Girl in Profile by Zillah Bethell Page B

you know.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œBut I’d love to come. With Dove.”
    â€œShall we say Monday?”
    Hellboy’s polishing the windows now. All the better to see how green the grass is on the other side.
    â€œYes.” I put the phone down. Throw a six. Sail my ship up to Mayfair. Out into the blue. The wide blue infinity.

Elizabeth
    Wendy Dies
    Satie floats in from the Blue Room. Sad, faltering, abruptly stops. I can no longer hear the tick-tock of a melancholy heart. Wendy dies as the tourists leave this seaside resort – just as she wanted. Is it the word I feel when I feel this feeling goodbye? Goodbye, my friend. I hope the light is not too bright.
    â€œWe fully expected her to go,” Nurse Tinkerbell said. “She did well to last so long. And to cheer us up, a talk on cats. If we’re lucky, we’ll have our own ginger tom.”

Gwen
    Met a Man
    Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a man. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. He led me into the back of a neglected garden. Pulling down my undergarments he knelt and licked. Then he penetrated me against the trunk of an old oak tree. Looking up at the sky I saw no stars.
    Mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

Met a Woman
    Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a woman. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. I led her into the back of the neglected garden. Pulling down her undergarments I knelt and licked. Then I penetrated her with my fingers against the back of the old oak tree. Looking up at the sky I saw the young nun’s eyes.
    Mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

Met a Man and a Woman
    Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a man and a woman. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. I led them into the back of the neglected garden. Pulling down their undergarments I knelt and sucked and licked. Then they penetrated me against the back of the old oak tree. I couldn’t look up.
    Oh, mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

Moth
    Maggie
    Steven’s right. Maggie appears to have no neck. Her head’s pressed against her right shoulder like she was some child genius on the violin. On the upside, I guess she can meet he who must not be named’s left eye.
    â€œWere they good?” she asks hopefully as the kids mill about waiting for the bell. Roan is talking to Jonah. He who must not be named is grappling with Cariad Jones, a freckled and rather corpulent girl from year six.
    â€œNot bad,” I lie, squeezing Dove’s hand. “You’re looking…” I fumble for the word like a stone in my pocket.
    â€œDifferent,” Dove offers.
    â€œWell. You’re looking well.”
    â€œThe thing is,” her voice lowers to a whisper, “sometimes I wish I was back in hospital.”
    â€œI can understand that.” Voldemort has thrown Cariad’s coat into a puddle.
    â€œIt was so quiet, so peaceful.”
    And is stamping on it.
    The headmistress, Miss Grimbleby, comes out and yanks him by the ear. “Jamie’s mum?” she calls out.
    I pretend not to hear, and Maggie obviously can’t with her head pressed against her neck, though I notice she makes a hurried bid for the gates, almost bumping into Rhys’ grandad.
    â€œNot long now for you.” He waves his zebra stick at Dove.
    â€œNo, not long.” I squeeze again, to encourage her of course.
    We walk down the hill with Maggie.
    â€œSteven wants to try and get back to the States,” she tells us. “They have better facilities there for people like … Jamie.”
    What, like death row?
    â€œI’ll miss you. If you go.”
    We stand outside the chip shop where her black Mini is parked.
    â€œThe thing is,” her voice lowers to a whisper, “sometimes I wish the tumour would come back. I know it sounds stupid, but it made me feel sort of special. People seemed to worry about me a