With a mixture of awe and regret Howard watched
Greg leave Bates Wine Bar with the girls he
had targeted. He took a cab back to Napoleon
Terrace with Gallie and Karen. In the moonless
dark he staggered towards the front door, key
in hand. A hideous squeal erupted at his feet.
He fell backwards in shock. Something ghostly,
barely a shadow, darted away.
'You trod on Moggie Macabre!' gasped Gallie,
her voice filled with concern.
Howard presumed her pity was for the cat: she
instinctively cared emotionally for that sinister
and loathsome creature of gloom. He was just
some idiot lame on the ground. He was just some
idiot that trod on cats and was frightened by
them. The fall twisted his bad leg. Yet the
cat got her sympathy.
'Ohhhh Howie, are you alright?' asked Gallie.
Now she was concerned for
him.
He was an afterthought! Refusing a helping hand
despite the jarring pain, he scrambled to his
feet and staggered into the house. He felt pathetic.
Even
cats conspired to humiliate him.
***
*****
***
For a day he sulked and avoided company. Terrible
thoughts seared his mind. His mood quietened
the following morning. As he reached the base
of the stairs, Gallie emerged from the bathroom
with a short towel wrapped around her. He ogled
her with frustrated lust. Distracted, his toe
punted something. Near the blue front door lay
a package wrapped in beige paper. It was addressed
to him in Granny Grail's scratchy handwriting.
'It's here!'
Having examined the exterior of the package
and gauged its weight he ripped away the wrapping
to unveil a cardboard box within. He prised
it open. Odours of decay besieged his nostrils
triggering alarming childhood memories of Granny
Grail. When he had misbehaved his father routinely
threatened him with placement under the custody
of the petrifying crone. Looking back he suspected
his father took sadistic pleasure from his torment
and he hated him for it. Even now Granny Grail
screeched like a banshee in his most heinous
nightmares.
From the box he extracted a small glass vial
containing a red liquid and a note.
"
Three drops with hot black tea. A wench
hither shall be under the rule of heart fire
and shalt fall for thee, even die if it please
thee. Use at own peril my child."
Howard smiled grimly. He would banish all thoughts
of Jacintha from his mind. Why should he be
dragged down with wretched guilt? He was supposed
to be enjoying himself. After all, he had oft
been told that his student days would be the
happiest of his life. If so, he feared for the
rest of it. He wanted was to succeed for once.
He wanted to experience sex for once. He would
make Gallie blissful and she would make him
blissful in return. Now he could succeed in
his seduction at last! Gingerly he lifted the
stopper from the vial and inhaled the scarlet
elixir. It was
foul. There was no time
to lose. He boiled a saucepan of water and made
a cup of black tea as instructed by the scripture
of his grandmother. Impatience seized him. He
intended to double Granny Grail's stated dose.
The stopper slipped in his fingers. The red
liquid that escaped into his tea was more aptly
measured by splashes than drips. The vial was
half emptied. With a small, determined smile
he sipped at the tea. It was rank. He held his
nose and forced down the brew. He retched. The
nausea lifted but half an hour and two cups
of normal tea failed to shift the fetid aftertaste.
He twisted his twist his mouth downwards.
Karen entered the kitchen. She looked suspicious.
Howard thought it would be amusing to see if
she fell in love with him. It would be a useful
test of the potion. And it might even mean sex
before his conquest of Gallie! Karen
complained about the disgusting state of the
kitchen and how she detested cleaning up after
everyone. He nodded and gave the impression
he was listening but the whole time he was studying
her reaction. Nothing unusual was forthcoming.
He followed her into the lounge. She switched
on the television. To all appearances she was
indifferent to him. She did not behave like
one that, according to Granny Grail's note,
felt "
heart fire". Having wagered
his hopes that the potion would grant him power
over women, he conjectured that Karen had a
rare immunity.
As tentatively as a mouse, Gallie crept into
the lounge. She was clad in a snug cream jumper
and black cotton bottoms. Karen burst into fevered
conversation. He watched Gallie listen attentively
once again to Karen's obsessions. His heart
raced, blood warmed his face. He watched her
frown at a television advertisement for a low-calorie
breakfast cereal called
Special C. It
featured a waif in a crimson bikini flailing
her stick-like arms around a tanned lover on
a tropical beach. It then showed her tucking
into a bowl of Special C cereal garnished with
strawberries as ripe as she. She seemed as excited
with this feast of breakfast cereal as a medieval
knight might when handed an entire roasted chicken
at a post-battle feast. Gallie's face clouded.
'I
hate that advert! I'll never look
like
that. When I weigh myself I have
to set the red line on the scales to a few pounds
below zero to make me lighter.'
'It's not working, you look pudgy! And old too!'
laughed Karen.
'I'm old and fat,' bemoaned Gallie.
'That is absurd!' protested Howard. He thought
her curvaceous, not fat, and as for
old,
she was nineteen!
Karen spoke at length about her own figure.
Then she frowned attentively.
'So, like, have you
always been really
overweight?'
Gallie did not appear to enjoy Karen's putdowns
nearly as much as she enjoyed putting herself
down.
'Everybody lies about their age and their weight,'
interjected Howard. 'They massage the figures
and cook the books. But ultimately, and I'm
not talking about you here Gallie, it's all
bullshit. If you imagine an eighty year-old
hag the size of a hot air balloon, it doesn't
matter how many lies she tells you. She might
tell you she's eighteen and gorgeous, but she
is still a fat old bag. She's not going to become
gorgeous just by telling tall stories. You don't
taste lamb when you're chewing mutton no matter
how many times you call it lamb.'
'Yeah, I'm not vain anyway,' said Gallie uncertainly.
Howard pointed at her head.
'Oh look! That's a grey hair! I'd get it dyed
if I were you.'
For a moment Gallie visibly panicked.
'We women
have to be vain about our appearance,'
insisted Karen, 'because that is literally how
men judge us! Women like a sense of humour in
men actually whereas Men only appreciate our
tits. It goes to show at least we women, like,
use our brains when choosing a partner, actually.
Never more so than when choosing a tall, tall,
chiselled chested, handsome, hunky
dish.
With a whopper in his shorts. And loads of dosh.
At the end of the day men are so, like, shallow,
one-track-mind oafs!'
'You women are lucky. You can always find a
guy willing to have sex with you,' said Howard.
'That's not true! If you are rich we will fuck
you even if you're ugly,' said Karen.
'And fleece us and leave us. That's market forces
in a whore economy.'
'Fuck you!'
The inane theme tune to
Friendly Neighbours
rang out from the tinny television speaker.
The girls braced themselves for the resolution
of the cliffhanger about Bouncy the dog who
was thought buried by one of the snarling villains.
The theme tune drove Howard mad - they even
played it at the sudent discos - there was no
escaping its cheesy fatuousness. His mind snapped
back to the matter of the putative love potion.
He had swallowed the stuff nearly an hour ago
yet the girls weren't exactly fighting over
him. They were acting no differently from usual.
It should have worked by now. He furrowed his
brow. His jaw tightened. There was one thing
for it. He would drive to Granny Grail's and
persuade her fix it!
He felt a pang of pain within his chest. He'd
not suffered chest pains before. The girls were
oblivious to his discomfort. Feeling unwanted
he quietly left the room. Rubbing his chest
plate tentatively, he climbed into his Maxi
and drove off down to the end of Napoleon Terrace
and, with a brief high pitched screech from
the fan belt, turned onto the Chillington Road.
He would do whatever it took to make Gallie
his devoted possession.
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