Against typical behaviour, Howard arose at six
in the morning. Hoping not to wake Granny Grolgoth,
he crept about his parents' house. This was
not too difficult for, unlike the house at nineteen
Napoleon Terrace, there were no squeaky floorboards
and the carpets were thick. He hastily flung
his rucksack and other gear into the Maxi then
shuffled into the garage, fetched his father's
foot pump and stamped air into the flat tyre.
The puncture was slow enough for him to be able
to run the car to the local garage. Having waited
several torturous hours before a mechanic declared
the puncture was fixed, he sped off to Redater,
burning with a fusion of hope and anxiety at
the thought of meeting Gallie again. Soon he
found himself stuck behind a truck with no chance
of overtaking for a while. His mind dwelt on
philosophical matters. Maybe the foul news of
Jacintha's death had
tricked him into
thinking it had been Jacintha he loved. Was
such love an illusion? The mind plays strange
games. Now he realised that his true passion
was kindled by the thought of Gallie's less
beautiful but kindlier countenance. He found
it strange that he had turned down Gallie's
offers of conversation and sympathy when he
abandoned Redater back in the winter. He cringed
at the thought and vowed to make up for it.
He vowed he would treasure her and shower her
with everything he perceived would please her.
He would lavish affection and romantic gifts
upon her. He would pull her!
The sky was clear of clouds by the time he finally arrived
at Napoleon Terrace, but the blueness was fading. With difficulty he parked
his car into a barely adequate gap. He had no front door key: he had thrown
it away when he left. He hammered on the blue door of number nineteen to no
avail. He glanced up. Next door, the smoking girl in pink was leaning out
of the window. She glanced down at him, flicked ash and then peered into some
lofty distance.
No one responded to his knocks. He suspected Marlon was
in, locked in his room, ignoring him. Howard cursed. He edged his car from
its parking space and drove down the Chillington Road in the hope of locating
Gallie. He searched the Students Union and other parts of the University
campus. As was his habit, he was warily watchful for Drijk. Frustrated, he
wandered if his housemates had gone for an early beer. He scoured some of
their favourite haunts: the Albert Tavern, the Donovan Hall bar, The Gorgon's
Head, even the George and Dragon and Bates Wine Bar in the town centre but
he drew a blank. Punching the steering wheel, once again he pulled into the
awkward parking space in Napoleon Terrace. The anticipation of meeting Gallie
had cranked up to a fevered craving.
She was there again, leaning outside a bedroom window of
the house next door, the girl: pale in the glow of the streetlamp, with a
sad cigarette poised between her skeletal fingers. For the first time he studied
her. Sighing deeply he remained in his parked car and peered her like a twitcher
gazing at an endangered weebler from a hide. She lend her sallow face on a
rickety arm, elbow rested on the sill. In the hand of her other arm she flicked
her furtive cigarette. She held this outside the window. He presumed this
was to avoid detection by her parents. She shifted her posture and shuffled
but she always cared to blow smoke into the open atmosphere. How frail she
was, this sallow girl. He watched her with intensity so great that he wondered
that she had not detected his gaze through its sheer force. At last she nonchalantly
tossed the cigarette stub into the street and withdrew into the darkness of
her room. To Howard she was like a shy mole scuttling its hasty retreat into
its murky, labyrinthine tunnels. He mused that she would resurface, perhaps,
at a window at the rear of the house to ignite yet another smoke.
Gingerly yet without hope he eased out of the car and knocked
on the blue front door. Gallie opened it! She jumped with recognition. His
heart seemed to do the same.
'Howie!' She hugged him with a squeal of delight. Then she
gestured him to follow as she dashed back down the hallway to the lounge.
He advanced with hesitancy; with shyness he had not felt in Napoleon Terrace
since his first visit the previous year. She was watching a documentary about
the Australian soap
Friendly Neighbours. After all he had been through
he realised he had failed to elevate Gallie's attentions to a rank that exceeded
that of
Friendly Neighbours, but he was thrilled just to have received
a hearty - if momentary - greeting. He wanted her to himself for longer than
time itself could span.
'Is Greg here?' he whispered tentatively once the documentary
had mercifully expired.
'He's at some girl's place,' Gallie sighed. 'He hasn't changed.
I don't know how he does it. Soooo, where've you been? Tell me about it, tell
me every last thingy!'
'Chère amie, je vais te donner tous les détails! Excuse
mon mauvais français!'
'Gosh! Is that French?'
Howard exceedingly willingly obliged Gallie's request for
information and chatted about his exploits abroad, frequently showing off
his renewed command of French. Gallie frequently interrupted his story with
questions and exclamations. She listened as attentively as he had ever been
listened to before. It was an addictive experience to have such intimate attention
lavished so willingly. She laughed generously at humorous points of his tales
and frowned with more than ample concern when he described moments of minor
peril. She was keen to learn anything he had to say and he supposed that even
if he did nothing but talk to her forever more he would consider his life
full and satisfying.
'Oh, by the way Jacintha-'
Howard had avoided the subject of Jacintha, not wishing
to create maudlin eddies in the conversation - which remembrances of recently
deceased friends are prone to do. Furthermore, he wished to keep matters as
simple as possible, and Jacintha was an intricate subject indeed. So he interrupted
Gallie abruptly.
'Gallie, let's not talk of poor Jacintha, not now, do you
mind?'
'Erm, well, OK then, if you insist.'
'I definitely insist.'
'I've missed you,' intoned Gallie.
'You did?'
'Howie, do you really like me? Tell me the truth!'
'There can never be one-hundred percent certainty, but this
is ninety-nine-point-eight percent plus!'
'So you do like me or you don't like me?'
'Exactly.'
'You don't like me?'
'No.'
'You mean
yes you
don't like me
; or
no you
do like me?'
'Yes.'
'Ohhh! You rotten
pig!'
Howard decided to go for goal. Gallie was off balance and
might be susceptible to accepting his proposition.
'Gallie, will you...?'
Gallie smiled brightly and put her small hand to Howard's
face and drew him towards her. Their lips edged closer. He anticipated a cataclysmic
collision. His heart thudded and thundered in haywire bliss. He felt as if
his bones degenerated into an intoxicated smoke and his blood was ambrosia
and his flesh was teeming lava.
The front door slammed forcefully.
Gallie yanked away from him.
Heavy footsteps stomped along the hall before abruptly,
they ceased.
The lounge door thudded open and Greg burst into the room
like a rupturing grenade.
Howard raised his eyes to the ceiling in mortification.
He could scarcely have bemoaned a visit from the Grim Reaper more than he
did the appearance of Greg.
'Ahhh, Greg dear! Look who's back!' burbled Gallie.
'Hi sweetheart. Ha-ha! Howie! Thought we'd seen the last
of you, you deranged mental bastard!
Sodom and Gomorrah! It's the second
bleeding coming!' thundered Greg.
'Hi Greg what you been up to then?' Howard's voice trembled
with exasperation.
'Eh? Bleeding obvious mate, biking, beer, footie and chicks
are my forte. You should have clocked the talent I snagged last night. Fantastic!
She plays in the Redater Uni orchestra, you know.'
'Oh? What does she play?'
'She's a frigging virtuoso. She took out her
oboe and played something by
Bachoven,
or whatever the sausage eater's name is. I told
her, "forget that shite, play on
this!"
Best bleeding blowjob of my entire life.' Greg
percussed his tongue against the inside of his
cheek whist bobbing his head up and down frenetically.
'She looked up at me all fucking doe-eyed whilst
hammering out some mad concerto on my John Thomas.
I nearly
died!'
'Ohhhh my god! Greg! Stop!' screamed Gallie.
Howard could see why she was laughing. If anyone were able
to magically transpose a funeral dirge into a riotous hoot, that person was
Greg. Howard fretted neurotically that Greg was upstaging him, that Gallie
might think him mediocre in comparison. He needed to say something amusing.
An idea came to him.
'Greg, if she plays oboe then she would favour blowing very
small, very thin
reedy things,' he blurted, gesticulating exactly
how small was the reed he had in mind by placing the tips of his finger and
thumb such that they nearly touched. To Howard's annoyance, Greg was totally
unphased.
'Did I say she played the oboe?
Sodom and Gomorrah!
I must have got my instruments all mixed up. Must be the bleeding charlie.
I tell you, it's fucked with my head something chronic.' Greg put his hand
to his mouth and sniffed. 'Hang on, it's all coming back to me now: she played
the bleeding
tuba! Yeah!'
'Oh, yes, oboes and tubas are easily confused aren't they?'
muttered Howard. Out of nervousness he tried to confine his sarcasm to cautiously
respectful tones.
'That's nothing. She confused her tuba with my knob!' declared
Greg with a wink at Gallie. 'You should have seen the frigging notes she got
out of it. The gorgeous wench gave me a blowjob in F sharp major.'
For once Gallie's musical giggles sounded disagreeable to
Howard's ears.
Karen barged into the room clutching a book.
'Howie! Absolutely amazing to see you! Brill! I mean, my
god, where did you
get to?'
Howard was horrified. Now he had no chance of getting Gallie
alone. Inwardly he cursed.
'Karen! I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you again.'
'No one is pleased to see me!' cried Karen in contented
timbres. She then spoke at great length on the subject of why everybody was
generally enthralled to see her at all times. Howard imagined that she was
reciting a mental soliloquy. Eventually, when no encouraging response was
forthcoming, even Karen seemed to run out of steam and she deviated from her
favourite subject. She proudly held up her book. 'Look what I'm reading!
Chinese
Astrology. Its
brill, actually! It's sort of about harnessing spiritual
strength from planets and stuff and to use forms of energy that are, like,
spiritual.'
'Ohhhhh, let's
see!' said Gallie. She took the coffee
table tome and flicked through its pastel pages.
'What it is,' enthused Karen, 'is like each year, right,
has an animal, so if you're born on, like, the year of the dog then you are
a bit like a dog.'
'Or in your case a barking mad bitch!' Greg murmured flippantly.
'Gosh, that's
really good,' gushed Gallie delightedly
to Karen.
'It's fab, really trendy. It says that you're only compatible
with certain birth years, like, so if you're born on year of the monkey, right,
then you should go out with a bloke who was born in the year of the banana
or something.'
'Ahhhh, that's really super. It must be really useful. What
animal is best for you?'
'Basically, I want a pig because they're fantastic between
the sheets!' exclaimed Karen.
Everyone paused. All turned towards Greg in expectation
of a one-liner. Greg frowned and scratched his head with exaggerated confusion.
'I can't top that one.' A smirk broke out on Greg's face.
Even Howard briefly forgot his agony and giggled along with Gallie and Greg.
Greg's laughter was the most uproarious of all and Karen turned on him.
'It's not funny Greg, it's
spiritual you totally
mindless fucking buffoon!' she snapped.
'Hey, I'm just a normal guy trapped in the body of a spiritual
guru.'
'No you're not actually, fuck-wit! Basically you're an abnormal
guy trapped in the body of a village idiot.'
'
You should know sweetheart, you've
trapped
a fair few village idiots in your time.' Greg accompanied his repost with
a gesture that suggested the act of fornication.
Karen simply flicked the v's.
'Howie, you've come back just in time! Tonight is Jam-Jams
night,' said Greg.
'Jam Jams!' yelled Karen. She spoke at great length about
how Jam-Jams night was an ancient Redater University tradition. With the exception
of the most introverted of hermits, all the students in Redater rowdily celebrated
the Jam-jams Jump. The women dressed in pyjamas and the men donned women's
nightdresses. The students, suitably cross-dressed in bed-wear would then,
in accordance to ancient and traditional ritual, march on a booze-laden stomach
onto the drinking holes of the town or any noisy nexus of revelry and debauchery.
'Oh crikey,' said Howard. He felt afraid. He wanted no part
in it. 'Can't make it. My cousin's stag do is tonight so I'm off back to Exfield.
Shit! The time! I have to go
now, I'm already late.' He wondered if
his lie had sounded convincing. He yearned to escape.
Gallie smiled sweetly. 'Hey, Howie, dear, you're always
in such a rush! Would you like a cup of tea before you go?'
'Oh, go on then! A quickie.'
Gallie trotted from the lounge. Howard could hear her in
the kitchen filling the saucepan full of water. The saucepan sang in a bubbling,
rising pitch. The splashing stopped. He heard it being clunked onto the cooker.
'Gallie, make an extra cuppa,' commanded Greg.
'Say
please and I'll make you one. White with twenty
sugars.'
'Twenty? It's twenty-
two, you stupid cow!' Greg sprinted
into the kitchen and muttered something inaudible. Gallie giggled. They spoke
in lowered tones. Howard sat on the sofa and flicked through the fluffy gloss
of New Female magazine, but his mind was focussed on what was happening in
the kitchen.
Greg surged back into the lounge and speculated on the underachieving
deeds of Redater football team. Greg knew exactly how he, as manager, would
put their woes behind them. He would sack such-and-such and buy some foreign
talent. He would fortify the back four and inject some badly needed aggression
into the side.
Gallie entered with cups of tea, scampered back to the kitchen
and returned with a strong-looking coffee of her own. Howard felt panicky.
He could bear to stay no longer. Gallie followed him to the front door. He
thought that she was going to kiss him. His nerves would not calm down. Terrified
he backed away. He gave her a hasty wave, turned, and, as she watched on
the doorstep, he scrambled into his car.
In his frustration he found it difficult to concentrate
on manoeuvring the car out of its tight parking space: it took him several
turns to get away. Each turn he wondered how foolish she thought he was. He
cursed. Why was she still watching him? After an excruciating time he freed
the car.
'Back to fucking Exfield,' he muttered. Over-revving the
engine for effect, he turned out of Napoleon Terrace onto the Chillington
Road and drove in the direction of the University and Redater City Centre.
His heart raced. Did she like him? He was
mad! he castigated himself.
He should turn round and celebrate Jam-Jams Night with Gallie. On second thoughts,
she might interpret this U-turn as a shade desperate. He
had said he
was going and the cool thing to do was to attend his mythical cousin's stag
do. His resolve was weakened yet resolve he still had. He drove past the campus
with its ugsome concrete and brick University buildings that looked suitably
dour in the artificial light in contrast to the young and lively students
that haunted them. One of these students caught his eye, a fellow astrophysics
student, Gothic.
Gothic sported a fount of jet hair, blacker than the night,
and agglomeration of buckles about the length and breadth of his otherwise
black-clad person. Howard slowed the car. The same excited mood that had made
him flee from company suddenly made him desire to talk to somebody and so
he pulled his car to the kerb, got out and greeted his course-mate Gothic
on the pavement.
'Hey Goth, what's happening?'
Gothic seemed unsurprised at seeing Howard. Gothic rarely
seemed moved by anything at all.
'Howard, I've not seen
you in a while! What dive
are you hitting for the Jam-Jams Jump Howard?'
'I'm not. I've got a stag night in Exfield to attend to.'
'Oh, shame! Too bad you'll miss this
unreal party.'
'What
unreal party?'
'Oh nothing really, just a party that's all. In this
awesome
house. Just the
chill out Jam-Jams party ever!'
'Will it be good then?' gasped Howard. The lures of the
planned Jam-Jams revelries were coupling ever more tightly with his desires.
This enticement was exacerbated by his weakness for house parties. Once he
had drunk enough to tame his awkwardness, he would savour the delights to
be had from the intimate atmosphere of a house turned over to debauched jubilance,
booze and spirited lasses. Howard's house party modus operandi was to pitch
up with a bottle of wine to top off a worthy pub evenings' ration of ale.
Only once he was far too sozzled to be effective, would he dare to chase the
women. But there was something implicitly magical and jubilant about a good
house party that had no parallel in the field of human endeavour.
'Good?' said Gothic incredulously. 'Good isn't the word!
This party will be the climax of the year, mate. Not many people have been
told about it, it's pretty exclusive, but I could get you in if you like.
Miss this one and you've wasted your fucking life.
'Will I be exposed to the abhorrent sins of drinking and
sex?'
'Yep. Deplorable but there you have it. And you get to wear
a nightie all night.'
'All night?'
'Yes.'
'Tempting!' Howard rubbed his chin.
'Yes.'
'It's a seductive thought.'
'Yes.'
'But totally immoral.'
'That is the best part of it, yes.'
'Couldn't possibly be respectable.'
'Not a hope.'
'You've talked me into it. Tonight I will need a nightie!
I'm lacking a nightie, definitely. To the devil with it, I must secure a nightie.
A nightie, a nightie, my kingdom for a nightie!'
'The chicks next door might still have a spare one, if we're
quick.'
Howard threw open the passenger door and ushered his course
mate.
'We must blaze a trail to your chicks next door post haste.'
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