To kill time on a grey afternoon, Howard sipped stale
coffee at the Student Union Bar. The Eskimo had beaten
his high score at the
Death From Above arcade
game. Meanwhile his own mastery of the game had disintegrated.
He could not concentrate when his mind swarmed with
thoughts of how he had murdered his own grandmother.
Such reflections inspired feelings of guilt for his
role in Jacintha's suicide attempt. Analysis and self-blame
orbited endlessly. He neglected all course work, lectures,
lab work and tutorial sessions. Each day he begged Greg
for cannabis. The weed was not as fine as Granny Grail's.
He heard Greg's loud and angrily laments echo in his
mind.
'For
Sodom's sake! You only went and frigging
killed my best dealer you fucking dozy twat!'
Howard's paranoia intensified. As he invested in weed
his bank overdraft accelerated. The red numbers were
unpleasant but he regarded them, like death, as a faraway
and abstract problem for some unnamed year. The overdraft
extensions accumulated and the withdrawals ticked away
like the beats of a diseased heart.
The last he had heard was that Jacintha was still "unstable"
in hospital. His gut instinct was to stay away from the hospital and try to
shrug off past and future events as blind fate. Only by invoking fate could
he try to absolve himself of the hurting guilt. But his conscience was not
relieved.
After a few hours of introspection, Howard saw Steve slouch
into the bar, buy a pint of coke and sit at a table reading a magazine. Howard
nervously approached Steve's table. In an unfriendly voice he called Steve's
name. Steve shuddered with alarm. He leaned sideways on his chair away from
Howard and shook a fist. His face whitened.
'Get away from me, man!'
'Just tell me one thing, why did you take that photo?'
'
What photo? What you talking about man?' asked Steve.
'Oh please! The one of Jacintha and me in the Optics Lab.
That fucking photograph!'
'I never took no fucking nothing, man!'
'Steve, I'm not here to argue with you.'
'Seriously, man, I never did
nothing!'
'I'm staying right here till you tell me why you took that
picture!' As happened from time to time, Howard felt ridiculous as he sensed
he sounded like his mother. Steve glanced nervously over his shoulder as if
looking for the exit. Howard's temper heated. 'If you recall you put that...
picture on the blackboard and wrote "
Lab Whore" over the top
of it!'
'Look, man, don't gimme no fucking hassle man!'
Howard's nerves stilled his flourishing desire to harm his
opponent. Steve jumped to his feet. Howard felt two hands strike his chest,
shoving him backwards. He fell over a chair. His knee hit the ground heavily
and he rolled onto his back, hitting his ear against a table leg. From the
floor he cursed as he watched Steve stride from the bar.
Howard clambered to his feet and rubbed his ear as all around
watched. He thought he saw some faces smirk. He felt that everyone was silently
mocking him. He grimaced, feeling humiliation and rage. He left the Students
Union and, limping slightly, he muttered curses all the way back to the house
in Napoleon Terrace.
Upon opening the front door he was startled by the sight
of two screaming women dashing down the stairs. He didn't recognise them.
They wore nothing but panties and wild-eyed expressions of fear. Greg, who
waved a huge vibrating dildo in their direction, pursued them. The party disappeared
into the lounge. Disconcerted, Howard crept towards the lounge door. He heard
more screams, then giggling. Then the commotion ceased. He hesitantly peered
into the room. Greg was lying on his back on the sofa. One of the girls bestrode
his face. The other's head was bobbing like a woodpecker over his groin. The
bestraddled girl began to cry out rhythmically. Howard gawped and backed away
down the hall. He heard Greg's booming voice.
'Howie! Get your knob in here, all yer birthdays have come
at once mate! Trish here says she wants to screw your bleeding cock off!'
Howard froze at the sound of Greg's shout. Here was his
chance! Time to lose his virginity! Time to become a man at last! A sudden
opportunity! Time to experience sex! His heart accelerated.
Howard tiptoed a couple of steps towards the door. On the
other side of that door was liberation from the shackles of childhood. He
took another step. What if he got it wrong? He didn't know what to do! What
if his dick was smaller than Greg's? What if they laughed at him? He felt
faint.
'Sorry Greg, I have some Ironing to do.'
The words just came out. He couldn't believe he had just
blurted those words, the first words that entered his mind!
'Ironing?' Greg's voice was incredulous. 'Sodom and Gomorrah!
What are ya? A bleeding poofter? Fuck the ironing! Down a bit darling... Yeah,
just there! What the fuck are you going to
iron for
Satan's sake?'
Howard said nothing. Greg laughed hysterically. Mortified,
Howard rushed to his room and buried his head beneath his pillow.
Ironing?
Oh god no! Why did he say that? "
Sorry Greg, I have some Ironing to do!"
He rose to his feet and banged his head against the wall until welcome pain
filtered through his anguish.
A couple of hours later a heavy knock at the door followed
loud stomps upon the stairs. The door flung open. Greg grinned widely in the
doorway. He slung his blue leather jacket over his shoulder and dangled a
self-rolled cigarette precariously from the corner of his mouth.
'I'm ever willing to abuse sex, drugs and alcohol. I've
done the first two and it's only teatime. The game is to grab a beer and maybe
pull a chick or two.'
Howard found himself agreeing to Greg's plan.
The housemates trundled down to the Gorgon's
Head. Howard was growing increasingly fond
of the sleaziness of that drinking emporium.
He had long heard of the locals' supposed hatred
for students like himself imposing upon their
musty microcosm of antiquity, but now he did
not care.
'Who were those two birds you were knocking off in the lounge?'
asked Howard.
'Shame you missed out mate! Still,
never dwell on a lost
bonk, that's what I always say. They made for good knobbing I can tell
you! Found 'em when me and my mates were out sharking for talent at Ritzies
last night.' Greg launched into a manic train of enhanced-sounding anecdotes
about his escapades.
Howard's generosity of spirit was so magnified by his pint
of Old Croaky that he felt almost benevolent. He took another gulp with an
Epicurean zeal.
Belatedly, Greg returned with more drinks, having chatted
amicably away to the barmaid.
'Down the hatch!' he intoned.
'Still tormenting the barmaids?'
Greg laughed. 'You can talk!' By the look on her face
you
were tormenting
Jacintha in the Optics Lab!'
Howard laughed. Then he frowned.
'But Greg,
you never saw that photograph...'
Greg did something Howard had never seen him do before.
He looked puzzled. He looked unsure of himself. The moment was fleeting. He
opened his large jaw and laughed uproariously.
'Don't be a bloody martyr about this Jacintha woman, Howie.
Go out there and shag women as a form of tribute to her.'
Howard stared at Greg as a medieval priest might observe
the blasphemous.
'Don't say crap like that Greg!'
'Dedicate each fuck to Jacintha,' continued Greg unabashed.
'She was the object of your lust, so it would be the perfect tribute.'
'I protest! How on earth can you insult such a sweet thing?'
said Howard.
'It's true. You didn't
know her. You quite rightly
tried to get her knickers off but you didn't
know her and
she
didn't know
you.
Lusting is not the same thing as
knowing,
Howie. Otherwise I would be a walking fucking encyclopaedia about women.
But I know fuck all about women.'
'Appalling! Greg, you have no sense of guilt.'
'Don't talk to me about guilt! What is
guilt? Guilt
is what crooks have when they get caught. I've not been caught so I've no
guilt.'
Howard was bemused. He pondered Greg's words. "
I've not
been caught". Was Greg toying with him? Then Howard's jaw slackened.
Steve
had not taken the photograph after all!
'You
have been caught!
You took that photograph!'
'
I took
the photograph?' Greg's eyes narrowed.
The swagger that inhabited his mannerisms and the rhythm of his voice evaporated
once more.
'Admit it!
Own up you bastard!' Howard was close
to shouting. Drinkers glanced disapprovingly in their direction. '
You
took that photograph. That fucking photograph is why she took the overdose!'
Greg said nothing. He simply stared.
Howard lowered his voice. 'You wrecked the life of the nicest,
delicatest, beautifullest creature that ever lived.'
'You're saying that my photograph caused Jacintha to pop
all those pills?' demanded Greg.
'That's exactly what I'm saying.' Howard's voice was less
certain now. He perceived deep hostility in Greg's eyes. Greg straightened,
his already large frame expanded like the hood of a cobra.
'That's utter bollocks! It was a
prank. I took that
photo as a bleeding
prank. I put the photo into an envelope and sealed
it. That night in a bar I bumped into that greasy maggot Steve. I was smashed
out my head at the time. My judgement was definitely frigging iffy. I took
the envelope from my jacket pocket and gave it to the horrible slimeball.
I told him to give it to you so that you wouldn't suspect who took it. I ordered
him not to open it and not to say a word about where it came from. The maggot
promised he would give it you the next day in lectures. Obviously the little
cunt opened the envelope and saw the photograph and did his fucking worst.
It was all just a bit of fun that backfired.'
'Backfired? That
redefines backfiring! You trusted
fucking Steve and then a wonderful girl was driven to poison herself! That
is just a bit of
fun backfiring?'
'Sure.'
Howard gawped with incredulity. 'That's a lot of fucking
backfiring! If you hadn't taken that photograph Jacintha wouldn't have taken
the fucking poison.'
'Bullshit! Listen, use yer noggin for frigging once in
yer life. Death is what Jacintha
wanted: she had a bleeding death wish
for
Satan's sake! If that had been Karen with you in that lab then
I doubt Karen would have wolfed down a bottle of lethal drugs. Shit,
Karen
would have got the photo enlarged, framed, showed it her parents and hung
it over her fucking bed. You only kill yourself if you
want to, not
because of some shitty thing that happened. Jacintha didn't jab the bleeding
self destruct button just because some fucking idiot stapled a photo to a
blackboard somewhere, the stupid bitch did it because she chose death over
living.'
'You cold-hearted bastard.'
'Step out with a chick. Have a laugh. Take her out and
show her a good time. Then dump her for a chick you meet at a party who's
got bigger tits. Forget yer brain, let yer cock rule your life. Yer cock
has
no conscience. Yer cock is the thing that makes you party. Take
that surrealist painter jonnie, with the twiddly moustache, erm...'
'Salvador Dahli?' said Howard.
'That's the fella. When he wanted to paint a bleeding masterpiece
he didn't jerk off for days on end. His nuts swelled up like fucking melons.
Masterpieces are like the feathers on a peacock's arse: they're there to pull
the birds. It's the same with footie: the grunt who scores the goal pulls
the chicks, even though he's an ugly bastard and thicker than two short planks.
If I only tell you one thing, it's this: listen to yer cock. Listen to yer
cock and you will be happy.'
'But...'
'Nothing beats a good, cheap, cheerful fuck.'
'You're right! You're right!' said Howard with sudden enthusiasm
and optimism, 'Lets hunt down the babes!'
'Ha! That's the spirit! The lass-scape is
quaking!
No point in moping just because some chick killed herself,' declared Greg
with a wide grin.
'Absolutely. Hang on a sec. Did you say "
killed herself"?'
'Yeah. No need to dwell on these things when there are still
living chicks out there!'
'Jacintha is
dead?'
'
Sodom and Gomorrah Of course she's bleeding dead!
Do you think she's come back to life, like frigging Jesus and Count frigging
Dracula?'
Howard's stomach snapped tight with shock.
'Oh no, oh Christ no!'
'Listen mate, forget about her. No point in dwelling on
a lost... well, not to worry.'
Howard's mind couldn't cobble together a reply. He simply
gawped. Sight and sound merged into a blurred drone. Even Greg's voice was
reduced to a distant rumble. Greg strolled over to the bar and chatted to
the barmaid. Stupefied, Howard stole out into the moonlit night and kept walking.
His stomach writhed and his head span. His breath was rendered into ephemeral
cloudlets in the freezing night air. Greg's news propelled him into icy misery
as graphic as if he had just seen her corpse.
'
It's all my fault!'
 | | | | |
| From: |
Knor | Subject: | 2002-12-01 08:06:18 |
| | | | |
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