Howard's ward in Redater General Hospital reeked
of antiseptic malevolence. Sitting up in a white-shrouded
bed, he peered ruefully once again at his bandage-swathed
left hand. His little finger was missing above
the first joint. He cursed. The aching soreness
he could live with, the unendurable ingredient
of his woe was grief. He had lost something
familiar and dear to him; he had not realised
how dear to him his most minor finger had been.
He was barely able to believe that it was gone.
Greg strode into the ward and slammed a four-pack of Tyrants
Super lager on Howard's bedside table.
'A visitor! How have you been Greg?' muttered Howard miserably.
'Met this chick in Cleo's,' boomed the reply, 'Poor Percy
took a beating last night I can tell you.' Greg rubbed his crotch tenderly
and winced as if he felt pain. 'So how long were you out for then?'
'Until this morning.' With his good hand, Howard tenderly
rubbed the wound at the back of his head.
'I know you know it and I know I don't need to say it, but
you were frigging lucky. If Gallie hadn't been there Drijk would have killed
you.'
'I wish he had,' muttered Howard. 'I thought he was torturing
her with a pair of bolt cutters! I thought she was pure. How the hell was
I supposed to bloody know they were fucking?'
Greg howled with mirth for a good while.
'Is she going out with him?' asked Howard tentatively, once
the decibel level had fallen.
'She said he came onto her and she couldn't resist and they
banged like shithouse doors throughout the night.'
Howard's self-reproachful mood sank further.
'Drijk is the only bloke who can match me at the fucking
chicks game,' said Greg ruefully.
'It's OK for you, I'll never get laid.'
'Listen Howie, turns out you not that badly off, eh! It's
a happy hole you're in, take my word and just think of it as no messy splitting
up to put up with; no commitment; no pain; no depth. What more could a man
want?'
'The fish in the sea!'
'Stay in the shallows, my friend. There is less damned chance
of drowning.'
Howard recalled a conversation with Gallie back in the winter.
To his amazement, she had surmised that Greg was more conservative and trustworthy
in his relationships with women than anyone else she knew. He had many women
and would have many more, but he never changed the relationship. The women
changed but the relationship stayed exactly the same. His relationships merged
into a single, perpetual rapport: a faithful marriage to womankind. In part,
Gallie had said, the only loving relationship Greg ever had was with Greg.
For most men the woman matters. With most relationships time moves on and
the woman stays constant. But for Greg time stands still and the women move
on. The same one-night blast is played over and over and over with variations,
but the plot is always the same.
Howard shrugged. 'Aspiration follows defeat as surely as
summer springs from winter, day exposes night and birth ends morning sickness.
You're absolutely right, Greg, but give me the depths any day! I'll take my
chances with the sharks. Again.'
'Mate, you're bleeding mad!'
'Greg, is Gallie still seeing Drijk?'
'Sodom and Gomorrah! Of course she's still seeing him, she's
nuts about him, can't keep her mitts off him. She's mad on him, even after
what he did to your bleeding finger!'
Howard sighed at the painful tidings. 'I didn't realise
Gallie had a thing for men that like to amputate other people's body parts.'
'Sodom and Gomorrah! Amputating isn't the half of it!' Greg
lowered his voice. 'Do you know where your finger is?'
'I suppose they threw it away. The consultant told it was
too damaged to sew it back on.'
'That's putting it lightly.'
'Greg what are you getting at?'
'Drijk ate your pinky!'
'He fucking what?'
'Gallie saw him pick your finger off the floor and eat it!
She frigging fainted.' Greg fought back tears of merriment.
Howard's jaw slackened. 'Fucking hell! He ate my fucking
finger? You mean to say my finger's rotting in his fucking digestive tract?'
'Yup.'
'Jesus! He'll rot in jail for that! Make that Hell! What
did the fucking police have to say about him eating my fucking finger?'
'He's a sick bastard all right, but the coppers don't give
a shit, Drijk's old man is a bit of a somebody in politics so they turn a
blind eye every time he spills blood and breaks bones. The coppers said it
serves you bleeding right for busting into his room with an offensive weapon.'
Howard gasped. 'What offensive weapon?'
'Bolt cutters of course, he got you stitched up like a kipper.
He threatening to press charges.'
'Oh Christ!'
'Yeah. According to Gallie, the coppers said that you getting
your pinky chopped was Arab poetic justice,' Greg struggled to control himself
enough to speak. 'Drijk told them he had been peckish and he's partial to
finger food' Greg laughed so hard that a nurse marched over and castigated
him for disturbing the other patients.
***
*****
***
With his arm confined in a sling, Howard hobbled off the
bus in the Chillington Road and walked into Napoleon Terrace. With his free
arm he waved at the lank girl next door who was smoking at the window. She
looked away sharply and expelled smoke from her nostrils like a baby dragon.
He opened the blue front door of number nineteen and stepped
inside. From the attic he heard the deep thuds of Greg's bass guitar. He boiled
water in the saucepan, made a cup of sweet coffee and slumped on the sofa
in the lounge. His eyes explored the posters; the pile of women's magazines;
red-topped tabloids; cushions; chairs; the overloaded dining table; empty
- and half empty - coffee cups; traffic cones; House For Sale signs; a shop
dummy wearing a red bra, boxers and a Viking helmet; stuffed ashtrays; ring
binders; books; wine bottles; discarded beer tins, wine bottles and a few
grungy plates.
On the television was a game show, Bullseye, which involved
a quiz and darts. The host supervised young couples, advising them to keep
out of the red and in the black in order to win an assortment of goodies.
A hyped studio audience bellowed their counsel to a couple, encouraging them
to wager their just-won valuables for the mysterious Bully's Star Prize.
The couple decided to gamble. They needed 'just' one-hundred-and-one with
six darts. The woman threw the darts first, scoring a nineteen, a four and
an eleven. Her husband threw a double twenty, a five and a one. The host
consoled them. Then almost sadistically he enthused, 'Lets see what you would
have won!' Curtains drew back to reveal Bully's Star Prize was a 'super' luxury
caravan. The host told the audience they had been 'wonderful' and he would
see them next week for another game of Bullseye. There followed applause
and the daft cartoon credits and signature tune.
The front door opened. Howard jumped up and peered down
the hall. His heart speeded at the sight of Gallie shuffling in from the light.
He waited with trepidation for Drijk to follow her into the house. She was
alone. His mind swirled with turbulence as she skipped daintily down the hall
and kissed him on the cheek.
'Oooh your poor finger!'
'Thank God Drijk isn't with you,' he blurted.
'Noooo! Why would he be? I hope I never see him again!'
'But Greg said...' Howard hit himself on the
forehead with the palm of his hand, reawakening an injurious headache. 'Oh
shit. I fell for it. That bastard duped me, he told me you were still seeing
Drijk, he told me how you couldn't keep your mitts of him.'
'Ohhhh never! How could I ever want to see Drijk ever again?'
Gallie, who was on the verge of tears, began to laugh.
Howard shook his head. 'Why do I fall for that bastard's
lies every bloody time? The other thing Greg told me was that Drijk ate my
bloody finger. Can you believe I fell for that? Thank God that's not true
either!'
Gallie's face froze. 'That bit is true actually.' She began
to sob.
'Oh shit. It's OK, it's OK!' The disappointment of the false
hope was compounded with horror that he had made her cry. He fell at the first
hurdle every race.
Thundering steps were heard on the stairs. Greg burst into
the room with a low-slung bass guitar around his neck.
'Bleeding Hell Howie, you're back. Still got enough fingers
left to grab a pint? Good! Let's get rat-arsed!'
With reluctance, Howard left Gallie behind and departed
with Greg to the Gorgon's Head. Within that antique hostelry the dusty locals
eyed them with the suspicion of cats. Howard felt conspicuous wearing his
sling. The throbbing pain in his hand burgeoned.
'Four pints of your finest, busty serving wench,' declared
Greg. Howard wanted to squirrel away, fearing they would be cast out and barred.
The barmaid frowned darkly. Greg winked at her amicably. Unable to resist
his grin, she giggled and exchanged saucy banter with him. Greg sidled away
with four pints of Old Croaky and a telephone number. The locals grimaced.
Howard tried to affect an apologetic countenance.
'She's a sound laugh,' said Greg gulping greedily from his
first pint and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He reached for his cigarettes
and flicked one at Howard.
'I can't help but be curious,' said Howard as he clumsily
lit up. 'You didn't know her before you moved into Napoleon Terrace did you?'
He already knew the answer.
'Nope,' said Greg. 'Untold fate - that's the Accommodation
Office to you - threw us all together. We were all strangers back then. Hell,
Marlon's a frigging stranger even now: bleeding snooker players have more
of a life than him. C'mon, blurt it out! I know what you're thinking, you're
thinking - Gallie and me - did we bonk?'
'Well, did you?'
'You're always asking me that question,' said Greg.
'Well, I really I want to find out the answer.'
'You don't say!' Greg blew an impressive smoke ring high
into the air. He grinned broadly. 'Ask Gallie, mate. I fully respect the
right of all my ex's to have her sex life kept private.'
'She won't say. Come on, Greg, it's obvious you've had sex
with her.'
Greg sighed. 'I suppose I can trust you enough now. We screwed.
One night.' He grinned more broadly still. 'One night is my motto.'
'I knew it! When? What happened?' Howard felt a ripple of
sickness surge through his abdomen.
'I shouldn't discuss it, but I'm in a good mood. You don't
know this. Don't get spouting off to that bleeding Dominic or anybody else
for that matter.'
Howard nodded his miserable consent.
'You know Fresher's Week?' said Greg, swigging his larger.
'First week of Uni. Crying shame you missed it, too bad, mate. It was non-stop
hall discos and wild house parties jam-packed with innocent-faced cuties straight
out of bleeding sixth form. It was knobbing on tap.'
Howard felt insignificant. Sixth form girls had always been
aloof towards him.
'But chicks always tell me they've abolished practising,
er, casual sex.'
'That's down to the self-defeatist bleatings of geezers
like yerself.' Greg took a deep drag on his cigarette. 'You're trying to
tell me girls turn down a good shafting just because of AIDS or some other
twatty excuse? That's a crock of crap! Ninety-nine out of a hundred are juicing
up at the mere thought of a damned good knobbing sesh. But they don't tell
us that.'
'Damned right they don't,' reflected Howard ruefully. 'Unless
a crushing kick in the nuts is a come-on sign.'
Greg crossed his legs and leaned forward, cigarette hovering
near his lips. He flicked some ash on the floor.
'Let me explain. When I said that ninety-nine out of a
hundred want to get laid, that is a fact. But if I said ninety-nine out of
a hundred girls want to get laid by you: well, that's not a factoid, mate!
But if you play your cards right, my old cobber, fifty chicks out of a hundred
do want to get laid by you.'
'So I walk into a disco and half of the women are guaranteed
to jump into bed with me?' said Howard sceptically.
Greg narrowed his eyes with disdain.
'For Sodom's sake! Have belief in yourself, ya bloody heathen!'
Howard felt yet more browbeaten by Greg than usual: he found
it difficult to look him in the eye. Greg grabbed his second pint and gulped.
'Ah ha! Don't tell me you've not heard of my Monster Chastity
Belt theory of beefing chicks. Bleeding Hellfire! I tell you what I'll do:
I'll tell you a secret; I'll explain it to you once and only once, so listen
up. It goes like this: say I meet a chick who's a bit on the sporty side,
I put the Greg Monster Chastity Belt plan straight into action. Part one
- you're not really looking at a lass, you're looking at this skimpy pair
of knickers with a big frigging lock on it. Do you know where I'm coming
from?'
Howard scratched his forehead and leaned forward with curiosity
of a true acolyte.
'Er, let me get this straight. If you're in a pub, say,
and you meet an attractive girl, you think of her as being a pair of knickers?'
'Yeah, with a fucking enormous lock on them,' boomed Greg.
'Clunk-click on every trip - and - the fitter the lass, the bigger the lock!'
The locals stirred and grumbled.
'So that's it then?'
'Be patient, Grasshopper!' castigated Greg. 'Blimey! The
next step on the road to glory is the Greg Monster Chastity Belt theory of
knobbing chicks step two. You must do away with that bloody lock on her knickers.
Do that and she'll bang like a shit house door in a force nine.'
Howard pondered this counsel. 'So, first you imagine she's
a pair of knickers with a lock on. Second, you try different keys until the
lock opens and then you can get into her knickers?'
'Not so bleeding fast! There are no keys!'
'That's brilliant! But in that case, if there are no keys,
how do you go about cracking her knickers, Greg?' Howard felt stupid, his
tone was apologetic.
Greg laughed heartily.
'This is war. There are two lines of attack. The first
option is to blow the lock - you need explosive. The explosive can be wealth,
good looks, or fame. If you're a pop star or a celeb then you're probably
a total dickhead, but you're in. You've got the gunpowder, and the talent
is all yours.'
'Shit!' said Howard.
'I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you're no
bleeding pop star, but you're a total dickhead anyway. Don't panic! There
is another way in. If you can't blow the frigging lock, then you must pick
the frigging lock. This means you need more cunning and more skill.'
'Is that what you did to Gallie? Picked the lock?' murmured
Howard, appalled.
Greg looked around the pub. Howard did the same. The musty
atmosphere made his beer taste good, a merely bodily consolation in a terrifying
conversation.
'Yup.' said Greg. Greg imitated the sound of a lock turning.
Howard waited for more information. He did not wait in
vain.
'Fresher's week was a blast,' Greg declared, tapping his
cigarette onto a paper plate. 'To cut a long story short, Monday to Friday
were a blur of shagging fests. On the Saturday I got totally wrecked on the
pop, by the end of the night I was pretty paralytic. My head was spinning
like a bastard. I was cream crackered. I staggered back from town and that
cleared my head a tad. Gallie was in. I had some ganja so we smoked it and
did it. Keep this under your hat.'
Howard felt awkward with Greg at the best of times. It scared
him to dig so unashamedly for information about Gallie, but he was unable
to resist.
'Is she good in bed?'
'Sodom and Gomorrah, mind your own fucking business!' bellowed
Greg.
'Oh sorry,' gasped Howard.
'I can't bleeding remember, I was stoned at the time!' Greg
laughed deafeningly.
Howard's wounded finger throbbed as he struggled to grasp the concept of forgetting sex with Gallie.
 | | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2003-04-18 15:38:07 |
| | | | |
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