Howard knocked on the door of the house next-door
to Gothic's. A female student answered. Excitement
shocked through his body. This was a chance
to pull! In an act of entrepreneurial bravado,
he suggested she meet up with him later. But
his words were clumsy and emitted in a staccato
rush. She shook her head with dismal finality,
crushing his spontaneous sense of flair. He
turned his mind to his original objective and
apologetically mumbled a request for a nightdress
for the Jam-Jams-Jump and to his surprise she
said she would see what she could do and dashed
upstairs. Returning, she handed to him the requested
article.
'Be really careful with it, it belongs to my sister.'
He returned to Gothic's house with the pretty gown slung
over his arm. In the semi-darkness of Gothic's room he held the nightdress
aloft. It was mauve in hue and embroidered around the neck and sleeves. There
was only one defective attribute of the dainty little garment: the fabric
was horribly crumpled. He wanted to look absolutely perfect wearing it so,
against the full force of the modus operandi of his entire life, he eagerly
resolved to iron out the creases. Swigging the dregs of a can of cheap lager
he plugged in Gothic's steam iron and waited impatiently for it to heat. Smiling,
he placed the iron lovingly upon the silky fabric. Forthwith he detected
the whiff of burning fabric and, with a jerk of the wrist, he lifted the iron.
The hot metal had seared through the nightie as an acetylene torch might blow
away a cobweb, with the result that there was a sticky black mess congealed
on the face of the iron. Conversely there was an iron-shaped hole piercing
the heart of the nightdress.
'Oh fucking
fuck!'
He needed to scrounge another nightdress. He
could hardly go back to the house next door,
especially as the girl had warned him to it
was her sister's nightdress. He buried his head
in his hands. At that moment Gothic popped his
head around the door and urged him to hurry,
for people were waiting for him. Panicking,
he stripped down to his underpants and squeezed
into the damaged nightie. His chest and upper-back
showed boldly through the iron-shaped holes.
Gingerly he shuffled down the stairs. In the
hallway Gothic and his nightdress-wearing mates
stared at him for a few seconds, then fell about
in hysterical mirth.
Attired in his ruined nightdress, Howard accompanied
the crowd as they set out on the Jam-Jams Jump,
kicking off at a couple of pubs. Rowdy herds
of pyjama-clad girls and lads showing off in
female nightwear were ubiquitous. In an agony
of embarrassment, Howard strove to conceal the
front hole in his nightdress with a strategically
placed arm. Unfortunately Gothic and his mates
kept drawing the attention of passing groups
of girls to his unfortunate nightdress. He tried
to pretend he enjoying himself but their incessant
giggles tormented him. He kept going by imagining
an even worse alternative, to be stuck at home
in Exfield with Granny Grolgoth.
The company dropped in at an off-licence for essential supplies
of beer, wine and spirits for the house party. The party was hosted in a hefty
Victorian house in a leafy, student-ridden suburb of the City. Beneath gnarled
trees, coloured lights illuminated a few of the huge windows. They passed
through a fearsome baroque iron gate and edged up an unevenly paved path.
Howard cursed as morbid bushes clawed at his nightdress. They climbed the
wide steps that lay before the over-sized front door like a corrugated tongue.
In the porch doorway a pair of burly rugby types guarding the entrance blocked
their way.
'You're not invited. Piss off, vermin.'
'
Necrophilia!' cried Gothic knowingly.
'Who invited you?'
'Who else could it be but
Drijk?' said Gothic superciliously.
One of the burly men placed a fist on the lapel of Gothic's
black nightdress.
'If you're lying you're dead fuckers,
got that shit-face?'
Gothic nodded respectfully. They were admitted. Once again
Howard did his best to disguise the iron shaped hole in his nightdress and
looked straight ahead. The house was dimly lit and hive-like with activity.
The partiers seemed classier than usual for a student do. The men seemed noble
and the girls striking. Howard felt like a leper in his burned nightdress.
His half-exposed chest resonated with anxiety-enhancing underground dance
beats.
'Gothic, did you say “
Drijk”?' whispered Howard nervously.
'Yeah, this is Drijk's bash. That's why it's exclusive.
Gatecrashers are routinely tortured and killed and the State turns a blind
eye.'
'Thank god you were given the password,' said Howard.
'Given? Don't be soft; I obtained it from an illegitimate
source. We're in now, so shut up, keep your head down, and get your rocks
off.'
'We fucking
gatecrashed? Oh
shit! Drijk's
a fucking psychopath and he wants to kill me personally! I'm off.'
'You
can't leave now,' retorted Gothic. 'We're past
the point of
no return. You leave now and they'll sniff a rat. You'll
land
us in some very
evil shit.'
'Oh
fuck.' Once again Howard fretfully looked around
him. There was no sign of Drijk amongst the writhing mass of drunken cross-dressed
students.
The old rooms reeked of smoulderings from tobacco
to hashish to joss sticks. Wishing to be out
of sight and alone with his thoughts, Howard
split from Gothic and his companions. He wished
to ponder his sudden closeness with Gallie for
a while. He crept down a narrow flight of stone
steps and emerged in a crowded cellar, which
was claustrophobic yet roomy enough for dancers
to flail anarchically. The music echoed off
the whitewashed walls, which were dynamically
dyed by the swirling chromatic beams of disco
lights. He leaned against one of the walls
and took a swig from his bottle of Chardonnay.
It was expensive liquor from the perspective
of a student's meagre income but he was so deep
in debt he felt it did not matter any more.
Besides he wanted to celebrate his new romantic
bond with Gallie in style. As he scanned the
cellar for Drijk, a movement caught his eye,
possibly because the mode of movement was familiar
to him, unforced yet purposeful. Out of the
shadows strode a man of a fair height and stocky
of girth. He wore a huge pale-pink nightdress.
'
Sodom and Gomorrah!' bellowed Greg.
'Looks like you've been
shot by an
iron!'
Greg pointed at the burn hole in Howard's nightdress.
Greg threw back his head and laughed heartily.
Howard wished he would stop.
Between drags on his cigarette Greg swigged
from a large hip flask. He then grabbed Howard's
Chardonnay, took a hefty gulp and passed the
bottle back with a slight grimace.
'What the
bloody hell is that? Tastes like a bird
of paradise has shit in it!'
'What the hell are
you doing here?
Is Gallie here too?' asked Howard hoping for
a swift reunion.
'Not yet. I brought my own bird along, she's queuing at
the bleeding bog I expect.'
'I've changed Greg. This is where my new life starts, I'm
making a new start, my life was spiralling out of control. I found it difficult
to make sense of anything.' Howard was waving his hand at the dancing students.
'After Jacintha-'
'Don't you ever shut up about her? 'Tell you what, I'll
make a bet with you. A tenner says that you don't shag Jacintha tonight!'
'
What? Yeah, that's right Greg, that's a fucking
great way to pay your respects the dead! I'll have that tenner off you, just
give me directions to the graveyard and give me a shovel. Jeez, you're the
sickest bastard I ever had the misfortune to-'
'
Dead?'
'Yeah, of course she'd fucking dead, you told me yourself.'
Greg put his finger to his mouth. '
Behind you!'
Howard turned towards the cellar entrance to see what Greg
alluded to. He dropped his wine bottle, which smashed on the concrete floor.
Agape he swayed and pressed his back into the lumpy, white wall. The music
seemed to stop for his ears now rejected all sound. His breathing ceased,
as if his lungs were as frozen in bewilderment. His widening eyes transfixed
on the smiling woman, wrapped in stripy light-turquoise and white pyjamas,
who was sliding towards him.
'Have you two met?' asked Greg in an ironically bored voice.
Howard tried to utter her name but could not pronounce more
than the first consonant.
'Howard! How
are you?' said Jacintha, who, having
looked startled, recovered and emitted cool indifference. She leaned towards
him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Howard recoiled in fear and did
not return the embrace. Jacintha put her arm around Greg's waist.
'Howard,' said Greg, 'I forgot to tell you, I took your
advice and got a steady girlfriend.'
'What?'
'That's
dangerous!' snapped Jacintha. She bent down
and began to pick up shards of glass by their feet and place them into the
broken base of the wine bottle. Howard peered down at the cleavage of her
bra-covered breasts visible behind the loose pyjama top.
'Jacintha and me have been going steady for, what, a good
while now!' bragged Greg.
Jacintha rose up on tiptoe and pecked Greg on the cheek
then returned to the glass.
Howard stared in shock and confusion. 'I think I'm having
difficulty breathing.'
'What's up mate?' said Greg.
'Greg, you are going out with a
ghost. She's a ghost;
a phantom, a fucking
spectre! She's dead! Not even
you can pull
the dead! Christ, she's dead!
She is
dead!'
'She
is a bit pale,' agreed Greg. 'Jacintha Sweetheart,
I
told you to splash more blusher on them pale cheeks of yours.'
'No Greg, it's not her fucking makeup.
She's
dead!'
Greg scrutinised Jacintha. '
Are you dead Sweetheart?'
He bent down and clasped her hand, which held a fragment of glass, felt her
pulse and stuck the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth. 'I'm not
getting anything darling.'
'I'm quite alive, I imagine,' snapped Jacintha. She flashed
Howard a hostile glare.
Greg put his ear to her breast. 'You're little heart's
beating away nicely, darling! Howie, feel
that!' Greg took Howard's
reluctant hand and placed it on Jacintha's left breast.
'Get
off,' castigated Jacintha, dropping the glass
fragment and inflicting a light slap to the top of Greg's large head.
'
Ooof!' Greg rubbed his head theatrically and pursed
his lips. 'Did you feel that! Look, Howard, ghosts don't have a bleeding heartbeat
now
do they? And come to that, how many
chick ghosts that you
know of wear bleeding
pyjamas? Chick ghosts don't usually wear
pyjamas,
I'll hold a quid on that.'
'She
died Greg! She took an overdose and died, do
you remember that? You told me
yourself!'
'Oh!' said Greg, 'you
still believe she pegged it?
You left the house; left Redater; left your course and went to frigging Johnny
Foreigner land just because you thought you were responsible for making her
croak and all this time she was alive! You stupid bastard!' Greg laughed
heartily.
Jacintha stood up. 'You thought I was
dead? Oh my
gosh! I mean…' She looked deeply uncomfortable.
Howard suddenly felt euphoria at seeing her, made sweeter
as the gnarled guilt he suffered over her supposed death began to evaporate.
The compunction had been so entrenched within his mind and spirit that, now
it was forsaking him, he felt otherworldly. He hugged her and praised her
and told her how happy he was in excitable bursts. Jacintha reacted warmly
to his attentions at first but soon seemed fractious at enthusiasm.
Jacintha put a hand to her forehead. 'Excuse me
Greg,
this music is really loud, but did you tell Howard that I was…
dead?'
She thrust a finely manicured finger like a dagger.
'Yeah, Greg, why did you tell me Jacintha was dead?' pitched
in Howard, suddenly enraged.
'Had you going there Howie, old bean, didn't I?' grinned
Greg.
'Greg, you put me through sheer fucking hell!'
'Yep, you fell for it hook, line and bleeding sinker!'
Howard clenched his fists. The adrenaline pumped through
his system. Greg would pay. He wanted to lash out and pulverise this huge
immoral troll.
Jacintha began to chuckle.
Howard gazed at her in amazement. He had never
seen her laugh. He had thought Jacintha about
as capable of full-bloodied laugher as a constipated
Vulcan. Yet before his eyes she was in the midst
of an electric fit of giggles that overpowered
him. From this icy creature bubbled a laugh
that would ignite more laughter around it and
synchronise the rhythmic outbursts of breath
into a single, entangled state of mirth. Howard
succumbed to its charm as the polarisation of
his emotions inverted.
'Nice one, Greg!' With his sleeve Howard dabbed moisture
from his eyes. 'You had me going there.'
'Yeah. I did,' said Greg proudly.
'
Greg,' scolded Jacintha, recovering her refined
composure, 'kindly refrain from using my mortality as a bait for your stupid
pranks.'
'You found it bloody funny a moment ago.'
'No, I was amused by ironing hole in Howard’s
nightie.'
Howard was mortified. He had completely forgotten
about that damned nightdress. He realised Jacintha
had not been laughing at the situation, she
had been laughing at
him. He should
have known better.
Cheer up Howie, that bet's still on!' Greg winked.
'What bet?'
'You know, we're on for a tenner if you shag her.' Greg
thrust his hips.
'Oh
that bet.'
'Frigging ace!' cried Greg. 'I knew you'd be up for it!'
'
What,' interposed Jacintha, who had seemingly grasped
something of the gist of Greg's words over the din of the disco, 'are you
up to Greg? It's something about me, isn't it? It's something sleazy whatever
it is by the sound of it'
'Hey, take it easy, sugar! We're just a couple of gents
transacting a nice bit of business that's all. You wouldn't hold that against
us, would you now?'
'Well, what you and Howard get up to is none of my business,
but whatever it is you get up to with him, please get up to it with him behind
closed doors and leave me out of it! I'm sure it can't be healthy, that sort
of thing.'
'Whatever you say, sweetheart,' assented Greg.
'Nice party,' said Jacintha in a voice that
conveyed her desire to change the subject.
'Yeah,' said Greg. 'But if Drijk asks you, I don't exist,
OK?'
'Who's
Drijk?' she asked.
'Oh, you
don't want to meet
him! I'll tell
you all about Drijk later. Let's boogie!'
Greg danced wildly in opposition to Jacintha’s
neat, self-conscious choreography. Howard pitched
the liveliness of his own moves somewhere between
the two, his limbs clumsily echoing the music-scape
in the dizzying cavern. He grinned beatifically
at Jacintha as his mind occupied itself by spinning,
truncated thoughts. She’s alive! It seemed
to him that his bliss was being projected from
his heart to all the other students together
in the intimate space between the white, light-splattered
walls.
 | | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2003-01-26 07:28:55 |
| | | | |
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