Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 8

  It took me a while to work out the codes, because I'd trouble focusing on the directory. But I finally mastered it and tapped in the number. It was picked up on the fourth ring. Maybe the fifth. Sometimes you don't hear the first ring at the other end. Like it matters.

  'Trish?'

  'No.'

  A man's voice. A bloody man's voice. A bloody familiar man's voice.

  Forgive me, but love is blind and love is angry, and I'd forgotten the subtlety pills. 'You fucker,' I said.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'I'm going to fucking kill you, you fucker.'

  He cleared his throat.

  'You're fucking my fucking wife, and I'm going to kill you. You fucker.'

  'Is that you, Dan?'

  'Yes. You fuck.'

  'Dan, this is Patricia's father.'

  'Ah, hello, how are you?'

  'I'm fine.'

  'Is Patricia there?'

  'Not just now, no.'

  'Okay, well, could you tell her I called?'

  'Certainly.'

  'Fine. Thank you. I'm sorry. Good night.'

  I put the phone down, and thought about putting myself down. Briefly.

  I needed a drink. I didn't need a drink, but you know how it is. I took the lift down to the hotel bar, but it was too nice, all squeaky clean and cocktails. Jackie Campbell was in one corner, talking to the elderly reporter from the New York Irish News. A couple of tables up Geordie McClean sat with Stanley Matchitt; Stanley waved me over; I nodded and left. I needed a proper bar.

  I like New York away from the glitz. Dirty old Manhattan has an air of cultivated seediness which is hard to beat. I'd once brought Patricia here on a freebie holiday. I wanted her there again, wanted to hold her hand and walk down Broadway, marvel at the lights in Times Square, to get dizzy with her up inside the Statue of Liberty and get pissed in Chinatown. But she was at home contemplating a baby and a lover. Maybe her dad was round discussing it with her; if he'd ever been in my camp the chances were he was now picking up his pegs.

  I found an Irish bar on 44th Street. Big surprise. The only bars you can find in America are Irish, stage Irish at any rate. All shamrocks and Gaelic slogans; I wouldn't have set foot in one decked out like it at home, it would be like asking for a bullet, but then I suppose I was being a bit optimistic in holding out for a New York pub catering solely for British Unionist Loyalists with a healthy disregard for all living politicians. Mike's Bar was small, poky; there was an air of viciousness about it despite the fact that it was mostly empty. The toilet door could only be opened by means of a security buzzer behind the bar, which was a nice touch.

  I got the third drink into me, sitting on my stool, tapping my foot idly to the folk music blasting from the jukebox. Some things should be played at high volume, Irish folk music isn't one of them. I don't know who they were playing it for - it was gone midnight and the only customers were three elderly black guys and a middle-aged couple conversing animatedly in Spanish. The barman. was German, so it was hardly his choice of music. I took a look at the jukebox. In amongst the fiddlee-dee trash there were a couple of gems - Van singing 'Gloria' and U2's 'I Will Follow'. I slipped two quarters in and took my stool again - I'd to wait fifteen minutes and another drink for my selection to come round but then, ah, the opening strains of the Edge's guitar, ecstatically brash and then whoosh - from behind the bar the German turned the sound down to the barely audible.

  I tried complaining, but either his English wasn't that good or he was pretending not to understand or perhaps my Northern accent was drunk thick; it didn't matter. I slouched out of the bar and headed back up into Times Square.

  I stood mesmerized by the neon for five minutes until I started getting hassled by a couple of crackheads and moved on into 42nd Street. Here the rows of old cinemas and theatres had long been claimed by the sex shops. Patricia and I had giggled through them one cold December day - how many years before? Five, six? - bent double at the plastic and rubber, the magazines and videos, all honestly displayed like so many groceries. Even the little video booths at the back of the shops had America written all over them, little rooms where grown men masturbated over twenty-fivecent-a-minute videos: quick, clean, tasteless, fulfilling while they lasted but ultimately unsatisfying; the McDonald's of wank. Or so I'd heard.

  'Live sex show, sir?'

  I turned at the voice. An Indian. In a tux.

  'Is there a bar?'

  His brows furrowed.

  'Live sex show, sir?'

  I shrugged. Temptation. How long had it been since I'd seen a naked woman?

  I walked into the shop. Magazines. Videos. A lot of middle-aged men shuffling about trying to disguise the bulges in their trousers.

  At the back of the shop there was another Indian in another tux; he stood at the foot of some stairs; he wore a leather pouch round his waist.

  'Live show upstairs,' he said. 'Five dollars.'

  I took out some notes and dropped them. I picked them up and studied them. The printing seemed to be impossibly faint. I looked up at the Indian. He shook his head. I offered them up to him. He extracted a note. Maybe it was a five. Maybe it was a ten. It could have been a three. He handed me a small round token then stepped aside and I carefully mounted the stairs.

  A strong smell of disinfectant. Darkness. Too dark at first, then as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I could make out figures moving about in the glow of the faintest of creamy neon strips. I was standing in a long hall, with doors running up each side of it perhaps ten feet apart.

  'Are you interested in me, sir?'

  I turned, squinted. A tall girl, blonde hair, wearing a two-piece bathing suit, dark blue or black, stilettos. 'Uuuuuh. . .'

  Suddenly it didn't seem such a good idea.

  'Go into the room, sir ...' She smiled. Nice teeth. Brighter than the lights. She opened a door. More of a cupboard than a room. Four blank walls. Two foot square. Brightly lit. A telephone attached to one wall. She took my arm and led me in, then stepped back to the door. 'Put your token in the slot, sir,' she said, smiled, and closed the door behind her.

  The cupboard stank of cleaning fluid, if that isn't a contradiction in terms. I suddenly felt claustrophobic and reached for the door again, opened it and stepped out. The girl was just entering the next cupboard. She stopped.

  'Is everything okay, sir?'

  I nodded.

  'You're sure?'

  I nodded and held up the token. 'In the slot?'

  'Yes, sir, in the slot.'

  I nodded again and backed into the cupboard. I shook my head.

  I closed the door and rested my head against the far wall for a moment. Either it was sticky or I was. I took a deep breath. The spins, the horrible, killer bokey spins wouldn't be long in coming now, the promise to give up the drink to follow. The hollow man emptied of sick, emptied of spirit. Blame it on Patricia, blame it on women, blame it on ...

  I put the token in the slot and the wall to my left slowly rose.

  The girl stood in front of me. Still smiling. Her room was much the same, but for a wooden bench behind her. She lifted her phone and indicated that I should lift mine.

  I lifted the receiver. 'Is that the Samaritans?' I asked. Her brows furrowed. 'Sir?' I shook my head.

  'Hi,' I said.

  'Hi.' Accent - New York; quite cultivated really. 'What's your name?'

  'Lauren.'

  'How old are you, Lauren?'

  'Twenty-one.'

  She was beautiful. Her hair was clearly dyed. She had on a little too much make-up. She had the sallowness you get with working under fluorescent lights for too long. But she was beautiful. She took her top off.

  Even mad drunk, a topless stranger is bizarre. I looked at her face for as long as I could, then looked at her breasts. They were large. They had to be, really, in this business. Larger than Patricia's. Fleshy. Soft, Jaffa Cake nipples. 'Would you like to see some more?' I nodded.

  'It's normal to give a girl a tip.' I no
dded.

  'Would you like to see some more, sir?' I nodded some more. 'It's normal to give a girl a tip.'

  'Don't sleep in the subway.'

  'Sir?'

  'How much?'

  She shrugged. Her breasts wobbled. Her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes coolly evaluated me. Blue eyes, slowly taking in the sophisticated international reporter doing his research.

  'Five dollars.'

  Yeah, well.

  I took the money from my pocket and showed it to her.

  'Just wait there, sir, I'll come and get it.' She had her top clipped back on and was out of her room and into mine in a couple of seconds. I gave her the money. She grasped it deftly, taking care not to touch me. In another couple of seconds she was back in front of me, phone in hand, bikini top on the floor, still smiling. Then she slipped down her briefs. She'd shaved her pubic hair. She swivelled on her heels, bent to retrieve her costume, then walked to the bench, turned, sat down and spread her legs.

  She was beautiful and she'd bright, keen eyes, but looking at her there, bent uncomfortably back on the bench, she was as erotic as a bucket of cod. She wasn't Patricia, she wasn't a Patricia substitute, she was a body, just a body, without spirit, without love or romance, just an exposed body with a pale valley of flesh, a penis fly trap, glowering at me in the harsh light.

  I shook my head.

  'Is anything wrong, sir?'

  'No.'

  'Don't you want to touch yourself ?'

  'No. I'm sorry.'

  Her smile widened. 'No need to be sorry.'

  'Yeah, well.'

  'You still have two minutes left. Is there anything you want me to do?'

  'Put your clothes on.'

  She didn't take much persuasion. She was ready for the beach in seconds.

  'Are you on vacation?' I nodded. 'Sort of.'

  'Where are you from?'

  'Ireland. No. Sorry. That's too much of a simplification. The United Kingdom. No. Sorry. Northern Ireland. The six counties of Ireland that will always be British.'

  She nodded in a detached kind of way. The smile slipped a little. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm not a nut. I'm just a bit drunk. I miss my wife.'

  'A lot of men who come here do. Miss their wives. Hate their wives. All sorts.'

  'Does it not put you off men completely, all this?'

  'It puts me off the sort of men who would come here.'

  'That's understandable.'

  We stood looking at each other uncomfortably for a moment. I felt foolish and sober. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'It's not you. You're very attractive.'

  'It doesn't matter. It's your money.'

  'I know it is. But I don't want you to think. ..' I shook my head. 'This must sound pretty pathetic.'

  She shook her head and smiled. Her eyes darted to the wall above her. Doubtless a clock, telling her to hurry her client towards climax.

  'I don't suppose I could persuade you to go for a drink?'

  She shook her head and smiled.

  'You must get asked out all the time.'

  She shook her head and smiled.

  'Latvia is one of the most interesting of the Baltic States.'

  She shook her head and smiled. Not even listening. Of course. Who would?

  I didn't know how to leave. Whether just to walk straight out. Wave goodbye. Apologize again. Wish her all the best. Offer her tickets for the fight. In the end my mind was made up for me. The wall slid silently down and the light in my little room blinked suddenly brighter.

  I opened the door and walked into the gloom. Her door remained resolutely closed. She would remain there until the weirdo was safely gone. I shook my head. Maybe I had made a fool of lip but not as big a fool as someone who would have masturbated in front of her. And I'd proved a point: that it wasn't just sex with Patricia that I was missing; it was her spirit and her love. A silly, obvious point, perhaps, but one that made perfect sense, to a drunk seeking self-justification for staring between the spread legs of a beautiful woman for ten dollars.

  At the top of the stairs I paused for a moment, steadied myself against the rail and then made a resolution: one more drink, then sleep, and a new, sober beginning tomorrow and a heart-on-sleeve phone call to Patricia, promising anything.

  12

  Many studies have been made of time travel. Well, actually, not that many, but certainly some. Three or four, maybe. Equally, many studies have been made of how to travel great distances in the minimum of time. Probably it amounts to the same thing. I know nothing about physics. I don't even know if it concerns physics. Let me put it another way: how the bloody hell does that transporter on Star Trek work?

  What scientists (physicists?) have always failed to take into account in their otherwise learned studies is the importance of alcohol to time travel and geographical displacement. Even a fledgling drunk will appreciate the important role alcohol plays in covering great distances and squeezing long hours into seconds. A drunk can move effortlessly from one place to another: he may not know how, he can remember leaving, he can remember arriving, but has no knowledge of what went on in between, but that is scarcely important. He can find his way from one place to another through a maze that would confound the most intrepid explorer, and he can do it while shuffling along like a crab and vomiting at every intersection. It is a wonder of science, and one which too few people appreciate.

  I was able to ponder all this, although not for the first time, as I lay in the double bed, torn between worshipping the giant-sized poster of Debbie Harry on one wall and investigating the blonde lying beside me. Of course one of them was more accessible and, doubtless, younger, but ultimately more troublesome. Usually it is best not to enquire, but to slip away and figure out what you can later, or, best of all, leave it mysterious. What you don't know can't hurt you, unless it turns out to be a distressing sexual disease.

  I decided this was the best course of action. Beat a retreat. Thin curtains allowed a little light into the room: a double bed, dusty mirror, dressing table with a minimum of womanly sprays and ointments, hand basin, air conditioner, large TV, video, big ghetto blaster, clothes piled everywhere. I slipped from the bed. I only had on my underpants. I had charmed someone and she wasn't a thousand miles away.

  Lauren. The stripper. Her back was to me, her long hair dishevelled on the pillow beside her. Bare shoulders, strap of something showing on her upper arm. Two or three colour snaps of her with young kids, presumably relatives of some description, were taped to the bottom corner of the mirror. She looked younger, fresher, than I vaguely remembered.

  Clothes may have been everywhere, but none of them were mine. Doubtless they had been ripped off in a frenzy in another room. I stepped quietly to the door and opened it: I peered out into a bright hallway. I blinked for a second in the light and then checked the time - two hairs past a freckle, as they say. The watch had gone in the heat of passion as well. But the hall wasn't a hall, it was a corridor, and the rooms off it weren't another part of Lauren's home, but appeared to be studio apartments. I cursed silently. It meant the chances of my making a clean getaway were much reduced. I would have to go poking through her gear for my clothes, and the chances of doing that without waking her seemed remote.

  Extremely remote, in fact, as she was sitting up in bed when I closed the door.

  I smiled and said good morning. Sort of smiled. My lip hurt, felt thick, and my voice sounded like it had been dragged screaming through a mangle.

  Lauren smiled back. It was a more human smile than I remembered. Perhaps I had humanized her. Clawed her back from the sordid underbelly. For all the summer's-pond serenity of her face she might well have breathed through little gills hidden beneath her flowing locks.

  'That'll hurt some,' she said as I fingered my lip.

  'That must have been some lovemaking,' I said, and tried not to sound too impressed with myself.

  'Excuse me?' she said, only half a smile now. 'Uh. My lip.'

  She nodded slightly. 'How do you
feel?'

  Hung over? Gloriously fulfilled? In love? Guilty? Frightened?

  Macho? Unfaithful? Vengeful? It was too much to contemplate. 'Uh. Okay.'

  'You look awful.'

  I nodded. Par for the course. 'Someone once said I looked a bit like James Stewart in black and white.'

  'I never saw Black and White. Who else was in it?'

  'Nah, I... Listen, no disrespect, like, but did you bite my lip?'

  'You don't remember?'

  I shook my head. 'Sorry. I'm sure it was wonderful, but I seem . . .'

  'You don't remember falling down the stairs?'

  'What stairs? Here?'

  'No. At the club. You remember me in the booth?'

  'Yes. Of course.' I felt my face redden. Suddenly I was thirteen again peering at my first naked woman in a dirty magazine, and being caught in the act. I felt the need for protection. 'Are my clothes about?'

  She shook her head ruefully. 'You really don't remember, do you?'

  I shook mine too. 'You poor man.'

  'Uh...'

  'You were my last trick of the night. When I came out of the club you were lying face down on the footpath. You'd fallen down the stairs drunk, and then the bouncers threw you out. There was a crowd of jackals round you. A cop chased them off and for whatever reason I laid claim to you and walked you back here until you could sober up. Remember?'

  'No. Sorry.'

  'You weren't wearing much more than you have on now.'

  'Jesus. My wallet.'

  'Your trousers.'

  'My shoes.'

  'Your socks.'

  'Jesus. I could have been killed.'

  'You very nearly were.'

  'Jesus. I don't believe they took my shoes.'

  'Shoes are a valuable commodity.'

  'I don't believe they took my socks.'

  'Socks are a valuable commodity too.'

  'Thank God they didn't take my underpants.'