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  Pony-tail seems to have realized what he has to do. He takes his cock in his hand, squeezing the shaft with his four fingers and stroking his thumb along the head, as if he’s working a computer joystick with a fire-button on the end. I start cackling with laughter. I didn’t realize they did that.

  He doesn’t look at me. The knife gleams, still just a few centimetres from the organ, like a pure sliver of white light. My mouth is dry with anticipation, my eyes hurt because I don’t dare blink.

  ‘Keep going,’ I tell Pony-tail. ‘If you don’t finish, I bobbit you.’

  I remember hearing from Damien that the more you think about how difficult it is, the trickier it becomes.

  Pony-tail is tugging hard, his hand a blur. I’d never realized quite how fast men could go on their own. I’m holding my breath, my hand tight and sweaty on the handle of my knife.

  I can almost feel JJ’s bright, wide eyes drilling into me, horrified with me. Damien, though, seems to be enjoying the spectacle, chuckling away to himself and occasionally twisting Pardoner’s fingers back, just for the hell of it. Yeah, good stuff. I’m glad I left Damien in charge of Pardoner, because JJ wouldn’t keep the prisoner in check. I can rely on JJ for swift, righteous anger like the kind that felled Pony-tail, but he’d never stoop to gratuitous violence, and it’s what’s needed at the moment. A bit of stooping. A bit of careful, applied sadism, which Damien can do quite cheerfully.

  Pony-tail gasps. He arches his back, slips, falls on to one hand as his cock erupts. One! Two! Three! The spurts of semen spatter his hand and wrist and dribble down to his trousers. He curls up, not daring to look at me, clutching his groin with one hand and his face with the other.

  ‘There,’ I say softly. ‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ The feeling of power is absolutely magical, coursing through me like sex. Like I’ve just turned the tables and raped him.

  I stand up, snick the knife shut again and shove it back into the pocket of my blouse.

  I push my hair back, wink at JJ, and signal to Damien to let Pardoner go.

  ‘All right, leave them now. They’re not worth shit.’

  Behind me, Pardoner coughs and splutters as Damien releases him, and starts to crawl through the piss, looking for something to lever himself up. Pony-tail is breathing heavily, clutching with a sticky hand at the gash my ring’s made on his forehead.

  I suddenly realize I am desperate to go to the loo.

  ‘Can you get them out?’ I ask JJ.

  *

  As I emerge, drained, from the cubicle, a man staggers in, unzips and aims at the urinal just in time. He throws back his head, his eyes closed in ecstasy. He realizes that he’s not alone, but he’s too drunk to realize I don’t share the same kind of genitals as him.

  ‘My God, ’s bedder. Farkin’ bedder, innit mate?’

  He emits a seemingly unending stream of dark golden piss, his back arching in pleasure, and for some reason he feels the need to share the joy of the micturition with me.

  ‘Jeee-sus H. Like a farkin’ tap.’

  I frown, wrinkle my nose, and slip towards the door, trying not to look in his direction at all. But some fascination makes me linger at the door.

  He finishes his piss with an orgasmic burst that sends the floating fag-ends spinning. He cheers with delight and staggers back out, seemingly blind to me, his cock still hanging limply from his unzipped fly.

  I imagine he’ll stick a beer-bottle on the end of the flapping organ as he and his comrades roll home along the shingle, calling out impossibilities to the girls. He might have some fish and chips, which to me smell uncomfortably like the dripping Gents.

  Then, I suppose, he will vomit an acid, lumpy soup on to his doorstep, or another’s, before passing into a fitful sleep on the sofa, and at noon he’ll emerge from sleep with the sunlight spearing his eyes and his mouth ashy and reeking.

  *

  In the Ladies, I fill the basin again and again with red, then pink, then pinkish water. It stings my face with a snowy chill. The sharp pain in my mouth dulls and fades.

  Girls come and go, laughing and gossiping, pissing and flushing, ignoring me. Maybe this is an everyday occurrence.

  I peer into the mirror, having a close look at my chipped front tooth. It could be a lot worse. But I look like a street orphan with my bloodstained top and skimpy knickers. Time to do something about my clothes.

  Imelda strolls in, dragging hard on her black roll-up. She collapses into laughter, while I stand there and coolly try to quell her with my gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually, her grin bright white in her brown face. ‘It’s just, well, terribly funny in a way.’

  ‘So I’m the cabaret now, am I?’

  Imelda pulls her jacket off and throws it at me. ‘Haven’t seen a fight that good in years. Jolly good stuff, girl. You gave it to them straight.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ I shrug. ‘They deserved it.’ I rip off the bloody remains of my blouse and pull on her heavy suede jacket over my bra. It’s going to be hot, but I’m grateful for it. I look up at her, see her pivoting on one heel and grinning like a schoolgirl. Yeah, right, enjoy it, ’cos it’s all you’re going to get. Somehow, I manage to mumble, ‘Thanks,’ to her.

  ‘No problem.’ She smiles, leans back against the washbasins. She’s wearing a black cotton top, sleeveless. It shows that she’s got very little up top, but smooth, brown arms, muscular but still feminine. ‘So, can I always expect this level of entertainment when I come out with you and my darling nephew?’

  ‘Only on days with a y in.’

  Imelda grins, nods at me. ‘Nice legs. Shall we go?’

  I feel my face suddenly reddening, aware of my huge expanse of leg beneath the suede coat.

  ‘Right, then.’ I stalk over to the door, without looking at Imelda, but I can hear her chuckling behind me.

  *

  I’m glad JJ chose to be with us tonight. I couldn’t really fathom why he would want to go to a gay club with Imelda, until he told me and Damien the other night, in our dining-room, about his interesting little fantasy.

  He has a far-away look in his eyes as he contemplates the world in Kate’s smoked-glass fruit bowl, running his finger round the edge.

  ‘I’ve always wanted,’ he says, ‘to be able to borrow a woman’s body for a few days. Just to know what it’s like.’

  ‘Yeah? What would you do? Apart from making sure it wasn’t a period week. That goes without saying.’

  JJ does that endearing little frown again, the one that’s halfway between disapproval and incomprehension.

  Damien sniggers. ‘Know my mate Tom? He was in Russia for a year. They use slices of bread for sanitary towels there.’ Damien never misses an opportunity to bring up bodily secretions as a topic of conversation. I think he feels that it’s going to shock me or something, and he is always rather taken aback to find that I can talk about snot, earwax and thrush as happily as he can. ‘I wondered what they did with the bread afterwards. Fry it up for breakfast, that’s what I’d do. Nice with a bit of bacon and kidney. Like black pudding.’

  ‘Only crunchier,’ I agree.

  I have a mental picture of this catching on as a delicacy, dark red slices of toast being consumed all round the world. I wonder if I should tell Damien that it’s actually a thick soup of blood, mucus, uterus lining . . . But that’s by the way.

  JJ is studiously ignoring us. ‘I’d wear the body round the house for a bit,’ he says. ‘Try on various clothes and things.’

  ‘TV JJ. Always fucking suspected it!’ Damien is crowing, leaning back in his chair and flicking a limp wrist at JJ in ignorant delight.

  ‘What would you do, then, darling? And ignore him.’ I lean forward, smiling expectantly, resting my chin in my hands.

  ‘I’d wear something really tarty, you know, just to see what it was like. Tight skirt, fishnet stockings.’

  ‘Tawdry!’ I’m delighted. ‘I love it. You’re a cheap little whore at heart. Tell me what you�
�d do.’

  ‘I’d go out to all sort of clubs. I wouldn’t care what I did with the body ’cos it wouldn’t be mine.’ He smiles, shyly, but looks uncomfortably at the sniggering Damien. ‘Does he have to be here?’

  ‘Nature said the same thing, my love, but she let him live. Go on.’

  ‘I’d . . . drink. Loads. Try new drugs. Get used to what the body could and couldn’t take.’ He leans forward, his face flushed now, his eyes bright. He’s gazing into his own mind and seems to be forgetting the dining-room. That’s good. ‘I’d flirt. Lead men on for fun, see what happened.’

  Damien whistles softly, shaking his head.

  ‘Well?’ I snarl, feeling supportive. ‘He wants to know how we think. He wants to know how we operate!’

  ‘And I’d go for girls. For variety. Get a reputation, maybe. When the owner got her body back she wouldn’t have any idea . . .’ He’s grinning broadly.

  ‘You’d have to clean it up,’ Damien says with a smirk, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘What?’ JJ breaks out of his rapture, jerks his head towards Damien as if noticing him for the first time.

  ‘Y’know, like giving a house back to a landlord. Hoover all the carpets, clean the bog out.’ He does a big, deep laugh, which turns into a phlegm-sodden cough.

  ‘Scrub behind the fridge,’ I agree, leaning back. ‘Hate to admit it, my love, but New Neanderthal here has a point. You don’t give a rented car back with mud on the fenders and crumbs on the seat.’

  *

  I wonder if it was my body he was thinking of.

  *

  There is something in the air tonight, it shines so bright.

  It feels good, having smashed those fuckers in their home ground. So I’ve got a broken lip and a chipped tooth, so what? I’m having fun.

  Something in the air. I need more.

  I think –

  – and, as the last-orders bell chimes in the caverns of my brain, the thought surfaces, frantically kicking and spluttering –

  I think I need to kill.

  Chapter Twelve – Definitely Possibly

  Eleven-twenty.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Come on, one more!’

  Claps and cheers resound along the sea front. Damien and Imelda are applauding JJ as he trots along the car roofs in Southgate Street, parallel to the beach. It’s where all the pubbers and clubbers park, and it’s lined with cars from one end to the other. All the cars look purple or white under the street lamps.

  The game is simple. Damien’s collected a bag of empty bottles and cans, and he runs on ahead and sets up the roofs – on each car roof an empty beer bottle with a can perched on it. (The cans are meant to be empty, but some of them aren’t.) The player can’t touch the ground, and he has to jump from one car to the next, kicking the can off and leaving the bottle. JJ’s managed about one in six, so Marcie and I are following behind at a stagger, kicking our way through shards of brown glass.

  He kicks with power. A can whizzes across the street in an arc of beer. It hits the window of an insurance company and kicks a wild alarm into action. JJ thumps the air, Damien claps and cheers, and now Imelda, her face showing concern for the first time, looks over her shoulder at me and Marcie.

  ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to go. Really. I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I don’t know if I want her to, any more.

  ‘Yes, just –’ She shudders slightly. ‘Look after him. Get him home.’

  ‘Do you want –?’ I tug at the suede coat.

  ‘Keep it, Bel. I’ve got dozens.’ She backs down the street, heading for the sea front and the taxis, waving until she’s out of sight.

  ‘Yes! And – he – scores!’ JJ kicks another can, and leaps on to the bonnet of a Vauxhall Astra. I can see him judging the gap between it and the boot of the car in front. It’s a Rover coupé, one of the few cars I know straight away, because my dad used to have one. JJ’s on the spoiler, wobbling. Somehow, he makes it, but he’s not very graceful, and, forgetting that he’s not on the roof yet, his foot goes right through the Rover’s back window. The glass erupts into small squares, tinkling, hitting the ground like a frozen waterfall.

  I’m gratified that Damien chokes back his cheer and gives a sort of stifled giggle. I always enjoy seeing Damien taken aback.

  So I’m showing him, running forward to catch JJ by the shoulders as he tumbles and falls among the cubes of glass. I give a great whoop of delight. There’s something I really like about breaking a window; it’s like trampling fresh snow. ‘Yeah! Way to go, my love.’

  JJ’s looking up and down the street, wild-eyed, as I help him up. Marcie, not quite sure what’s going on, swigs from her can and slumps into Damien.

  ‘Let’s take this one,’ I hear myself saying, suddenly.

  They’re all silent, looking at each other. The alarm is still whooping in the insurance office down the road.

  ‘Well, come on! No one’s going to want it now. Are we going up to Ashwell or what?’

  ‘We were,’ JJ says uncertainly, with a hand on my shoulder. ‘It seemed like a good idea after . . . two drinks.’ He giggles nervously, and I hear it frothing up his nose.

  ‘Jesus. You’re all so fucking boring. Come on.’ With one swift move, and not caring much for injury any more, I’m in the back window and flopping on to the warm leather seat. I swivel my legs, keeping my dignity, and unlock the doors for them.

  *

  Midnight – not at the oasis, but on the road. We’ve got the best ever car ventilation system on this warm night, otherwise known as a missing back window.

  I’m taking it really slow for the moment, and I’ve driven us on the back route up to Ashwell Heights, avoiding the main road. There’s no point getting pulled over now, ending our fun. And I don’t especially want to smash into pedestrians – it would cause a hell of a lot of hassle.

  There it is, up ahead, the pyramid-shaped roofs silhouetted against the night sky.

  Damien’s in the front with me, smoking constantly, a broad, stupid grin fixed on his face. JJ’s behind me, biting his nails, tousling his hair. I wish he’d stop doing that. He looks rodentish.

  Marcie lolls from side to side, her mouth and eyes propped open by invisible beams. That grown-up woman’s dress and superficial demeanour didn’t really count for much in the end, because she always reverts to type after three Martinis and whatever she had in the Ladies. Imelda, I know, was coked up to the eyeballs – not unusual, according to JJ – but in her case it seemed to have brought on a crashing reality-attack, also known as sudden departure of bottle. Good, in a way.

  A couple of fires are flickering in the scrubland beyond the car park. Otherwise, it’s all dark. I’ve taken the car down to a crawl, just twenty miles an hour. I feel bright, alert, in control, adrenalin coursing through me. The night helps – it’s as if the landscape has been sectioned off so that there are only primal elements. Darkness. Fire. Earth.

  I bring the car into the deserted car park. We drive right up to the doors, passing the shuttered kiosks, the neon-lit petrol station. My heart thumps for a moment, but the shop and counter are dark and uninhabited. I grin across my face, so hard that it aches.

  ‘Hold on, children,’ I tell them.

  I slam the car into reverse and take us back – five, ten, fifteen metres across the car park.

  ‘Take it steady, Bel,’ JJ says. I think he’s just realized what I’m about to do, and I’m galvanized into action by the terrified thought that he might be about to get out of the car.

  I can feel the power building up under the pedals. I’m torturing this Rover, making it do what I want. You always forget how much power there is in a car. You always forget the way it takes over and sends throb throb throb through your body and sends your feet quiver-shivering on the pedals. I can feel it straining at the leash. Up ahead, the lights glow bright in the glass surface of the precinct wall.

  Marcie lifts her head, whimpers.

  JJ has his hand on my
shoulder. I’m angry. He’s trying to stop me. Trying to make me do it his way.

  ‘Bel,’ JJ ventures. ‘I think you should let someone else drive.’

  Well, he seems to have sobered up quickly.

  I give him a grin in the rear-view mirror, then I release the clutch. ‘No way, darling.’

  We hurtle across the car park. The orbs of my own lights zoom towards me. I grit my teeth and take the car right through.

  The crash, the fragmentation of the boundary, lasts a mere millisecond – and then it’s a gateway. Smooth.

  Almost like passing through water. You’d think the glass would be strengthened, but it billows around the car as if it was intended to let us through. I feel the impact, and it slews the car off track, but I rectify that.

  We’re turning, fast, on a slippery surface now, fake marble. Purple night-lights bathe us – I glimpse Marcie’s face, hollow-eyed with terror, in the rear-view mirror – as we scrape up against a giant bowl brimming with foliage. I slam into reverse and pull the car clear with a grind and a choking burst of fumes.

  Glass walls and balconies rise on either side of us, like the tombs of consumerism. There is a chilly silence.

  ‘Good car,’ says Damien.

  He’s right, of course, and I know what he’s thinking of. His mind’s on looting, and he means it’s got a good solid bumper and some power behind it.

  ‘It’s just for getting around.’ I turn to him, keeping my face hard and expressionless.

  Damien just snorts with laughter and lights a new cigarette.

  ‘I mean it, Damien!’

  I’m not quite sure if JJ, in his innocence, is aware that Damien’s serious about coming here, if he knows, or has worked out, about his taste for raiding expensive items. No, I wouldn’t put it past JJ not to have noticed it at all. He’s more concerned with building Meccano sculptures to look right up the cunts of the girls who walk above his grating.

  ‘Look,’ I say to Damien, keeping my voice level. ‘We start nicking stuff, we draw attention to ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he sneers. ‘And a fucking great hole in the side of the building’s pretty inconspicuous.’