AFTER LUNCH IN THE CAFE it was a long noisy afternoon in the shops with Irma. She took them to Fnac and bought tapes. Ry Cooder for Scully. Hoodoo Gurus for her. At Les Halles she bought herself Ysatis and splashed it on. In a taxi she took them to Galeries Lafayette where she found the same perfume cheaper and didn’t care. She bought Scully a silk shirt there and little red dancing shoes for Billie. In another taxi they went down to the big street market past Bastille and bought lychees and bananas and oranges. There were so many people and smells you couldn’t move. Irma found a saddle in the fleamarket but Scully said no, they couldn’t carry it. It was disappointing but she knew he was right. Then in a big street of ritzy furniture shops they saw a man with a wallaby in a dog-collar. It was a bad moment, but Irma didn’t notice.
And then, so quickly, it got dark.
• • •
ALL DAY SCULLY LET HER drink and buy while a strange cold calm settled on him. He saw it all pass by as though he weren’t quite in it himself. The feeling intensified in the little brasserie off the Rue Faubourg St Antoine. Amid the platters of Breton oysters, the bottles of champagne, the flash of cutlery and linen, the hiss of butter, the caramelizing scent of roasted garlic, time slipped by almost without him. He knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t actually believe it was happening.
He thought it was the terrible, necessary thing he was about to do, but it could have been the fact that he drank along with Irma. By nine he was cold, calculating and shitfaced.
Irma and Billie laughed at some half-arsed joke and jostled one another. He saw Irma’s even white teeth and the bleary brightness of her eyes. Pressed against his, her leg was warm and comforting, hardly the shock it might have been this morning. There was something complete about her tonight. She looked strangely content, magnanimous, and not all of it was the champagne. Maybe this is her, he thought. Maybe this is the person she must have been once – warm, funny, generous. Tonight her mouth was sensual and without a trace of cruelty. What horrible thing had happened to her between Liverpool and Berlin, between the big stops in her life? Those bruises, they meant other bruises, damage he couldn’t even guess at.
‘Are you dreaming, Scully?’
‘Hm? Yes, a bit.’
‘Billie was telling me about when she was born.’
Billie giggled in embarrassment.
‘Well . . . she was born fugly, you see.’
‘Fugly?’
‘Like extra-double ugly with cheese. It’s when ugly goes off the scale. She looked like an angry handbag.’
Billie squawked in delight. ‘Tell the truth!’
‘That is the truth. Scout’s honour, I asked for my money back.’
‘Stop!’ said Billie giggling out of control.
‘Here, take another pill.’
Irma’s eyes glistened. She ordered more champagne and held both their hands. She seemed about to cry. She leaned into Scully and he felt her breath on his ear.
‘I hate her for leaving you,’ she whispered.
Scully set his teeth. ‘We don’t know she did,’ he said carefully, awkward in front of the child.
‘Even if she didn’t I’d still feel the same.’
‘Well,’ he chuckled mirthlessly, ‘you’re just hard to get along with.’
‘Try me.’
• • •
LATER THEY STUMBLED UP toward the old neighbourhood. The sound of bells roosted on the wind.
‘Hear the bells?’ cried Billie, exhausted and jumpy. ‘Hear the bells?’
In the Little Horseshoe, where labourers, junkies, transvestites and students gathered to see in Christmas, Irma began to drink Calvados and Scully backed off onto beer. Now that she’d stopped moving, Billie wilted quickly and Scully saw that it was ten o’clock. He tried to steady himself. Not a bad place to say goodbye to Paris. This was it, his last drink. Irma was blasted. This was surely it. He dragged them out into the street.
Beneath the bare chestnuts, her breath billowing back from her, Billie ran ahead on a final burst of energy while Scully helped Irma along the pavement.
‘Did you enjoy the day?’
‘I hoped you might forgive me.’
‘Of course I forgive you,’ he lied.
‘Christ, look at that.’
Up ahead, outside the Prefecture of Police and the armoured booth at the doorway, Billie danced with two cops, a man and a woman. Round and round they went, the three of them holding hands. Submachine guns clanked at their hips. Their quiet laughter carried on the cold, sulphuric air, rooting Scully to the spot.
• • •
THERE WAS A MERCIFUL CROWD in the tiny hotel lobby, a warehouse of piled luggage and language that Scully weaved through unchallenged with Irma and Billie, grateful he’d kept the room key on him all day. The mob noise echoed up the curving stairwell as Scully urged Irma along. Billie went ahead with the key.
‘Nice place you have here,’ Irma said, slumping against the banister. ‘Is this a spiral staircase or am I just pissed?’
‘Both,’ said Scully looking up at her firm backside and giving her a shove onwards that caused her to shriek and giggle. He was drunk himself but he could still see the whole night ahead.
‘How many more floors?’
‘Next one.’
Irma tipped on her little boots and rested against the wallpaper. Hair fell into her eyes and she tilted her head back to clear it, exposing her long neck, white and marked.
‘Help me, Scully.’
‘Come on, you can make it another flight.’
‘Help me.’
Scully joined her on the step and she opened her eyes but did not look at him. She grabbed his lapel.
‘Can’t you help me, Scully?’
‘You want me to carry you.’
She pulled him to her and looked into his face. She kissed him with her eyes open while her tongue travelled across his teeth, his lips, his chin. Scully felt her pelvis rock into his and he reached behind with one hand and pulled her tighter, feeling her butt clench.
‘It’s what you want,’ she said. ‘To help me.’
Scully picked her up and staggered on with her sucking his neck and pulling at his sweater. Up the stairwell from the ground floor came the screech of brakes and a roaring cheer as somebody’s bus arrived. Scully saw the open door and steadied.
‘And I’ll help you, Scully.’
He couldn’t bring himself to answer, but he knew she was right.
• • •
BILLIE FELL ASLEEP WITH HER shoes on and her backpack still hanging from one arm. Scully lowered Irma into a chair and knelt down to make the kid comfortable. He pulled off her boots, unhooked the pack and her jacket, and rolled her under the covers. He turned out the light and left the bathroom door ajar. The drapes lay open to the soft sandstone light of the city. He leaned his head against the window to get his breath back. Behind him, Irma fished in her bag for a bottle and sighed.
‘Where are you staying?’ he murmured. ‘Where’s your stuff?’
‘Here.’
He turned and saw her holding the bottle out to him. He shook his head. He walked past her and locked the door. He felt the bottle pressed into the small of his back and he turned to where she sat smiling blearily up at him. Irma placed a heel on his thigh. It bit into his skin. He looked down her leg and then back at the sleeping child. Irma tilted the bottle and drank deeply. He watched her, saw her pale neck moving in the dimness.
He took hold of her ankle and she planted the other boot on his free thigh. He moved his hands down her legs. Her tights crackled with static and he was surprised at the softness of her flesh as he held her calves. He held tight to keep his hands from shaking. Weeks of pent-up frustration smoked in him. He watched her pull down her tights and pants, still drinking from the bottle.
‘Billie,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Billie’s no longer the point.’
Her skin was ivory in the dark. The bottle fell and Scully lost his clear, hard sight of the night and yanked her to the floor where she grabbed at his belt and ricked up her skirt till her boots ground at the back of his legs. He slid into her with her breasts in his hands and his knees burning on the carpet. Her breath was volatile. It filled his mouth.
‘You need me, don’t you,’ she gasped.
‘Shh.’
He covered her mouth with his hand and felt her tongue between his fingers and then her teeth in his palm and her nails in his buttocks. She was soft to touch, too soft, like something overripe, but he clung to her knowing she was right. He needed her in more ways than he could make plain to anyone. He felt his desperation winding into hers, his lies into hers, his gratitude, his shame, the shocking current that surged down his spine.