My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (25 page)

‘But they fixed it! After Professor Krak's misadventure in Spain, they stayed up all night making sensitive adjustments to remedy the disconcerted thingummybob!'

But a chill had settled on the back of my neck, like a clammy Swarfega'd hand. I had not thought of this, but of course Fru
Jakobsen was right Professor Krak & Fru Schleswig could be anywhere on the meridian – & therefore at this very instant facing
the slime-vat horrors of the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar in Zaragoza – or dismally stranded in a warehouse full of molasses
in some godforsaken Afric port, or screaming into the chilly wind on a chunk of Antarctic rock packed with squawking sea-parrots,
their only missiles the very eggs that the hysterically maddened birds were protecting with their lives! I gulped.

‘But in that case, it is all the more imperative that we do what we can here, lest I go mad!' I cried. ‘I know Professor Krak
left the plans here, & Herr Dogger is familiar with them. Meantime, Fru Jakobsen, please let us not consider the worst scenarios,
for the sake of my sanity! Instead, I shall assume – nay, I
do
assume, nay I
insist on assuming–
that Professor Krak is
this very moment
(if such a thing exists in this befuddled universe) reconstructing the Time Machine in Copenhagen, & with Fergus's help, we
shall all be reunited soon.' As I pressed ‘Start' the washing machine's power hummed & swelled, & I felt a sudden warm surge
of optimism. Yes: at the touch of a button, all would be well!

But Fru Jakobsen, folding clothes from the dryer, was not ignited by the flare of enthusiasm I had generated in myself, &
instead looked all the more worried. ‘My husband & I have already raised the matter of building a new Time Machine with Herr Dogger,' she said uneasily. ‘And I'm afraid there are … awkward impediments.'

‘Impediments of what nature?'

At this, she looked flummoxed, & blushed a deep scarlet. ‘Well, Herr Dogger declares himself willing to construct it according
to the plans, which do indeed exist (though only in partial form, he claims), but he is insisting on payment.'

‘Payment?' I gasped, quite perplexed. ‘Payment? After all Professor Krak has done for him, he's asking for –'

‘You had better speak to him yourself,' she said, reddening further. ‘For it is not a completely straightforward matter, it
would seem. If it were simply a question of money, the club could raise the funds. But – well. It is … rather unwholesome,
I fear,
min pige.
I am sure that you will be as shocked as I was by Herr Dogger's terms & conditions. I have not mentioned any of this to the
club committee, and … well. To be frank, I am not keen to.' At which she fell into silence, & folded more clothes in a
flustered fashion, while my mind turned rapidly, assessing all I had just learned. Fru Jakobsen's embarrassment hinted clearly
at what Dogger meant by ‘terms and conditions', for was he not a prime example of that breed of middle-aged man whose eyes
cannot resist sliding greedily towards the breasts, & thence buttockwards – with a groping hand never far behind? I remembered
his binoculars: it was he who had betrayed me to the club. What private intimacies had he witnessed when he spied on Fergus
& myself in our stolen hours of passion – & how much had he enjoyed the view? I shuddered. So Dogger's price was sex. Something
I once gave away almost for free, in days of yore, as alms to a beggar or bones to a dog – but that was before I knew the
meaning of Love. Could the Charlotte of today pay such a price, now that she had learned the most vital of life's lessons?
Would it lose her the one thing that mattered more than anything in the world to her, in her new existence? Would Fergus understand
& forgive her, if he knew the cost of their reunion?

So join me now in my whore's garb, preparing for a session with my tormentor in an upper room of the Halfway Club, cleared
for me by poor Fru Jakobsen, who still cannot hide her genteel horror at what I am prepared to do for Love and country. Out
of her own ladylike decorum, she will not tell club members of the ‘indignities' I face: Dogger, too, has signed the confidentiality
agreement she insisted on, ‘for your own sake, my dear,' she whispered to me, tears dancing in her eyes. ‘I have some knowledge
of legal matters & this should cover most eventualities. I will also make him agree to demonstrating steady & tangible progress
on the Time Machine as he is building it, & to this end he must plan each day's work, & stick to it, & construct it on the
premseis, so he can be supervised.'

The bargaining was tough, but in the end, with Fru Jakobsen acting as madam (a role she did not relish, but which she performed
with much elegance, being a natural businesswoman), a settlement was hammered out: every day, with the exception of weekends,
Dogger would spend six hours on the construction of the Time Machine, then share a cup of powerful Lapsang Souchong tea with
Fru Jakobsen, over which he would update her on his plans & progress. After this, he would be entitled to exactly one hour
(timed by Fru Jakobsen's stopwatch, & ended with a sharp toot on a professional sports whistle) in my exclusive company, to
use in whatever manner he wished.

As a working girl I had learned from an early age how to hide my distaste for those clients who held no physical charm, &
to camouflage my amusement at those who were unwittingly hilarious – but as you may well imagine, sweetness, something had
recently changed in me, rendering all that had gone before null & void: an internal earthquake had riven my soul apart, re-mapping
my psychic contours, & (if I may abandon one family of metaphors to pursue another) the effect on my heart had been to close
off certain harsh arterial routes, while letting the softer ventricles pump to a different & tender rhythm, gushing the rich
blood of yearning through my whole being. Do you follow me, when I try to explain it thus? Can you begin to fathom in what
subtle ways my intense feelings for Fergus had reconstituted my perception of that intimate act, which I had never before
associated with Love & passion, so much as with fun (on occasion) & cash? What is more, Dogger was no ordinary client: he
was the man who had taught me the full meaning of the English word ‘tedium' in the classroom, & also he who had spied on my
private activities & betrayed me to the club with his vile binoculars: a double villain! So now, as I enter the upstairs boudoir
for the first time, I feel like a condemned prisoner bound for the scaffold, & hold but one thought in my mind: to get the
wretched business over with quickly. I will close my eyes & think of Denmark.

Let us share a moment of thoughtful silence together, dear one, as we contemplate what I am about to do on the navy brushed-cotton
sofa-bed made by that Swedish home-furnishing store whose full household range I have come to know so well in England! See
it as a moment of mourning for an innocence long lost, then magically regained, & now about to be lost again – for no sooner
have I found something that is more precious (& all the more so, for its invisibility) than diamonds & truffles conjoined,
than I am about to pollute it for evermore! O, my heart is in such a state of despair that I feel close to the epicentre of
madness itself! I am no expert on morality, but – well, let me ask you, my dear sugar plum, being far cleverer than I, what
might
you
do, in this situation? A foolish question, no doubt, for you would never land in such a
rémoulade-pickle
as I have. But would you –
could
you, consider handing over your lovely body (I hope that you can take a compliment!) to a lascivious tormentor, for the sake of higher things?

That, reader, is the dilemma I have faced & seemingly resolved as I await his heavy step on the stair, & the handle's turn on the door.

But O, by way of escape, let us freeze time for a moment! And in this fraction of calm before the storm, let me present you
with a small poem that illustrates the dismal mood in which I find myself before my born-again virginity is defiled. A poem
which I know will touch you to the core, as it has touched all Danes since the day Christian Knud Frederik Molbech penned
it in his notebook. Do not be ashamed if it makes you weep, sweetest: you will not be the first, nor the last, neither! Its
title is ‘Rosebud', & you will quickly see why I identify with its tragic eponymous heroine.

‘Ha ha!' laughed Rosebud, wild & free.

‘The fountain will run full of sweet apple-juice before I blush for
any man,

And every tree in the garden will sprout golden flowers.'

But wily Peter sat in hiding & overheard her words.

‘He who laughs last laughs loudest,' said he.

When dawn broke, he came to Rosebud.

‘Come, beautiful virgin: let us stroll together.'

And so she walked with him, straight into the maw of Fate.

For there in the herb-garden, he'd hung golden rings from every tree.

And there in the flowered spring dyed the waters yellow as apple-juice.

And Rosebud blushed deep as blood, & stared numbly at her feet.

Peter greedily kissed her lips. ‘He who laughs last laughs loudest,' smiled he.

O, how I shudder for little Rosebud when I recall these verses, which I have translated for you here with the greatest accuracy
I can muster! And how I know her pain – for can you see how similar we are? And is the wily Peter not cast from the same ugly
& predatory mould as Herr Dogger? Rosebud & I – both tricked into trickery by a trickster!

Woe, woe, woe!

Bang, bang, bang
He approacheth! Tremble for me, dear one! O, you cannot know how much it means to me to know you are at my side, come Hell
or high water!

And so like Bluebeard, the leering, white-bearded Dogger enters, red-faced & all a-grunt from his exertions on the stairs,
bringing with him a whiff of Lapsang Souchong & an odd chemical I cannot identify.

‘A deal's a deal, little girl,' he smiles, baring teeth stained with tobacco. Upon which, slowly, with the methodicalness
of an executioner, he lowers his Marks & Spencer trouser-ware, shuffles off his greyish underpants, & bares the flaccid sausage
that hangs sorrowfully between his meaty, hairy thighs.

‘Meet the boss. Say hello to Big Chief Bongo,' he grins.

Weakly, feeling vomitatious, I nod my appalled greeting.

‘Now pay attention, little girl, while I instruct you as to his requirements. The Big Chief is very particular, & I expect
you to have learnt his ways thoroughly by the end of the lesson.'

The time had come. I draw a brief veil.

But just as in the poem, he who laughs last, laughs loudest. For now let me whip back that veil I drew a moment ago, & inform
you that in the space of five minutes' huffing & puffing, Big Chief Bongo & the man attached to him have delivered me a most
unexpected & happy surprise! Yes! For tra-la-la & hallelujah! Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! I am saved by
a single word, which you can look up in the dictionary, as I have done, under the letter I. You will find it somewhere between
‘importune' and ‘impostor'.

Have you found it yet? Well, hurry, we haven't got all day! In fact, we only have an hour – which, as we are about to discover, isn't long enough for anything. Especially if you are afflicted by –

IMPOTENCE!

Yes; Big Chief Bongo's stubborn recalcitrance soon renders my duties much less revolting & burdensome than I feared, & they
even, as the days pass, become the source of some gaiety. Watch: this will be a typical session, I assure you – for apart
from the costumes, there is little variety. Dogger is a man of fantasies, but limited imagination. A creature of high ambition,
but negligible prowess, for praise be, it seems he is allergic to that so-called miracle drug Viagra &, much to his distress,
can only maintain the feeblest of erections when visually stimulated, reaching a mere ‘Niveau Un' of the would-be
Tour Eiffel
that is his member. As you may imagine, this news reassures Fru Jakobsen mightily, & she feels instantly less guilty: all
the more so when I confide to her that I was actually a whore in my previous existence information I have kept from her out
of respect for her delicacy (I assure you), rather than shame at my past. And that resourceful woman in turn confides in me
that she has been lacing Dogger's Lapsang Souchong with a chemical called bromide, known to have a dampening effect on the
male libido.

But hark! He knocketh. Watch, sweet one, as I assume the role Dogger has assigned today with a languid, ‘Come in, you naughty
boy.' He enters, his piggy eyes aglint, fingers already unclasping the belt that holds his paunch in place. ‘Is that a gun
in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?' I quip in English, as American as I can make it, for today I am Mae West,
of whom I had never heard until yesterday when he made his demand (the oilskin-clad Eskimo Girl having failed to adequately
stimulate the Big Chief, he was after more regular fare), upon which Fru Jakobsen looked the woman up on Google & noted down
some famous lines, before heading for Malarkey's Costumes on the high street, whose most regular clients we have suddenly
become.

‘Huhh,' he grunted. ‘Sexy Hollywood star.'

Our encounters follow a pattern. Some men favour a girl's impressively upholstered upper chest, while others will naturally
gravitate to the twin peaches of her bottom; some declare themselves Leg Men who eloquently fetishize the well-turned ankle,
the smooth calves, or the ‘nice hunk of thigh-meat' one might be endowed with, if one were me. Others, of a more risqué disposition,
prefer to cut direct to the chase, savouring the most intimate flesh above all, like specialists of wine or cheese: connoisseurs
who can spend hours describing textures, scents & flavours. What Dogger's predilections were in this matter I never discovered,
for he grunted rather than spoke, & was a watcher rather than a doer: indeed, his new-found intimate shame prevented him from
touching anything other than his own member, aka Big Chief Bongo, to my great relief. In order to speed up his self-stimulations
to the maximum (which as you can guess, dear one, was very much my goal – for as much as he liked to gawp, did I prefer to
turn my eyes inward), it was vital that I come over most coquettish, & awaken his fantasies.