'Was it worth saving?'
Her voice dipped an octave.
'Come here and find out.'
I walked slowly down the alley until I was facing her. We stood not touching for a moment then I put my hands gently on her hips and we leaned into a kiss that started gentle and grew deep. I broke the clinch, moving my mouth down to her neck, feeling her hand beneath my jacket, warm against my spine. Sylvie pressed herself into me, digging her hipbone hard against my erection.
I asked, 'What about Dix?'
She stroked her hand down the length of my groin.
'This dick?'
'Your uncle or whoever he is.'
I breathed kisses against her neck, wondering why I was raising objections.
'Don’t worry about Dix. He’s been in trouble before. He’ll get out of it again.'
I wondered what she meant but then her hands moved to my fly, pushing all thoughts away. Her fingers slid inside my trousers, releasing me. I had her dress open down the front now. Her breasts were small and round, soft and firm at the same time. I lowered my mouth and Sylvie arched her back, pushing herself towards me but never letting off the pressure down below. I moved my own hands beneath her dress, pulling at her tights, not caring if I tore them. She whispered, 'Fuck me.' And I steered her against the wall, tugging her knickers down, feeling her soft wetness. I glanced up and saw her pale, smooth face, her mouth slightly open. A shadow hung beneath her cheekbone, the same shade as a bruise.
She looked young and vulnerable, defenceless beneath my rough hands.
Something inside me shifted and Sylvie whispered, 'You OK?'
I whispered, 'Shit.' Sylvie’s hand started to move, trying to revive me, but I knew it was no use. I pushed her away more roughly than I’d intended and she jarred her head against the doorway.
'Sorry.'
My voice grated in the darkness.
'It’s OK.' Sylvie rubbed the back of her head then started to button her dress. 'It happens.'
'Did I hurt you?'
'I’m in for a hangover tomorrow anyway.'
'I didn’t mean to hurt you.'
'Hey, William, it’s OK. It was an accident.'
I looked away and we started straightening our clothing, our awkward modesty at odds with the moments before. There was a sound of voices from the mouth of the alley, a couple of youths walked towards us and I realised the madness of what we’d been about to do. One of them said something to Sylvie as he passed and she answered him back in a short guttural phrase that made me think of Glasgow. I asked, 'What did he say?'
'Nothing.'
'Was he being funny?'
She ignored me, righting her dress. I groped through my scant vocabulary for an insult to throw at them.
'Shitzders.'
The boys looked back over their shoulders shouting something back at us, but not bothering to rise to the insult.
Sylvie’s voice was tired.
'Shitzder? That isn’t even a word.'
'They got the message.'
'I guess they did.'
We were back on the main street now. Glass display cases shone at the edge of the pavement boasting of the fine objects for sale in the adjacent department stores —
handbags, jewellery, shoes, accessories for your accessories — everything shiny, everything expensive. Two disembodied heads on impossibly long necks gazed out from one of the glass cubes, tiny hats teetering on their Marcel waves. Their stares were superior, as if they found the hatless passers-by rather common, too encumbered by flesh. Somewhere across the city I could see the illuminated sign of the Mercedes Benz building rotating slowly in the night sky. Hidden beyond it the half-ruined spire of the bomb-blasted memorial church would be shining out a warning against war.
Up ahead the lights of a taxi rank glowed into view, a row of white Mercs waiting for business. We walked to the top of the line, I opened the door and Sylvie got in.
'Want a lift?'
'No, I’ll walk, sober up a bit before I get to the hotel.'
Sylvie gave me a last kiss, her eyes glassy with tiredness, drink and almost-sex. Her smile shone from the cab’s shadows. 'You gonna be OK?'
'Don’t worry.'
'See you tomorrow?'
