Sin City (69 page)

I jump when Victor knocks. He's calling through the door. I think I'd just dozed off. His voice sounds very distant, as if it's coming from a thousand years away.

“What?” I shout.

“I wondered if you're nearly through? Your coffee's getting cold.”

“Bring it in, then. I'm too whacked to get out.”

He's never seen me naked. I reach across, tip in still more bath salts, stretch out flat so only my head and feet are showing. He can't see me now. The water's like a thick green coverlet.

My eyes keep closing. I open them to a second knock, a loaded breakfast tray. He's spoiling me again. Not just coffee, but bacon, muffins, fruit juice, and two melon halves with strawberries piled on top. I'm instantly awake. It's amazing the effect he has. I'm no longer an angry raddled whore, too fagged to move a muscle, but a precious guest who's hungry, even happy.

“I can't eat bacon in the bath,” I smile.

“Sure you can. I'll feed you. Want your melon first?”

“Yes, please.”

Soon, we're both giggling as I lose strawberries in the water and get juice all down my chin. Then he spills coffee on my breasts which shouldn't be showing, but somehow pop up from the water while he feeds me with hot muffin. I can see him trying not to look at them. He's eaten nothing himself, hasn't had a chance yet.

“Why don't you get in as well? Then I can feed
you
.”

“In where?”

“In the bath.” Why in God's name did I say that? Am I mad or something?

“You mean, with … you?”

“Yeah, why not? There's room for two.” There isn't, ' course there isn't.

“I … I've had a bath.”

“Have another.” My voice sounds harsh and strained. “You're not short of water, are you? Actually, I ought to let some out. Otherwise we'll flood the place again. I've filled it far too full.”

I spend longer than I need fiddling with the plug. He's taking off his clothes. I can't look, daren't. The room's so tense now, I can feel my breakfast burning in my gut. He's undressing very slowly. I can hear a shirt or something slither to the floor, a tiny creaking sigh as he unbuckles his belt. I keep staring down, staring down. Whole hours seem to pass. Then a large cold foot jabs against my stomach; a nervous voice says “Sorry.”

“That's okay,” I mumble. 'Course it's bloody not. Those scars are almost touching me, that repulsive puckered skin pressed right against my own. I can suddenly see Reuben in the bath – his smooth unblemished stomach, his long but slender prick. I fight a whole tidal wave of feelings: regret, resentment, anger, fear, desire; force my voice to make some trite remark, concentrate on Victor. Reuben's gone. He went out through that door, with all the rest.

“Quite a squash,” I mumble. Victor's bent his thighs up, one each side of my legs.

“Yes.”

“That's the first time you've said ‘yes', Victor.”

“What d'you mean? I'm always saying yes.”

“No, you're not. You normally say ‘yeah'.”

“Ah, but I'm learning English now, you see – while I take my
barth
.” He lengthens and exaggerates the a.

“Well, you can't have sourdough muffins if you're English. We don't have them back home.” My voice is doing well. I sound quite normal now, chatty and relaxed. “Here, open wide.” I feed him with a soggy piece of one.

He chews and talks at once. “That's weird. We even call 'em English muffins here. And what about your muffin man?”

“He's just a song, a dead one.” It's all right – I can't see the scars, not even when I look up. That green good-mannered water blanks out everything, especially now he's straightened out his legs. He's like any normal guy: nice face, smooth chest, strong and muscly arms. I'm so relieved, I burst out laughing.

“What's the joke?”

“Nothing. Just that silly muffin man. Let's sing it.”

“I don't know the words.”

“They're easy. I'll teach you. ‘Oh, have you seen the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man?' Right, that bit first.”

We sing together, though I keep breaking down in giggles. I don't know why. We go on and on, me laughing, Victor singing. I feel really quite peculiar – elated, almost drunk, pissed on juice and coffee.

He taps my foot. “What's the next line, honey? We've sung those first two more than twenty times.”

“I can't remember.”

“You mean, that's all you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Oh, Victor, stop me laughing. It hurts. By the way, what's an axolotl?”

“It's a kind of aquatic salamander.”

“Gosh! Have you got one?”

“No. But I can offer you something even more exotic.” He reaches behind him, floats a yellow plastic duck on the little pond of water between our two hidden stomach reefs. “That was a gift from one of my poker-playing buddies.”

“Would it like some muffin?”

“I would.”

I lean over for the plate. “They've gone all sort of hard now.”

“Doesn't matter.”

I feed him. I even let my hand brush along his thigh. Not so bad. The skin feels dry and rough, rather like a loofah.

“How about a strawberry muffin, Victor?”

“What's that?”

“A sourdough one with strawberries on. Damn! That's another strawberry gone. We'll turn bright pink if I drop any more in.”

“You're pink already, darling. This water's far too hot. We'd better get out now. I think we've had enough.”

“Okay, you first. I'll dry you.”

“No!”

I can feel the tension surging back again; hear it in that strangled “No”, see it in my stupid shaking hands. Why in God's name did I spoil things when we'd just relaxed?

“Yeah, I want to, Victor. I'd like that, really.” Of course I wouldn't. It's all a fucking lie. I'm terrified. I'll puke. I'll shrink away. He'll only be more hurt, feel totally rejected. I can see it now, the scarring, as he stands up, clambers out. God! It's horrible, revolting. I'll never touch it, never, not even through a towel.

“Is this your towel?” I ask.

He nods. They're all his towels, for God's sake, but I've got to keep on talking. “We … er … never ate the bacon.”

“No.”

“We could have it cold in sandwiches, for lunch.”

“Yeah.”

“
Yes
.”

“
You
said ‘yeah'.”

“Did I? When?”

“Just now.”

“Victor … ?”

“What?”

“I'm not drying you too hard, am I? I mean, it doesn't … hurt?”

“No. It's kind of dead, that skin. Like the muffin man.”

“It looks rather like a muffin.” I force myself to see not skin, not scars or horrors, but a cold dead hardening piece of muffin.

He laughs. “One of the nurses in the hospital said it reminded her of a moonscape. With little craters.”

That's better still. A moonscape. Something very far away. Something almost abstract, dead grey lunar rocks. Death Valley was like that – a warped and twisted landscape, dry and barren, but somehow still impressive. I trace the craters, let my fingers touch the fissured rock-face. Nothing dreadful happens. I don't throw up, or faint away. The earth keeps turning on its axis.

I pick up a second towel, dry his lower back. That doesn't look too bad. Or am I simply getting used to it? I let my hands feather down his spine from neck to cocyx, then stroke slowly up again.

“That's lovely, darling. You're spoiling me.”

“I like to.” It's funny, but I do. I'm good now, truly good. Kind and loving, like he said. I feel triumphant inside and glowing.

“You're shivering, Carole.”

“No, I'm not. I'm boiling.”

“Let me dry you now.”

“Okay.”

He takes the towel from me, swathes me in it, top to toe, then holds me close against him. I can feel my heart pounding into his, feel he's got a hard on.

“Carole, I just can't tell you what …”

“Ssh,” I whisper, pull away a moment, release the towel, let it fall around my feet, then press close to him again. They're right against me now, the scars, the ridges, that thickened lumpy prick. I don't care. The feeling's quite fantastic. I'm brave. I'm a hero. I can love.

“Carole, you're still cold. Here, put this round you.” He wraps us both in his giant-sized dressing gown, sits me on the stool with him. I'm angered by that gown. He chose it so he could hide away, so nobody would ever see an inch of him. I slip my hands beneath it, rest them on his thighs.

“My Dad used to dry me after my bath. Years and years ago. And tell me stories. ‘Once upon a time …' No, he never said that, actually. I don't know why. Shall I tell
you
a story?”

Victor nods.

“It's a story about Victors. They're very special creatures, Victors are. They've got this very thin and delicate white skin. It's so sensitive, the slightest thing can hurt it, so they have to wear another skin on top. The second skin is tougher, to protect them, but when you peel it off, they're all white and soft and shining underneath, like … like … unicorns.” My voice is wobbling. Stupid voice. I force it to go on.

“Not everybody understands. Ordinary women can't – girls like Laura. Only fair princesses. Sometimes it's a long wait till the princess comes along – years and years and years. Then everything's all right. The princess and the Victor go to bed together and they wake up in the morning and … and …”

I'm crying. I don't know why. It's soppy, really wimpish, and embarrassing for Victor. But I'm so sorry for that skin, that poor, burnt, dead and shrivelled skin.

“Carole, what's the matter? What is it, darling?”

“Nothing. I'm just so … tired and …” I jump up, gulp some water from the tap. I feel quite ill again, sick and dizzy – side-effects from Victor, not the Pill. I keep my back to him, so he can't see my burning face. My voice is shaky still.

“Oh, Victor, I think I … sort of – love you and I'm terrified.”

The world is going to end. Very soon. Perhaps today. There's going to be a Bomb, the biggest ever. Lots of people have gone to hide in shelters. They're underground. Carole's gone as well. She was meant to come to see me. Saturday, she said, early in the morning. It's Sunday afternoon now and still she hasn't come. Angelique arrived alone, early yesterday. She said Carole would come later, take me out to lunch.

I had lunch all on my own. Angelique took George away. She told me he was going back to England and she had to drive him to the airport, put him on the plane. I think that was a lie. They were going to the shelter, but they didn't want to tell me. There's not much room in shelters, so they leave some people out – older folks, people without families or jobs.

I saw a programme yesterday about a farmer and his wife who gave away their farm and all the land. It was on the television. Both of them were crying. They gave it to the Church because the world was going to end in twenty years. The Godman told them so. The twenty years is up now, so they're waiting for the Bomb.

The Bomb's upset the weather. There's snow in Rome and storms in California. I'm not sure where Rome is, but it's somewhere where you don't have snow. Only when the world is going to end. Everyone will die except the ones in shelters.

You have to take your own food to the shelters. And special clothes. Carole sent me mine. She didn't know there wasn't room for me. She sent me lots of things. Food and chocolates, underwear and frocks, a real new winter coat, even some champagne. Angelique brought them in her car. I won't need them now if I haven't got a shelter, but they make me feel she's closer, help to fill the room up.

The room seems bigger when there's only me. George didn't say goodbye. I said it several times, slowly and quite loudly, but I don't think he remembered who I was. We were just becoming friends. We'd been talking in confetti. We used the second box. He'd spell out a bell or flower or slipper, and I'd reply with a horseshoe or a heart. It was very slow, the talking, and sometimes George would fall asleep before I'd even answered. But I preferred it with him here. He smiled at me three times. He hardly ever smiles.

The phone keeps ringing, ringing. It makes me feel even more alone. I'm not allowed to pick it up. The maid does that. Except she's gone as well. She said she'd see me later. She wouldn't be that long, she said, but today was her day off and she wanted to go out. I don't think that was true. I expect Angelique took her to the shelter so she could clean for them, and cook.

She doesn't cook for me. She left me a roll and some brown stuff on a tray, but I was too upset to eat it. That was Saturday. The roll is very stale now, and the brown stuff has gone grey.

I start turning out my handbag. I haven't any sweets. I've looked before, several times, for George. But sometimes there are miracles. We had one at St Joseph's, forty years ago. A dead nun came to life again. I never saw her dead, but Reverend Mother did. We had to spend all next day in chapel to thank God for His goodness. I didn't like the nun.

There isn't a miracle, but I find a piece of newspaper folded very small. I unfold it, start to read. It's stained with something red. I know it's blood when I see “FREE FUNERAL”.

I read some more. The words are difficult. You have to drink and drive. I haven't got a car. Angelique's gone off in hers and maids aren't allowed them.

The phone is ringing again. Perhaps I ought to answer it. I get up from my chair, start to walk into the hall.

I stop. It might be Sister. She'll be very angry with me. She was expecting us thirteen days ago. Thirteen is unlucky. Victor told me so. I liked Victor, but he disappeared as well. I walk back to my chair. Sister may be rubble. It's earlier here than England, so the world could have ended there already.