Alone in his room, Howard fished out
The Lord Of The
Rings from one of the overstuffed cardboard boxes. His eyes scanned the
endless lines about the antics of Frodo and Samwise, but, like Sauron, he
was distracted from their fates. He tried and failed to sleep: his mind was
a hive-hectic and it did not help that above him the attic thumped to the
macho rhythms of Greg's bass guitar. It had been a day of sour emotions. Gallie
had fussed over his hand but he felt distain, even disgust for her: how could
he respect her after she had slept with
Greg, even if it had been a
sozzled one-night stand? How could such a fair nymph allow herself to even
consider falling under the evil shadow of a callous, rampaging ogre such as
Greg?
He had still not forgiven her by the following evening.
Sullen and vengeful he pretended to listen as Greg finished his can and changed
the focus of the discussion to football, followed by cricket and boxing.
Retrieving a tin from his blue leather jacket Greg rolled a fat joint and
passed it to Gallie, who puffed it. As Howard watched her lips press the joint
in their gentle grip, he mentally howled at the thought that in some foul
history she had slowly unzipped Greg's trousers and... The joint, like a paper
baton, passed from hand to hand from Gallie to Karen, from Karen to Dominic
and from Dominic to Howard. Karen babbled happily to Dominic. Greg cleared
his throat theatrically, holding out his large palm to quieten the lovers'
dialogue.
'For
Sodom's sake, shut your fat cake-hole Karen!
I'll tell yer this, I've gone and made an executive decision.'
'What's that?' said Karen peevishly.
'Babe, you're going to make the tea.'
'Well, I've made an
even more executive decision,
actually.'
'An
even more executive decision?' lampooned Greg.
'Yes, a
chief executive decision: you, Greg, will
do the washing up for a change. And, like, clean up your totally over the
top mess in the kitchen: the grill is full of your burger fat-'
'
Sodom and Gomorrah woman!
Your grill will
be full of my
man fat if you don't shut yer prattling face. No more
weed for Karen! Here, hand over my frigging spliff!'
Karen looked repentantly at the sweet, smoking stick between
her finger and thumb.
'Damn you Greg! OK. You win. Muggins here will clean up
after you.
Again. But frankly I'm literally pissed off!'
Greg curled his lips and leaned back into his chair as a
king might relax on the throne having been informed by a minion that a minor
country had been gloriously defeated in his honour.
'Oh! Did you hear the news? Greg didn't pull last night,'
burbled Gallie mischievously.
'Really? Greg didn't pull? He must be clapped out!' gasped
Karen.
'Oi knucklehead! Hold it right there!' barked Greg. His
smug demeanour evaporated: indeed he conferred the impression that he was
under acute sufferance. 'Mind your own beeswax. You know what?
Never
dwell on a lost bonk. You clowns are just jealous of my track record!'
Now it was Karen's turn to look smug although that was her
default aspect. She patted Dominic on the head and tweaked his nose affectionately.
'Actually,
my bonking track record is absolutely
fab! Dommie really is like my Mount Everest in my mountain range of lovers.'
'I hate to be the one to break this to you Karen, baby,'
Greg said in confiding tones, 'but Mount Everest is a place where no one lasts
very long on top'.
Dominic reddened. 'Greg, dear fellow, do steady on! Entirely
mountainous terrain constitutes-'
'Don't waste your words on that cretinous moron Dommie,
' interjected Karen. 'Cut the fucking crap Greg! You know,
you are
no mountain! You,
you like, are a gutter or a, a ratty sewer
or something.'
As always, Gallie looked ill at ease with the antagonistic
conversation. '
I'll make some coffee'. She rose and left the lounge.
'Four sugars,' shouted Greg after her. 'I'm cutting down.'
Gallie emitted a terrifying scream.
'OK, make it five,' said Greg, raising his eyebrows.
Sensing something other than sugar was the matter, Howard
dashed out of the lounge. Gallie cowered in the hallway clinging to the wall
as if to the north face of the Eiger. His eyes followed hers.
'Shit!' he shouted.
Karen bumped into him from behind and she too screamed.
There were certain things that Howard had seen that were creepy. What he
saw in the hallway would set the scene for a fair number of nightmares to
come. A muscular black cat was lying on the floor with its face pointing
towards the housemates at the lounge entrance. Its mouth gaped in a ghastly
grimace.
'That fucking cat! Get that fucking thing out of here!'
commanded Greg nervously.
'Ohhh, don't be rude about Moggie Macabre! Soooo is... he...
dead?' whimpered Gallie.
In the hope of bolstering the low esteem in which he felt
himself held, Howard quickly attempted to affect an air of sang-froid but
his efforts were sabotaged by a tremble that modulated his voice.
'Time to ring the pet cemetery.'
'Ugh!' breathed Gallie keeping her back turned towards the
animal.
'Moggie Macabre's lived up to his name. I'll just go and
see if rigor mortis has set in,' muttered Howard. Immediately ruing his macho
promise, he tiptoed towards the dreadful black cat, bent over, and, after
several false starts, he reached out his right hand and tentatively touched
its thick-furred tail. The cat screeched and sprang to the far side of the
room. Howard yelled with shock and recoiled in the opposite direction, landing
heavily at Gallie's feet. Gallie and Karen chorused this commotion with screams.
Greg emitted an extremely foul curse.
'I say! Gosh!' gasped Dominic.
Moggie Macabre slumped down at the far side of the room
and again lay still. Howard lay on the floor panting. Clutching his chest,
he peeked up at the girls.
'Can I sleep with you tonight?' he blurted between breaths.
'I'm too perturbed to sleep alone.'
'Nice try,' said Karen, managing to combine fear with sarcasm.
'
Gosh, I've just lost eight lives in fright!' shuddered
Gallie.
'Eight lives? But
you're not a cat,' said Howard.
'Hmmm. Yes.'
'But, Gallie, you know that would put your mortal tally
on
minus seven lives.'
'Yeeeeah. That's how I feel.'
'Me too.'
'Soooo, Can any of you move poor Moggie?' said Gallie.
'Don't look at
me, darling,' said Greg.
'I ain't going nowhere near that cat. The fucking
thing's
evil. Bleeding Hell! I did not
hit Redater to be some frigging undertaker to
satanic cats. I mean dead goldfish are a piece
of piss: flush the bog and the little bastards
are on their way back to the seaside; but dead
pussies that suddenly become
not dead
and then dead again are not my kind of pussy.
Reminds me of this fit tart I copped off with
at Bates Wine bar: gorgeous face but a snatch
like road kill'
'Howie, be a dear and put Moggie in the dustbin,' urged
Karen.
'Fucking how am I supposed to do that?'
'I don't fucking know do I? Hoick it by the tail or something!
What are you, a soft wimp?'
Hinged once more between testosterone pride and genetic
trepidation Howard crept towards Moggie Macabre. The wretched cat's yellow
eyes were open and still. Each soft step was more difficult than the last.
Not a hair stirred on the beast's hefty form. Then he panicked. The sudden
ringing of the phone abruptly smashed the silence. Again Howard cried out,
fell backwards and landed pitifully at Gallie's feet. Again the housemates
screamed and cursed.
'By golly,' blurted Dominic.
Greg snatched up the phone. '
Sodom and Gomorrah!
What is it?' he boomed into the mouthpiece. The look of panic on his face
subsided into curiosity. 'Howard? Talk to me instead, I'm a billionaire owner
of several banana republics and tonight I'm single! OK, have it your way.
Your loss!' Greg passed the receiver and winked suggestively. 'Howie, there's
some lesbian broad on the phone and she wants to talk to you. Get in there,
son!'
'Saved by the bell,' muttered Howard as he clambered to
his feet. 'Hello?' The voice he heard startled him as much as the death throws
of Moggie Macabre. '
What? You mean
now?'
***
*****
***
To a small child, Howard reflected, things were never the way they seemed. His life as a tot had been luxurious. Whatever his want, whether food, warmth or affection, his mother saw it her duty to supply it. Then there arrived a time when he had realised that she had not been supplying him with the richest of goods, the finest of cuisine, the most unconditional of love. Money, affection and fine nosh were finite resources. The bludgeons of a million minuscule disappointments had brought about this revelation. Eventually the blows had coagulated into a dreadful acceptance. Even now that he was in foul debt, his vague instinct was to ignore the pain in the hope it would somehow dissipate harmlessly in some undreamed-of fashion. Then there had been the equally devastating realisation that one's washing; and one's shopping; and various other labours of upkeep, would be burdened upon one's own shoulders sooner or later (unless, he had reasoned, one were to suddenly stumble into an accommodating marriage). Mothers, it had appeared, did not exist solely to be chore factories. Worse, one would have to earn money one day, and become self-sufficient, although that particular nightmare was safely beyond his immediate and blinkered horizon.
The next hammer blows of life had been psychological. As a kid the concept of sex had seemed a revolting charade of the unembarrassable. In his teens it had become an ambition. Now he needed sex for kudos and, frankly, because although he feared it, he yearned and ached to try it. In his goal to find a suitable female to have sex with, his mother was of no utility and for once he was glad of unsupport. Unlike his needs of food, possessions and cash, as far as sex was concerned had been on his own from the very beginning. The whole sex thing baffled him as, yet again, Nature refused to conform to his desires. In fact, Nature conspired against his every move. Nature tugged the strings of fate, making women dance diabolically upon his ego, and stamp out every spark of hope he dared strike
Then had come the phone call. A woman had invited him,
urged
him, to have sex with her. Out of the blue! He was summoned to her room
at Donovan Hall of Residence because the only thing she wanted in the entire
world was sex. She had asked him! Howard! Not Greg! Not Dominic! Not Drijk
or Gothic or Steve. She had asked him! And the only thing she wanted within
the walls of the cosmos; within the configurations of dreams; within the myriad
weaves of destiny: was sex. His own desire was hardly less.
Heart thrashing, he stood gazing at door of room 2192. Memories
of the previous autumn shook him, the smells; the posters on the doors; loitering
groups of students. He had kept an eye out for Steve and that girl he had
seen him snog but neither appeared within view.
Drawing a deep breath he tapped the door unrhythmically.
After a terrible delay, it opened. Jacintha
stood before him. As always he thought her a
jewel: clear, beautiful - and impenetrable.
She seemed as distant as ever. He tried to meet
her eyes but she would find a fascinating patch
of the ceiling to gaze at, or an intriguing
plot of carpet. She met his clumsy greetings
with muted and minimalist replies.
She took a cigarette into her neat mouth and puffed demurely.
Howard noticed how her pretty young face radiated suffering. Her skin was
pale. She seemed undernourished.
'Jacintha, forgive me, but you seem a little under the weather.
Are you alright?'
Jacintha looked at the floor. 'Yes, perhaps a little tired.'
'And I rather fancy you. We haven't consummated our love
before or since you died. Shall we
do it?'
No answer.
'It's agreed then!' he blurted and scooped her slender frame
in his arms. She neither showed enthusiasm nor resistance at his gambit.
'With a thumping percussion playing within his chess Howard
gazed at the pale face that stared back up at him. Tenderly he held her. With
careful choreography he laid her upon the bed.
'Are you okay about this?'
Jacintha smiled. For a second, a fleeting moment, he saw
her face flicker and then ignite into the lively Jacintha; the lustful Jacintha;
the loving Jacintha he craved. Then the beauteous look of vitality; the blooming
life force ebbed again.
'I tried some maths questions. I cannot concentrate. I will
never catch up on the course. I cannot cope without Nathaniel.'
'Who is Nathaniel? Your boyfriend?'
'I have no boyfriend. It is not a care, all I wish for is
to sleep,' she said, simply. A solitaire tear rolled down her cheek.
'Sleep? No, wait! Not yet!'
'I wish to sleep now. That is all I hope for. I do not care
for life. I do not want friendship.
Sleep is my only friend.' She smiled
as if the contemplation provided her with a great solace. Her voice was taught,
high-pitched, and empty. There was a hollow hopelessness about her words that
made him shudder, as if he beheld a spectre. It was too late for empathy.
He wanted to plunge into deep waters, as warm as the womb and as endless as
the world. His loins smarted. Erotic fevers shook him. He tore off his clothes
and hers and sensed passions sharper than fire.
Jacintha seemed to be disintegrating before him. Her eyes
were struggling to stay open. She was relaxed, almost flaccid: not at all
her usual stiff demeanour. This was it! She was unresisting! His moment of
triumph was nigh!
'I'm dying!' Her voice was slurred.
'Don't worry, this won't kill you!'
On the table next to the bed he saw an empty tablet bottle.
The horrible truth sank in.
'Jacintha, what have you
done?'
'Take me!' she whispered. Do it! Hurry!'
'But you'll die! I must save you!'
'No! Take me!'
 | | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2003-04-18 15:42:56 |
| | | | |
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