The rain had started up again, turning the night even darker, murkier. The Arcadian and his new friend walked through the Mailbox, not stopping to window-shop in Harvey Nichols or for a drink or something to eat at one of the many chain restaurants at the far end. They went out the other side, down the ramp on to the towpath at the side of the canal at Gasworks Basin.
Neither had spoken much. Neither needed to. They both knew what they wanted. And it wasn’t conversation.
This would be an experiment, thought the Arcadian. Taking someone back to his while the doll’s house was set up. Wondering if they would notice it, what they would make of it. It was his way of showing off, he thought. Letting the world – or one person in the world – see what he had done. He had to tell someone but he couldn’t be obvious. So he would regard it as a puzzle for them to read. And if they did manage to work it out and, even worse, want to do something about it… Well, the doll’s house might have another tenant.
‘Wonder what the police wanted,’ said the bear, stooping to avoid the low bridge they were walking under.
‘Druggie, probably,’ said the Arcadian. ‘Pickpocket. Nothing important. No one important.’
The bear smiled. ‘Best not to get involved.’
They had both seen the police chasing a man with his cock out down Hurst Street. They hadn’t hung around to find out what would happen next.
‘Is it much further?’ asked the bear. ‘I need to warm up.’
‘Not much further,’ the Arcadian said. ‘Just round this bend.’
‘And then we warm up?’ Another smile, his eyes glittering from more than the rain.
‘Yeah,’ said the Arcadian. ‘That’s right.’
He needed it. The contact, the friction. The force. The high. It was the next best thing and he needed it. And the guy with him, big, strong-looking, muscular, seemed like just the man to supply it.
The bear stopped walking, pulled the Arcadian’s arm, made him stop too.
‘What?’
The bear looked around, saw that they were alone, made a grab for the Arcadian’s cock.
‘Not here,’ said the Arcadian, angry at not being in control. ‘We’re nearly there.’ He walked on. The bear, not disappointed in the slightest, followed.
The towpath curved round. New buildings – the Symphony Hall, the Sea Life Centre, the National Indoor Arena – replaced the older, brick-built ones. Canalside apartment blocks towered all around. Houseboats and narrow boats were moored along the banks. It looked like the future and past had collided.
The Arcadian walked up a ramp, crossed a bridge, down the other side. It brought them down by another towpath. A sign on the block of flats nearby said King Edward’s Wharf.
‘Nice,’ said the bear.
Several houseboats painted in traditional primary colours were moored alongside, their chimneys smoking, steam rising from their roofs as the heat inside evaporated against the cold night air.
The Arcadian walked past the moored craft. At the corner of the wharf was an ancient, run-down boat, the kind of thing a family might have taken a holiday in on the Norfolk Broads in the seventies. Mildewed and rusting, it was badly maintained and inexpertly repaired. It looked like it was barely watertight. The Arcadian stopped in front of it.
‘You live here?’
The Arcadian turned to him, angry again. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing…’
The Arcadian took out a key, fitted it in the padlock on the door, opened it, went in. The bear followed.
Inside was cramped and dark. It smelled of damp and various kinds of uncleanliness. He put the light on. The squalid surroundings matched the smell.
The bear was wrinkling his nose. The Arcadian turned to him. ‘You don’t like it?’
The bear looked round the tiny space, back to the Arcadian. Found a smile. ‘It’s fine. It’ll do.’ And then he noticed the doll’s house. ‘What’s that?’
The Arcadian smiled. ‘A hobby.’
The bear nodded, laughed. ‘Right.’ He turned to the Arcadian, the doll’s house forgotten. ‘But this is more important.’
He grabbed hold of the Arcadian, kissed him roughly on the mouth. The Arcadian responded. He felt the bear’s hands digging into him. His face pulled away. The bear looked at him.
‘D’you like it rough?’ Almost a whisper.
‘Yeah,’ the Arcadian nodded, ‘I do.’
He didn’t see the punch coming. It connected with the side of his face, spun him round, sent him reeling into the side of the cabin.
He staggered, put his hand to his mouth. Winced from the pain. It felt like his jaw had been dislocated.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ he shouted. He noticed the bear was wearing latex gloves. He hadn’t seen him put them on.
‘I like it rough too,’ said the bear, and swung at him again.
The Arcadian ducked, but the blow still connected with his ribs. The air went out of him and he fell to one knee, spilling old pizza cartons and plastic bottles off the table as he did so.
‘I’m… supposed to be in charge…’ said the Arcadian, getting to his feet. ‘Me…’
The bear was no longer smiling. He said nothing. Just punched the Arcadian again in the face. His head snapped back and he was down. The bear didn’t let him get up this time. He was on him again, punching him repeatedly. The Arcadian tried to fight back but the blows were too fast, too strong to respond to.
‘This what you want?’ the bear asked, pulling open the Arcadian’s belt, yanking down his jeans and underpants so that he was exposed. ‘This better?’
Another punch. The Arcadian could no longer see out of one eye.
He made another attempt to get to his feet, fighting the pain that had taken up sudden sharp residence in his body. The bear slapped him down. As he fell, he made a grab for the doll’s house, brought it down with him.
The bear pulled the Arcadian’s belt from his jeans, looped it round his neck. Pulled hard.
‘You fucked up,’ he whispered in the Arcadian’s ear. ‘Badly. Terminally.’
He pulled the belt tighter.
‘Should have left it to the professionals. Not some sad little wannabe like you. You shouldn’t have been anywhere near this.’
The Arcadian processed the words as quickly as he could, realised what was happening. He tried to talk, to argue. It was no good.
The belt was pulled tighter.
This couldn’t be happening, he thought. Not now. Not to him. He was the Arcadian. He was better than this. It was him who should be doing this, not receiving it. It made him so angry. So impotently angry.
The belt was pulled as tight as it could go.
The Arcadian gave up struggling.
Through his one working eye he saw the doll lying on the floor next to him. She was smiling. He smiled back.
Beyond that, in his mind’s eye, he saw a little red fire engine.
And beyond that, nothing.
No butterfly.