of it. God that's lovely, you're so wet. He is my father. I prefer him this to that. My father. I choose your father over the dead. Choose to kiss and touch and fuck so it hurts. And good to be hurt by him in ways you never will. Good to be hurt by him in ways no one else has. Kissing each other so deep in our mouths like forgetting now who is in who. He is my father. Not now. Always is. Not where I allow every journey he wants to make across my body. It is for him so get back from it to where you belong in the usual world, in the distantest time as slow he, slow. Kisses back down to wait. His beautiful eyes on me and his beautiful body pacing inside, asking Are you with me? I am. Kissing and. Then we hardly can for There it. I. He I am. All my body, lighting, all over his. I could say anything, anything. Just feeling and heat as and. Wet from inside him so far up inside me. Stings from the rough of. One atom in
tiny
wishing that the pill was a lie. Wishing for risk or being that moment in his past. Being closest to. Making life with No   do not even   anything and

       wild sky and

                             he is             really don't really                     

I

   really me

                                         him and

       my whole body breathes

Fuck, he by my ear Fuck      you beautiful girl     I thought that was never going stop      godthatwas wh wwww    I can hardly speak. So kiss me and kisses me. Be off all that stuff. Just take the pleasure of being young under his hands. Safe in his knowledge. Full of his heat. Forgetting time passing and the sleep that we'll need. Separation ahead. Touch. Breathe how he breathes and try keeping him, try keeping him inside. Still though he slips from but whispering Stay. I can't. I know, and he rolls away That's just the sex talking now. But pretty good sex. Yeah, not bad. Curl I into then kiss at his hair Oh, getting a bit grey in there. Tell me about it, he says Any more fucking like that and I'll be white by dawn.

Sit side by side, smiling down, almost shy. He kisses my shoulder every once in a while. Drinking more, now warm, champagne. Who needs glasses? and laugh as our legs shake from the effort of what they've been through. Elbows slit carpet burns and where they'll bruise. He'll have bite marks tomorrow for I was bad. Such straight teeth! he observes and examines. But stay close these last hours. Fall asleep. Wake. Repeat. Sleep. Do again. All the night wrapped in his quilt on his floor. Eventually him saying No white yet but it's dawn and we should try to sleep. Don't. And instead sit the far side of his desk. Pull open his curtains to watch the sun together rise slowly through the Camden sky. Help itself to chimneys. Across bins and bikes. Between footpaths and hedges. Up our naked legs' swing. His reach to the window ledge. Mine not as long. Take the light on our bodies and not caring who might see from the street. Besides, they'd be lucky to witness. Finish off the bottle. Smoke cigarettes and. White will be the day. Later on, maybe blue. What you'll do once I'm gone? Sleep and
not think about you, what'll you do in Ireland? Walk. Where? By the lake. Nice lake? Has its moments. Just a month, isn't it? Yes. But we kiss long to stave it off and shiver in our tiredness until he says Come on. It's time to get dressed. I'll take you to the train.

Through quiet Liverpool Street he carries my bag. Quiet concourse. Stansted Express. Quietest platform. Loneliest journey I know. I'll miss you, I say Will you write? If you want. Or you want. Then I'll want, if you will. All I want though is to tell him how much I      No, go, or you'll miss your train. Just one quiet kiss more so before taking my bag and going. And. What if he just disappears? Has already gone as utterly utterly as before he came? Snatched look back. No. There he is. Tall in his long coat and glasses. Waving to my wave. Watching me to my carriage. Wave again. Get on and all doors slam. Then the train pulls away.

Ireland is what it is. Sealed in itself, like me. I miss London, with my fondness for ignoring in the street opposing endless Howaya's from impenetrable people to whom I am blood belonged. But I can do that talk. To mind myself, do, for the more vocabulary managed the farther between you. And into that revel space instead open ways of considering aspects of him. The delve deep burn of body. Done, told, and the gap between.

And I write notes about walks. Books. Trips to the flicks then try not to pang for the longed reciprocate. He said he would but he might not, which would be no surprise. Such a plain brown envelope enveloping it when he does, neat in his lovely longhand. Sketch of fraught meetings about his script, a Duchess of Malfi he thought was alright and a chance bump into the Missus on the street – her Easter lunch shopping and pity invite. Nice of her but he probably won't, though perhaps, if I don't object? I don't. So by the next he has. Says my flatmate – and several Czechs – send their regards. He supposes he finds him decent enough despite the way too many drugs – which he knows he is in no position to judge – and the Missus can cook pretty well. Later he tells me to prepare for the change in the trees. How, once it's warmer, we'll go lie up on the Heath, read books whose spines we won't spoil and drink cold beers. That in Regent's Park the first fat men without shirts have been seen so summer is surely on its way. And I study his chose punctuation for leaks of hide or tell. But do not find so do not ask. Especially about the little girl who is not. And this greater swathe that she cuts through his life, what is its      what can it mean?
As for his years? What hides in them? Her in almost all my eighteen, then the twenty before I was born?

And something else, though this I don't tell. It or its resultant fag out on my leg. Choose to recount how my mother instead – at the sight of such obviously male handwriting – said Missy I hope you're not up to anything over there that would make me feel ashamed! He replies Her concern's well and truly out of date but, if I'm inclining to make a clean breast, I should mention how those bite marks I gave him have only just healed up.

Come on to fuck. Will the bag never come? Skate a concourse and lugging for the five o’clock. If I miss it will he wait at Liverpool Street but   it   is it   in old jeans T-shirt, rubbing beneath his glasses’ frames? Trolley guiding to, then from again. Is. With his film cut now all grown in I Hey! Hey, the smile of his see and following down to the end of rail, me. You’re here. Why are you here? I was early so I     thought I might as well. And. These are for you, I don’t what they’re called but they smell pretty good so     Kiss him. Kiss his lips. On the tip of my toes. But crowds insisting on their inroads push our mouths out of place. Go to again but Give me your bag, he says If we’re quick we might still make the five. And knot his fingers back through mine, to pull me through with Jesus Christ, what’s in your bag? The fucking Good News?

But blessed to a lone lift we indecently kiss. Backs pressing buttons. Mine first. Then his. If the door doesn’t open    Opens. He palms his mouth but crushed petals fall all down my front. Platform Two. Come on! Quick! Dash it. Make it. Just to the back. Sit. Go. Kiss and Tickets? I. Don’t worry, I bought two. Clip. Fuck my shoulder! as the conductor aways. Show me? Pull his T-shirt. All bruise broken veins. Sorry, my bag did that. Don’t worry, he nosing mouth to mine and. Kiss, ineloquently, to make up time and. His hand up my bare back and I climb across his lap and. Him over my shoulder, quick checking the carriage If we’re quiet. Never mind quiet we’re    almost    at Bishop’s Stortford   be quick! Yeah      quick won’t be problem I’ve     not     had sex in a      month. Really?      Really. Me either.
You could have though    Why? Because you said?     No I just that’s not what    I    meant   Don’t spoil it     Alright I    just I meant Ssssh Okay, he says and Fuck that’s good.

All mess walk back through Liverpool Street. He leads through the throng and the want is unspeakable but the tube rub of sweating from infinite people slowly nulls off his smell from my hair. Slung so close in the crush though I could bite his neck. I think to but don’t do. I’m watching you, he says like he knows and he does know, well. And although he’s too old for kissing on trains, he’s considering it. I see that on him and exacerbate by letting each jolt jab me in. Just relief then in the breeze at Kentish Town.

Fuck I’m fit to keel over, he says up the steps. Rubs at his shoulder and hall dumps my stuff. But lopes to the sitting room like he belongs. Oh hello! from the Missus. Quick kissing sound. Find him hugged across her ironing You are so happy now. Ah well, he concedes dropping onto the couch. Lighting up while I go fill a vase. As soon though, I grab him Time to unpack! No rest for the wicked, he laughs following back to my room.

There, reach and kiss. Hang on, he says opening my window to chuck his cigarette. Right, let’s have that again. Then kiss like the night is come. Bang but. Bang! Startle back to the world. Other side of the glass the flatmate lurks, faking camera snaps. One for the Sun, you nymphos, welcome back! Piss off! But he finds himself hilarious a while before going on inside. We really need to get you some curtains. In the meantime though he pulls over my duvet to spread just below. Then we lie on its dust and occasionally sneeze in the stripping and sex that ensues. For there’s hours of catching up. Hours of making new. So quiet remembering but noisy too, for even old dears there out on the walkway must understand how long a month can be.
And after, watch the light go down across my wall. Hear the Missus’s boyfriend come in. Stink of spliff and stewed spuds. When he goes for water hear the flatmate smirk Whatever can you two be up to in there??? Never you fucking mind, you nosey git. And sit we together. Pass a cigarette. You let your hair grow. He tugs at the back Didn’t get round to it. I like it like that. Then I’ll leave it, for now.

And the sleeping is great in my bed this night. Soft his eyelids. Holding hands, if we want. While I fall off. While I fall under. Into the

Glass she stirs in me.

Stirs into the water and what can she not see?

Fingertips too white to bleed.

Moving in last advance on breathing but moving all the same.

Where she hurts or galls. In the name of

What?

His whole length warm against me in the earliness that becomes Monday morning too soon.

Empty flat, only for us. Loll at the window studying buses, guessing what ages Blustons has seen. Hang those dresses for a hundred years. On the sofa, he flicks through the flatmate’s Stage that’s been circled, re-circled for telemarketing jobs but peace in the bright, bright sun. And this will be us for the next three months. Any minute I might go lay my head on his knee or ask if he fancies another tea. When I look round though he’s looking at me Going to tell me what happened to your leg? Turn back to a woman pushing a pram. Shopping maybe? Or towel rolled up for the baths? I’m not blind     why’ve you been doing that? Watch her walk on past the Owl bookshop but he waits for my answer so    I saw him again. Who? The man who. Where? In the street. He walked up to me, could walk up to me.
Kissed my mother on the cheek and Long time no see, she said. Then he kissed me    and took my hand and    I let him because he looked so innocent like    he’d forgotten and     maybe he had I was five so long ago. He said My God, look at her, she’s all grown up. A fine-looking girl, she does you credit. Never be as good-looking as her mother though, my mother laughed. Well now, he said I don’t want to cause a fight. But all this time still holding my hand, talking about his girls – when we were small, we were friends. Pop in if you’re ever passing, he said We’d all love to see ye again. Give them our best, my mother said and he said he would. He petted my face. Why did I let him? Like I couldn’t not. As he walked away my mother said Why are you always so offish? Who do you think you are? Lady Muck?

Behind me, in London, I hear him stand but does not cross or touch and he’s right. You never told her? No, what would I have said? When you gave me to him to take to the lambing shed, I did the first thing in my life I wished I could forget? He didn’t forget about it though, want to, or try. For months and years after with no patience for panic. Come here I want to show you this. Put out your hand and see what God gives you. Lifted up from the bed beside his daughters at night, knelt on the blue black tiles, convinced, as his wife lay snoring through the wall, that he was only wearing human skin for show. That house in the wilds so far from the world and being at the mercy of someone with none. What am I now because of him? How do I know what it’ll make me become? You don’t, he says You never can but you’re at no one’s mercy any more. It’s there though, isn’t it? I can’t see it but     can you? Should I make myself forgive him? I don’t think I can. Listen to me, he says You had to survive what he did all by yourself. You don’t have to forgive him as well. And that is enough. I don’t need more to make back to
the silence that served me so well before. Re-refuse the past. I will not have it here. Mouth or bed or in the air. I’ll show you what I see, he says Let’s go out today.

Ice creams in Trafalgar Square? Not the significant part, he explains. So lick and laugh at tourist pestering pigeons. Then the National Gallery, up the steps. Going to show me a picture? Yes. What? Guess. Rembrandt? No. Hieronymus Bosch? No through here    there. In the dark. Virgin with Infant. John the Baptist beside. It’s beautiful, I say. I knew you’d like it but     it’s the Angel makes it, don’t you think? The light of her. I look at him. And know this is the edge. The instant. The very last point before the fall. That it will come soon now I’m sure but when it does     what then?

Back to in and world of mine. Hello-ing. Scabbing a fag. Checking notices on the canteen wall. Shakespeare this term. Sunbathed bench coffee. Her showing up with a spanking new man. We nod but at almost ten it’s Acting class first thing.

Off into it so. Time rushing through days. Crucify lazy flesh. Defy lazy brain. And the much and much of delight, of make. Turning the body. Converting the self into flecks of form and re-form. Her. Into her. Into someone else. This one. Long for Juliet and get cast it. Jubilate back at his. Good for you, he says Gallop apace! Rehearse most nights and when it’s not my scene, craftily smoke in the study room, doing the back forth of speed running lines. Or sacking the costume rails for her perfect nightgown. Find the what that makes me she. Help the not far imaginative leap to touching lovers, windows, dawn. In all, I think, I might make her fine, but for the nicotine stains on my hand. Now oftener too with him these nights. So much he buys bowls and Weetabix. True, when he doesn’t call, me and
the flatmate smoke spliffs. He’s a certain of happiness though, far side of a month where my past had inveigled its foot. And succumb to the normal of finding him there, lounging in my kitchen, cooker sparking cigarette or telling me to Shove up the bed or mocking what the flatmate’s dragged in. So it just sits, that maw I’ve seen. Close to my tongue but kept silently like those still waters of his past that, whenever I dare ask, he presents as glass. He sees more than me though, or better because, when it’s at me, he does it rough and fucks the anger free. Complains only once after You split my lip. Takes my kissing it as kindness he doesn’t expect. And the feeling for each other is a much-changed subject. An always Right I better head, if I keep staying over I’ll never finish this script. But I know and know he must. It shows all over me and he tastes of it. He won’t say it though, being hindrance mad. That, occasionally, drives me astray in the head but then. But then. Life makes itself with little heed for the appropriate, whatever he thinks that might be.

And we are the week. We are Thursday night. He’s not here, so in – sloven stoned – with the flatmate. Smoking only I. Him, on all else, leaping about shouting Feats of strength! Trying out pull-ups on a curtain rail that gives and Shit! Snaps. Gangle and drops the spliff in my hair so I am Fuck fuck you set me on fire! Hopping. Him tackling me onto the floor to wallop with cushions until I scream Get off. Ingratitude! I saved your life. Plus my many split ends. Oh! I see! That’s how it is! Pinning me under. Tickling my legs. Both so locked to within an inch of our lives that neither hear the door, or the suffering Missus get. Just shrieking, clawing with hair going feral then – against the doorframe – him. Evening all. Hey! I say endeavouring quick exit from under the flatmate. What’s going on? Keeping her
warm for you mate. Ignore him, I He’s off his head. Yeah, he says through his cigarette, offering a hand I try to take but Flatmate impeding No way! No way! holding me down. Come on, get off her, he says, brooking no further games and, pulled up then, I wend into his arms. Nice to see you. Did you miss me? I ask. I did. How come you’re here? Just passing, saw the light. And when he sits down, I sit beside. Kiss some. Smoke his cigarette. Get a room, the flatmate yucks. Jealousy, jealousy. Nudging my toe into his roots but he grabs it and bites. Ow! Drags me back onto the floor bellowing Feats of the Warrior! Stop it! Ow! Help me! I yelp. Get off her, he says Come on you, let’s go to bed. I’m pretty fucking shattered. Old age, yawns the flatmate, settling his head on my knee. His eyes drifting down across the clump of Flatmate and me You must think I’m very evolved, get yourself off her. Flatmate laughs Fuck off, I was here first. He was, I join in laughing before seeing he does not. No you weren’t, he says kicking at him a bit. He’s an eejit, I say Leave him be. Leave him to what? Or do you want me to leave? Of course not. But the flatmate sprawls triumphantly I saved her life, she’s mine. So are you trying to get her into bed? What? You’re all over her, it’s a reasonable question. No, I say You know he’s not. I know he did, he says. Flatmate howling And she loved it! No I did not love it, shut up! But this opens something, a disarmed spot where his reticence might get caught and all the feeling for him in me can’t resist Besides, aren’t you always saying I should sleep with who I want? Not now, he says Let’s go to bed. Here though my spliff-loosed stitch knits sense. Admit you don’t want me to see anyone else. But he refuses the bait Why would I? You’re free to do whatever you want. Oh mate, Flatmate chokes That
is
evolved. And I get such a land from being hand-washed of that Then you won’t mind me
doing this – near dislocating a shoulder to kiss the flatmate’s lips. What do you want, a round of applause? he asks. I’m clapping, claps the flatmate. Mind your own fucking business, he says. The weed though making me cat and mouse so kiss the flatmate again. Alright, he stands up I’ve had enough. Fuck him, don’t fuck him, do whatever you want. Maybe I will, I say What do you care? Relents he, a little Just come to bed before you do something we’ll both regret. Only if I can bring him, I insist. Ho ho, roars the flatmate. Are you being serious? Yes. Don’t seem to remember you liking threesomes that much, he says. But stubborn shrugs I liked it well enough. So you up for that? he asks the flatmate. Yeah, it’s all good – and, apparently bombed clear of hero-worship, adds – Thought you’d be more up for it mate! You must get asked to join in all the time. Fine! he says, catching my wrist If that’s what you both fancy, then what’s it to me? Easy mate, Flatmate wavers I don’t think    No, you picked the wrong fucking man to play chicken with so it’s too late for ‘Easy mate’ now. And I’m dragged into the corridor. Shoved the length of it up. Him, all the while, calling Come on, you too ‘mate’. Then Come the fuck on I said.

Go on, get in. Bangs the bedroom door. Flings me around and I. I am stagger, confused. Struck with outrage and filled with     but. He is so angry. Worse than I’ve ever seen. Unbuttoning my top, losing patience then. Tears it. Throws it at the floor. Whoa mate, goes the flatmate. Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty before, bit of drama just adds to the fun so – unless you’re here to talk about your fucking feelings – it’s getting time for pants down mate. Unthumbing his own. Everything. What have I? Going wrong. Too late to dig heels against the moment’s momentum with Flatmate, all sheen-eyed unzipping his fly. Him, half-naked now, catching my eye Still sure about
this? And prodded perverse I insist I am! Okay, skirt off next and – don’t fret – I’ll help you work all the geometry out. Then pacing off to arbitrate What, not hard yet mate? Must be the drugs. Need a hand? Flatmate scares back Keep your hands to yourself! Well now, that’s a bit off. I don’t care, I’m not fucking gay. So it’s only her who gets fucked? That hardly seems fair but, I’m – obviously – a very understanding guy so if it’s that you’re feeling shy, you can kiss her first. When Flatmate still prevaricates he gets a shove Go on, get on with it. Yeah, I am, fuck off – taking up my face and kissing my mouth. Great start! he congratulates, slapping the wall Now let’s find out what she really wants. Me? Yes, just say the word and     Kiss him, I say
like the devil would.
He laughs but Flatmate goes No way! No way! I’m not fucking gay! Yeah yeah so you keep saying but – given what she’s about to share – it would be pretty fucking rude to refuse. No! Yes and, come on, be up for it. Then puts his mouth onto the flatmate’s, who squirms and wriggles until he admonishes Stop it, give her what she wants. And something in that makes the flatmate succumb, a while. While, like watching TV, I watch. Strange to my skin, him kissing someone else. Stranger to be on the outside, recreating its taste and. If it’s all just bodies I still only want his, so go wrap my arms round his waist. Lay my head against his back and, wait. Then, like long ago, feel him take my hand. Alright, he says You win. Get off, says the flatmate, from the wall where he’s pinned. He steps back But you’re pretty hard mate, best go ask yourself what that means. Go fuck yourself, poof! He just points to the door Out. With pleasure, Flatmate says – almost crying now – You two are fucking fucked.