It was alright with Claire. Nothing wild. She wouldnt do the poppers. But it was pretty intense all the same. We hooked up this morning at Keith’s place after the Ship hove me out. Someone told me at the Ship that a couple of lads from the Shore were down at Keith’s, playin guitar and shit. I got it in me head that it was Corey and them, from the Cold fuckin Shoulder, and so I reckon I went lookin for a racket, maybe. But there was no guitars or nothing on the go when I got there and Keith told me it was just a bunch in from the Goulds. But that’s hardly the fuckin Shore now is it? I glanced around the room and there was little Claire, sat down at a very familiar old wooden table. My fuckin table, however it ended up in Keith’s rathole. He told me it was Monica’s, that she had no place else to put it for now. The table my dead mother gave Massie. Family fuckin heirloom. And Val traded it with Monica for a slice of skin. See how everything eventually comes out in the wash, how everything comes back around? Old fucker. I went and checked the drawer, slid me hand inside and dug around for this supposed false fuckin bottom, but couldnt find a latch or button or nothing to indicate it existed. I tries to pull the drawer outta the table altogether, but it was built to stay put. I told Keith to prepare himself for a visit from the repo man in the very near future. I let it go for then though, content to know where it was at least. Then I just went straight for Claire. Had to pry her away from the stench of that Clyde Whelan cunt though and he kept askin:
—Where’s Donna, Clayton? She was looking for you earlier.
I told him where to go then and he’s a big sulky fucker so there was a bit of tension till Keith drove everyone out. Out in the alley, Clyde had the fuckin gall to go offer to put Claire in a cab. She wouldnt hear tell of it. I linked me arm in hers and nodded at him as we passed up the alleyway.
I wasnt hardly drinkin, just takin it easy. She wasnt fucked up either. I dont like that shit anyhow, when they aint really thinkin straight. I dont know; I dont get the same satisfaction out of it. But if they goes and gets fucked up with me, after I’m well sure there’s a bit of skin on the horizon, well that dont bother me much. Some fellas though, some fuckheads thrives on it, and the more fucked up the young one is the better. That’s why that date-rape pill is so rampant on George Street these days. Cause the place is fulla weak, cowardly pricks, drove cracked by their own failures and insecurities. Too socially delayed to converse with a real young one by the light of day. Sick shit that is. Fellas like that, sure they’d prob’ly fuck a mattress. What’s the difference? I s’pose they thinks it’s less work or whatever, a shortcut. But I’d say it’s twice the work really, havin to put her in a cab and then lug her into your house and up the stairs while she vomits and bawls. Then sure you gotta get her boots and her pants and top and bra off. Then she’s just lyin there while you does all the pushin for fuck sakes. And how can ya not feel a little…lesser once it’s over with, knowin that the only way you could manage to get your skin was to drug her and drag her home like some fuckin caveman? Sick and depraved retards is all they are. Sure that’s the way that Dahmer fucko in the States started out, druggin fellas in the nightclubs and gettin off on the notion they were dead bodies and shit. George Street hey?
Claire snorin soft alongside me. The sun is shinin in on her blue-streaked hair. She’s hardly the One, but I likes her all the same. I blows a cloud of smoke on her face and dont she look fuckin dandy. Val downstairs tunin his new guitar. I lies there with me head tucked into the cold feather pillow I swiped outta his room. I does some thinkin about me script, watches Claire sleepin till the doorbell sounds and the cigarette burns into me knuckles. I musta dozed off. Val tromps down the stairs and I hears him at the front door, all surprised and delighted to see you-knows-fuckin-who. I havent laid eyes on Donna in nearly a week now. Fuck her I said there one evening when she called me up at the Hatchet. I wouldnt come to the phone cause I was on a winnin streak at the pool and there was a few dollars on the line. She had the bartender shout out across the bar that me supper was done and on the table. So I said fuck that shit. That’s all I needs now is some missus with a contract out on me head every time I takes a piss. When are you comin home? Where were you all night? Let’s curl up and watch a movie. Fuck all that. I jumped onto a bus outside the bar and went to Shea Heights for the night. I got a few places to crash up there and be fucked if anyone can track me down.
Val downstairs right loud sayin Come on in, come in my love. He fuckin well knows I aint up here on me own cause he was sittin at the table with a bottle of whiskey this morning when me and Claire came in. He never spoke or nothing, just a grunt and a glance at Claire. He gets in his so-called trances when he’s workin and I tries to stay out of ’is way. But he fuckin well knows better than to let Donna in now. He knows I dont want her around. She’s after gettin right in with him though, so she comes around whenever she likes, whether I’m home or not. Pretty goddamn slick. Never see her when Monica’s around though. Speaking of which, I should fuckin well spill them beans shouldnt I? Monica, back and forth between Val and Keith. That’d stir shit up alright. I should tell Val I was there already too. Blow it all wide open.
The chimney runs up the wall just outside me room and when there’s no fire on the go I can pretty much hear anything said in the main room downstairs. I hears Donna askin for me, but not in any kinda sincere way.
—Wheeeere is he?
Like, ohhh my, whatever are we gonna do with that Clayton, he’s such a darn rascal. Fuck. Cunty-eyed fuck. And then of course Val comes to the foot of the stairs and roars out to me, sayin how me girlfriend is here. I can hear the nuisance in his voice cause he fuckin knows Claire is here with me, the fucker. Claire sleeps through it though. I should just drag her outta bed right here and now and march down the stairs with one hand on her hole, straight into the kitchen just to see the look on Donna’s booze-logged snout. Yes by the fuck, that’d put an end to all this shit pretty quick. I nudges Claire and she opens one eye and smiles right shy, like she’s only half able to remember the nailin I gave her this morning with the day still barely breakin through the curtains.
—What time is it?
—Time to get up I s’pose. Want coffee?
She rolls on her side towards me and slides her hand down across me gut. I sucks it in outta reflex. She giggles before latchin onto the head of me cock with her long shiny fingernails. She gives it a little tweak and I’m ready to have at her all over again. That’s the best time for it, first thing when you opens your eyes. No fuckin around. No better way to start your day, ’specially with a strange bit. I tries to jab it right in her but she’s too dry so I slips down under the covers and sucks the nub of her little clit into me mouth. I grabs her arms and pins ’em to the bed. Val bangin on the ceiling downstairs with a broom or something:
—Clayton? You up?
She grabs me by the hair and starts grindin me face off her pussy and buckin her hips and I looks up and she’s bitin into the pillow so I knows she’s ready to blow and when I feels her thighs shakin and squeezin in on me head I flies up and drives me cock into her as hard as I can with Val back at the foot of the stairs wantin me downstairs to entertain, to hurry up, get up, get up, get off, come on, come on and I am, I’m comin, I’m comin:
—I’m fuckin well comin!
I pulls out, cause I dont know if she’s on the pill or not, and shoots across her tacky little unicorn tattoo just above her belly button. She catches some in her hand and wipes it into the bedsheets. I can hear Donna downstairs hackin up a lung and fuck, wouldnt it be nice to get all three of us together some night?
Claire lies there with her eyes closed and her head arched back on the pillow with just the ghost of a grin on her face. I gets up and hauls on me jeans. She dont even bother to stop me and that’s fuckin right too, cause I cant stand the first five minutes or so afterwards. Gimme the first five minutes on me own and I’m fine then for chattin and maybe even a fuckin cuddle or so. Cause I’m too fuckin out there, too susceptible, stripped bare. I generally hates meself and anyone who thinks they can see me clear. And I knows it’s typical but I’m just sayin if I’m pushed, if she tries to put me on the old guilt trip just cause I dont wanna chat and look into her eyes and fuckin connect and that sorta shit, then I’ll fuckin lose it. Sure how much more connected can you get? Balls and all is not fuckin enough or what? Five minutes to collect meself, that’s not so much to ask.
Val bawls out again and Claire sits up.
—Who’s that?
—Me uncle. He’s right on though. You can go back to sleep if you like.
—Are you going out?
—No, no. I’ll be back up. Go back to sleep girl.
I pulls the curtains closed to make the prospect more appealing to her. She puts her face out for a kiss and I gives her a quick peck and leaves. I meets Donna on the stairs.
—Well now. You’re not dead after all.
—Got a smoke?
—Is that all you have to say after almost six days?
She hands me a smoke. I turns her around and leads her back down the stairs. Val is standin near the bottom pickin at his guitar, listenin, waitin to see if I was found out or not. Found out. For the love of fuck. Not like we’re a fuckin couple now is it? I can fuckin well do what I like and nothing or no one is gonna say otherwise. Supper on the table. Come home to your supper! Fuck that shit.
Donna walks into the living room, but I just keeps on down the hall, grabs me jacket off the floor and pulls it on.
—Where you going now?
—Out.
Val loves it all. He comes into the hallway pluckin away at the guitar, lookin straight at me with his trademark vacant, disconnected smirk.
—Made some racket this morning my son.
—I’m surprised you’d remember…
—Ohh I remember. Thought the light fixtures might come smashing onto the floors. Pictures falling off the walls in the hallway.
Donna looks back and forth between us.
—In a state was he?
—State? Yes. But never too far gone, hey Clayton?
—I can hold me own.
—My own. I can hold my own. Go get a dictionary my son.
—I aint your goddamn son.
—No you’re not. Cause it’s no trouble to see who you take after.
Well now that’s a low fuckin blow. I’m hardly awake and this is the shit I’m expected to take? The reek of sugary booze off him enough to turn me stomach. Donna standin there, shakin her head right along with him, like it’s nice to see that someone’s finally puttin Clayton Reid in his place. I picks up me boots and sees there’s still a bit of rat guts dried on the toe. Been too long since I gave ’em a good polish. But I dont even stop long enough in the porch to lace ’em up. I’m out through the door into the dusty dry fall sunshine. Fuck Donna now too. If she wants to stay, and waits around long enough for Claire to get up, then she’s welcome to it. And fuck Val. I knows what he was on about anyhow, just tryin to pick enough of a row with me so’s he could rat me out about Claire. But he underestimates me. Or he overestimates, thinkin he knows how to hit me where I might give a fuck. But I dont. Give a fuck. I really dont.
I’m halfway down Cathedral Street, near that new massage parlour I’m dyin to check out once I gets the money, when Donna rounds the corner and squawks at me to wait up. Yeah, like I’m really clippin along here with the one good foot. But still I stops and lets her catch up. She’s done something with her hair. Coloured it maybe. It seems not so drastically blond. She got them tight white slacks on too and I sees there’s no drawers underneath. She’s lookin pretty healthy to tell the truth. Must be the sunlight. And then I thinks on Claire up waitin in the bedroom. What’s she gonna do when she goes downstairs and meets Val and realizes who he is and where she’s to? Fuck. Maybe she’ll sleep awhile longer and I’ll be back before she’s up. Dont have any set direction now anyhow, just wanted Donna outta the house and she’s such a sucker I knew she’d come chasin after me. Now all I gotta do is make the right kinda uproar till she fucks off out of it. But she’s lookin right wicked and I knows she wants her skin where I havent been around for nearly a week. And it was a few days before that since we had our last romp. Fuck. I’m shockin.
—So, did you get it out of your system Clayton?
That’s her little catchphrase see.
—What?
There’s a bit of bite to the wind and her nipples goes right hard under her sweater.
—Are you coming home Clayton?
—Home? I just came from home.
—Oh yeah…
She smiles outta the one side of her face, shakes her head slow like she’s sayin that I just dont get it, like she’s got a clearer picture, all the answers to my fuckin life. But she’s the one who dont fuckin get it. I dont bend over for nothing or no one. And I’m gone if I gets it in me head. Gone. I’ll find some way to gather up the cash and just hit the highway with what clothes I got on me back. And dont fuckin well look at me like that to tempt me, missus. If that’s what it takes to get clear of you, then yes by the fuck I got no qualms about skippin the fuckin country for a while. I done it before didnt I? Yes I did.
—How’s your foot? Clayton?
I realizes then that I aint puttin any weight atall on it and I’m leaned up against a construction sign for balance. Always reconstructing something around these parts, rippin up roads and sidewalks that were fine the day before. That’s how it works though, they gotta blow their load every year to get a refill for the next.
—Why dont you come down to the apartment and give it a rest? Soak it in the tub for a while. There’s wine.
She’s got her lips right tight that way, like when she’s expecting the worst. I s’pose she’s at the end of ’er rope with me and really it must take a lot of self-control for her not to tell me where to fuckin go. But I s’pose she must realize that I dont mean to be such a prick. I really dont. It’s just that I have an idea of how I wants me life to be and she just dont fit the picture. And it’s not like I’m sayin I’m better than ’er, cause I aint. I knows I’m hardly the bee’s fuckin knees. It’s just that I didnt meet ’er in my world, but more or less she’s goin out of ’er way to dig into my world. So I cant shake the notion that she’s not really bein real, that she’s taggin along like a little spoiled cousin up from Town for the weekend. Nor do I see nothing I likes in her world. A couple of weeks ago she pretty much begged me to go hang out with her brother and his friends (one of ’em bein that knobbly Jeremy the Jaw bastard that I felt like bashin), and so we all hooked up at fuckin Bianca’s and, honest to fuck, I couldnt last ten minutes with all the hockey talk and real-estate news and how much this one fella is bench-pressin these days and which supplement this fella’s takin and watchin ’em choke on them twenty-dollar so-called Cuban cigars when they had no clue whether or not the fuckin things coulda came from Needs on Military Road. My world? I wasnt long dartin across to the Hatchet.
—Full bottle, not even opened…
This is fucked, that she thinks she can just lure me into her pants with a fuckin bottle of cheap wine this early in the day. But me foot is fairly killin me and just thinkin about that little Claire back in me bed in the buff. Fuck.
She got the bath runnin with everything steamin over in the living room. I sucks back a smoke and takes a couple of Tylenol with a drop of wine. White fuckin wine at that. Not exactly what I calls a drink, where it’s right cold from the fridge and you can barely taste the alcohol off it. She conned me, sly fucker that she is. She’s hummin away to herself in the bathroom, in ’er glory cause she knows where I am and she got me where she wants me. I hops back into the kitchen for a refill, and I notices something fucked that I didnt catch on the way in. That supper she called me home to, the other night at the bar when I was playin pool, is still laid out. There’s an upside-down wineglass and a knife and fork all laid out nice with a napkin and shit. And the supper, what I s’pose musta been a pork chop and mashed potatoes and maybe some peas, is there on the plate with an inch thick of white fuzz growin off it. There’s even a slice of apple pie on the side that actually still looks fit to eat. What kinda fuckin power trip is this now I wonder? Sick. S’pose she’s lookin for an apology or some such kinda talk is she? S’pose she wants to know where we fuckin stands and all that? Well she coulda figured that out when I never showed up for supper.
—Clayton, are you getting in? Bring me a glass too.
I grabs another glass and the bottle, tries me best to walk upright to the bathroom. And there she is sunk down in the bubbles with just her face showin and a stick of incense burnin that’s enough to suffocate ya.
I sits on the toilet and gets me boots and pants off and then me shirt. Her starin at me cock like it’s the first one she ever saw. She sits up straight in the tub when I moves to it, but I gives ’er a little nudge with me knee and she moves down the tub closer to the taps. I slips in behind her so’s she tucked in between me legs and I got the bird’s-eye view of her rickety spinal cord. Nice and hot though, the way I likes it. Be nice to have the fuckin thing to meself. That’s twice she conned me now. Sly? Dont be talkin. Still, at least she’s not sayin much. Me head cant handle havin to root around for explanations and comin up with ways to make ’er feel secure and all that heavy shit right now. I’ve been hard at it again for the past while. Nothing I cant control though. But no wonder I can hardly walk cause I’m way too rough with me foot when I got a few in me. It’s throbbin now in the hot bathwater like that’s where me heart is after endin up. It feels swollen, but I knows it’s not. Some fuckin sick of it I am. Went to the doctor with it about two or three years ago and he found nothing wrong with it, said it was healed up just fine. Said the only thing he could think to do would be to break it all over again. I laughed in his face. Fuck that. Nothing worse than a big clunky fuckin cast on your foot to make you look the proper fool, havin to slice the legs out of all your pants and wrap it in a fuckin garbage bag to get a shower. I wasnt long takin a fuckin hacksaw to it down in Randy’s basement. This is what he said to me now, on the way home from the hospital he goes:
—Soon as that cast is off I wants you outta the house. Hear that?
Him sluggin back the port wine in the car, eyes nearly welded shut. And so I does what any normal fucker’d do in that situation, gave it a week or so and then cut it off with a hacksaw, learned how to limp. No fuckin way was I spendin another minute in that house. That’s cause Anne-Marie was movin in, that’s why he said that. Old bag.
Donna leans ahead and lights a candle on the other end of the tub, one of them scented ones too that’re all the rage these days. When she’s not lookin I pinches out the stick of incense. She slides back between me legs and nearly crushes me nuts. I yelps a bit and she says sorry and I starts to go hard. She takes me foot in her hand and starts rubbin it and I lays me head back with a face cloth over me eyes while she presses the small of ’er back off me cock. But she’s tryin to make it seem like she’s not doin it on purpose, like she leans ahead and then shifts to the side as if it’s all part of ’er foot-rubbin technique, but we both knows it’s just cause she wants ’er skin. That’s why she’s not sayin nothing too, cause she’s afraid she’ll get a racket on the go and fuck up her chances of a quick one. That’s me she got good and pinned down now dont she? This heartbroke, theatrical sigh out of ’er then. Oh yeah, here it fuckin comes.
—Clayton, I know you’re just waiting around for someone better to come along…
—Donna…
—No, just listen. I know you’re not really into this as a permanent thing, but cant we just have fun and…and be decent with each other while it lasts? Is that so much to ask?
She’s all choked up now too, barely able to get that last bit out. Fuck. So much for a nice relaxing dip in the tub. I knew it wouldnt fuckin last anyhow cause that’s the first goddamn sign, when they’re all pensive and quiet with ya. You knows right away they got some heavy soul-searchin shit goin on and they wants you in on it. Fuck sakes.
—Lemme out…
—Clayton…
—No come on, it’s killin me foot…
She leans ahead in the bubbles and I steps out onto the cold ceramic floor. She got her head down and lays her hand on the small of me back without lookin at me, like I needs her to steady me or something. I scoops up me jeans and keeps one hand against the wall and hops through to the bedroom.
I flops back on the bed with me gut and thighs beet red from the bath, me heart beatin outta me chest like some battle drum. Donna got the hairdryer goin and hey, maybe she’s still in the tub and might just drop it by accident, put ’er out of ’er obvious misery. Fuck, she shouldnt be so fuckin foolish to put up with me. There’s lotsa fuckers that’d line up to have a go at her.
I looks around the room and I’m disgusted to see so much of my shit lyin around. Shirts and drawers and socks on a shelf in the corner that she musta had to the laundrymat. A few novels and a book of poetry on the end table on my side of the bed. Christ. The poems are from that Robert Dawe fucker who’s always hangin off the bar at the Hatchet, spewin shit with the Guinness stained onto the corners of his mouth. They calls him Toddler. Big long silver ponytail. Hardly string a sentence together and the next thing you know he’s launchin a fuckin book and an album at the same fuckin time. An actor he is too, they says he’s after bein in just about everything that’s come off the Island for the past fifteen years. Cant say I’m familiar with much of his work though. Yeah, they’re all fuckin actors and writers and singers and fuckin dancers. Val with his nine guitars and the movie work besides, and still scroungin for a smoke half the time. What’s the good of that? I’ll show all of ’em wont I? Yes I will. When I’m ready.
I picks up Dawe’s book and looks it over. It’s called Poetry. How fuckin lazy is that? None of the poems have titles either, just whatever the first line is, that’s what he goes and names it. I was so drunk at his launch, I cant see meself buyin it. I musta swiped it off the table in the middle of the madness. Cause it was fuckin cracked alright. Dawe had a full band on the go and he never stopped only to slop Guinness down his chin. Dont know how he managed to keep the crowd hangin around though, with his barefaced fuckin hatred for everybody, spittin and cursin down the mic at people, just cause they were talkin. It’s different when you sees a young band actin all savage and angry with the world and badmouthin the audience, but for a fella in his fifties who can barely carry a note? I dont know. They needs their so-called fuckin stars I s’pose. But there was some wicked women on the go too. This one dandy one, Christ, I came that close to makin an arse outta meself. Finest creature I’ve yet to lay eyes on in this fuckin town. I reckon she mighta worked there too cause she kept goin in behind the bar. I’ve been up to the Ship a few times since but she hasnt been around. She spent half the night out on the dance floor and I spent half the night watchin her dance, her arms raised in the air and her skirt risin up her thighs, skippin and smilin without a worry in the world, her tight tee-shirt soaked with sweat, plastered to her breasts. Then she’d dart into the backroom, Dawe’s fuckin dressing room. My Christ, she’s the One, now that I thinks on it. But I’ll be sober the next time. I shoulda went on into the backroom meself, cause I do whenever Val is playin there, but I couldnt. I was too fucked up. Slammin that fuckin Hard Lemonade shit. That stuff is potent. Next thing I knows the show is over and there she is fallin out through the doors arm in arm with fuckin Dawe. Toddler. Neither of ’em with a leg to stand on. Fuckin old geezer like that with a fine piece of skin like her? Make ya sick.
I stretches out on the bed and slides me hand in under Donna’s pillow. Something under there, a book maybe. I pulls it out and flips it over. A fuckin framed picture of me. Never seen it before, dont know where or when it was took. For fuck sakes. This is gone far enough now. Supper on the table.
I flies up off the bed and pulls me jeans and shirt on and starts tossin all me shit in a pile on the floor, all that folded-up shit, mounds of dirty socks and dirtier drawers from under the bed that she mustnta caught, jackets from the closet, me sleepin bag, books and tapes and that empty notepad she laid out for me, pens and pencils and that fuckin framed picture. Nice shot though. I looks pretty fuckin hard, not to be fucked with. I can see why she’d want it. I hauls on a fresh pair of socks and goes through to the kitchen for a garbage bag, but there’s none where they normally are. I grabs a handful of Dominion grocery bags and back in the room I starts stuffin me shit into ’em. She comes in behind me and laughs first, wantin to know what I’m up to.
—Makin it easier on ya girl.
She standin there with a towel wrapped around her chest. I can just see the shadow of her puss where the towel stops. A bead of moisture trickles down the inside of her reddened thigh. Fuck. She’s lookin around the room all frantic now, realizin I aint fuckin around.
—Are you leaving?
These fuckin bags are that cheap now, the corners of the books digs right through and falls to the floor when I goes to lay it on the bed. Cheap fuckwads with their recycled fuckin plastic. Made with more than 50% recycled plastics. Half made up of rotted garbage is what they means. Sure they gotta use twice as much of ’em to bag your groceries. Fuck the environment if you cant even lug a few books around.
—Clayton?
I aint gettin into it with ’er. No way. If I’m quick enough maybe I can still catch Claire and make an evening of it. Down to the last bag now and there’s no way I’m fittin the rest of me shit in it. No way I’m comin back for it either.
—Clayton why?
Because I’m sick of it. It’s one thing to hang around and get kinky and have a few drinks every now and then, but it’s another thing altogether to be shackin up. Not what I had in mind when I came back to St. John’s, to go gettin all tangled up and tucked away. I’ll get that itch now soon enough and I’ll be hittin the road. I’m actually tryna make it easier on ’er. Truth. I knows she’s all fuckin smitten with me already and when the time comes I’ll only fuckin destroy ’er, to put it mildly. And there’s nothing that makes leavin easier than someone screechin and howlin in your face, beggin you to stay. She’s better off that I fucks off right now rather than a year down the road. Cause it’s inevitable that I will fuck off whenever I gets the notion. She’s tough as nails sure. She’ll drink her way through the first few weeks and I’ll hafta keep a low profile. Then she’ll turn on me and start fuckin around with certain people so’s I’ll get a whiff of it, hopin I’ll come stormin back into ’er life to claim what’s supposedly mine. But when I fails to put up any protest she’ll start hatin herself and realizin how stunned she’s gettin on, drivin her friends batty, no fun atall, goin on and on about me and how great I am while they all calls me down to the fuckin dirt. Bawlin on their shoulders and havin to be carried home every night of the week. All the friends in the world’ll take a few steps back then cause they’ll be sick ta fuckin death of ’er. And then she’ll just hafta bite the bullet and get on with her goddamn life.
—Who is she Clayton?
Fuck sakes. So typical.
—Donna, we’re not a fuckin couple, we’re not goin out. We settled that ages ago. So I just needs to be on me own for a bit. This is too fucked up.
—What is? What’s fucked up? Hot baths and wine?
But like I said, I’m hardly gonna weaken me position here by fuckin explaining meself. I does what I like, that’s the way it is and always was. Just because we works out well in the sack she cant very well expect me to grind against me own nature. No.
I hooks as many bags over me fingers as I can, but there’s still half a dozen on the floor. She goes to pick one up but I sticks out me foot and stops ’er. She stands back against the dresser with her arms crossed and ’er head down and she looks like she’ll either screech or bat me across the face. I hope she fuckin hits me. That’d be fuckin wicked.
Her hand vaguely searches the top drawer for a smoke but she’s not gonna find none cause I got ’em here in me pocket. Fuck that, she got lotsa money with her fancy cubicle job. It’s hard goin, but the bags on the floor I manages to slide along the carpet with me bad foot, while the other ones are almost slicin through me fingers. This is no good. I’ll never make it to the top of Prescott like this. I drops the bags and walks through to the back storage room. Nice little tucked-away spot that she told me I could turn into a writin space if I wanted. I said fuck that. I pulls down her big leather suitcase off the ceiling in the storage room and lugs it back out to the bedroom.
—You’re not taking that are you?
—Why? You’re not doin nothing with it.
—No but, it’s expensive. I need it back.
—I’ll give it back tomorrow.
—So you’re comin back then?
—I’ll put it in a cab.
—Clayton please just tell me what’s happening! Do you…do you…?
No I fuckin dont missy, so dont bother askin. I’ve been sucked into that scene once too often, cant go out through the door or take a piss without makin sure you’re well loved? Fuck all that. It’s sad and vicious but I loves nothing and fuckin no one these days. I shoves all the bags into the suitcase without even emptyin ’em out. It’s a tight squeeze to get it closed and it weighs a ton but there’s wheels on the bottom so it wont be so bad goin up the hill. On me way out the front door I gets a fit of the giggles, cause I realizes what a psycho I must look like, makin off with her leather suitcase. I always wanted one of these. She’s standin there now with a bit of a grin on too, like she’s turnin things around, tryna see the funny side, lookin to share the moment with me. I cuts ’er queer notions short though, with me trademark steely-eyed Reid stare that should send the message home that no, sorry girlie, me and you have never shared a moment and never will, it was all just…fucking.
—Clayton I…
Dont you fuckin say it. Dont you fuckin dare.
I’m out then, and I can feel ’er eyes drillin into the back of me head and like I said I knows I’m a little prick, but this is fuckin preservation of the self we’re talkin about and that’s gotta take precedence over whether or not some missus gets ’er feelings hurt. I mean, fuck, gimme a break.
I’m hardly gone twenty feet from the door before one of the wheels on the suitcase gives out and cracks off. That makes it near fuckin impossible to roll the clunky fucker up the hill. I tries pullin it by the strap but it topples over on its side so I just drags it like that. Dandy tough leather suitcase too, hope it dont rip through cause I can put it to good use pretty soon once I hits the road. Me foot is gone again, sorta numb on the inside but with the skin all ablaze and itchy. I’m puttin most of the weight on me heel by the time I cuts across Gower Street. Shoulda soaked it in the tub for another while longer. A sharp stabbing pain in me chest now. I feels like goin the way of the suitcase and just floppin over on the pavement, only who’s gonna fuckin well drag me home out of it? Worst thing I could do now is stop.
I cuts up a pathway between Gower and Bond with the suitcase draggin behind and when I trundles onto the street I’m nearly run down by some fuckin maniac in a…fuck, that’s Val. No licence or nothing. With fuckin Claire in the passenger seat. He leans on the horn and she sticks ’er arm out the window and waves without lookin back at me. They got the music on bust. One of Val’s albums. Of course. The sun catches on Claire’s shiny red nail polish as the car rips past a stop sign, narrowly missin some matted and filthy old tabby tomcat, out on the prowl and not hurtin no one, just tryna make his way home.