or from restaurants, cafes or cinemas, forming one enormous amoebic mass until each face became indistinguishable from the next. Shanine moved among them, glad of the anonymity the crowd offered.
She chewed at the Mars Bar as she walked, the craving in her belly satisfied long ago. The food should last her another day or so she guessed.
And then what?
It was money she was desperately short of.
The smell of body odour that tugged at her nostrils was, she knew, her own.
Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a nice long soak in a bath, followed by a soft bed.
Perhaps if she could find a hostel. She knew there were plenty in London. If she could find one …
What if they found her there?
For all she knew they were already searching for her.
How would they know she was in London?
They seemed to know everything.
They knew her thoughts before she did.
Ahead of her the lights grew even brighter and she heard music blasting out into the night. Loud and powerful.
She paused at the door of The Crystal Room, looking in at the massive array of electronic games, the noises they made competing with the music for supremacy.
She could see people inside. Mostly young men.
There were some young women, mostly in groups of three or four. Some standing talking, others playing the machines.
Girls like her.
She stepped in, looking around. The music seemed to engulf her.
“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous One or two of the occupants of the place glanced at her.
‘Here we are now, entertain us… .’
She had no idea what she was looking for in this place.
Was it help she sought?
‘I feel stupid and contagious
Standing beside one of the motor racing games, a tall man with a barrel chest and neck as thick as chopped oak watched her from behind his sunglasses.
‘Here we are now, entertain us….’
Shanine heard rattling behind her as money spilled from one of the machines and the happy winner scooped up his bounty.
Money.
She looked at it as a starving man would look at food.
The tall man watched her.
Shanine wandered slowly around The Crystal Room, the music still thundering in her ears.
‘A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido Some of the faces in here were pale and gaunt like her own.
Lost. Afraid.
She walked towards the exit.
No help in there.
The tall man watched.
The music blasted on. A deafening litany.
A denial. A denial. A denial
It swept her back out into the night.
Thirty-seven
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.
Fifteen years.
Twenty.
Longer?
James Talbot sat in his armchair, the glass of whiskey clutched in one hand, his head lowered, his cheeks streaked.
He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.
How many was that?
He’d lost count.
He’d drink the entire contents of the bottle if he had to. All he wanted was oblivion. At the moment he was even being denied that.
Fuck it.
He looked across at the TV set, the screen blank. His own reflection was the only thing that showed there; slumped in the chair gripping the glass.
Just like his father used to be.
His father.
That fucking, stinking, drink-raddled piece of shit.
‘Cunt’ hissed Talbot, sniffing back more tears.
From the top of the TV set, the photograph of his mother gazed back at him.
He couldn’t hold that blank gaze, and downed what was left in his glass rather than face her stare.
Accusing. Denouncing.
It’ll be your fault if she dies.
He shook his head.
You left her to rot in that place. You said you did it for her sake but you lied, didn’t you? It was for you. You couldn’t cope with her. You didn’t want to cope with her. You couldn’t be bothered. Your career came first. You discarded her like a dirty tissue.
‘No,’ grunted Talbot. He reached down the side of his chair and pulled up the bottle of Jameson’s, pouring a large measure into his glass, swigging it.
She’ll die there now. Because of you.
He shook his head, felt more tears pouring warmly down his face.
The tears used to come afterwards, didn’t they?
How long since he’d cried? Twenty years?
Try thirty-two.
That was when it had first started, wasn’t it?
He’d been four years old when he’d first smelled that whiskey stink in his face, felt those hands on his body, felt them touching him, forcing him to touch too.
Four when he’d felt that agony for the first time.
Penetration.
Talbot took another hefty swig.
It made him cough. Choke.
Remember that sensation too. Choking. Gagging as it was forced into your mouth. That salty, bitter taste, then the oily, tingling sensation in your
throat and the smell of the whiskey. The rough hands.
Talbot sat forward in his chair, hands pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode, so full of memories was it.
Vivid and painful like cuts across his consciousness.
Jesus it was all fucking pain.
It was then and it was now.
But she’d been there to help sometimes. She’d tried to help. To help you.
She’d fought with him. She’d fought with your father until he’d beaten her bloody, then he’d returned to you, her blood on his hands. Your blood on his hands, too.
