lamb if you ask me. Why do you want to know?” I can’t tel him. It’s only half an idea.
“What’s going to happen to Bobby?”
“Right now he faces prison time. The crown prosecution service won’t downgrade the charges.”
“Jail isn’t going to help him. I can do you a psych report. Maybe I can get him into an anger management program.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A written request.”
Eddie’s pen is already moving. I can’t remember the last time I could write that fluidly. He slides it across the desk.
“Thanks for this.”
He grunts. “It’s a letter not a kidney.”
If ever a man had issues. Maybe it’s a Napoleon complex or he’s trying to compensate for being ugly. He’s bored with me now. The subject no longer interests him. I ask my questions quickly.
“Who put up the bail?”
“No idea.”
“And who phoned you?”
“He did.”
Before I can say anything else, he interrupts.
“Listen, Oprah, I’m due at a Law Society drinks party and I need a pee. This kid is your nutcase; I just defend the sorry fuck. Why don’t you take a peek inside his head, see if anything rattles and come back to me. Have a terrific day.”
10
Julianne is doing her stretching exercises in the spare bedroom. She does these yogalike poses every morning with names that sound like Indian squaws. Babbling Brook meets Running Deer.
A veteran early riser, she is combat ready by 6:30 a.m. Nothing like me. I’ve been seeing bloody and beaten faces al night in my dreams.
Julianne pads barefoot into the bedroom wearing just a pajama top. She bends to kiss me.
“You had a restless night.”
Pressing her head against my chest, she lets her fingers go tap-dancing up my spine until she feels me shiver. She is reminding me that she knows every square inch of me.
“Remember I told you about Charlie singing carols with the choir?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Apparently young Ryan Fraser kissed her on the bus on the way home.”
“Cheeky devil.”
“It wasn’t easy. Three of her friends had to help her catch him and hold him down.”
We laugh and I pul her on top of me, letting her feel my erection against her thigh.
“Stay in bed.”
She laughs and slides away. “No. I’m too busy.”
“C’mon.”
“It’s not the right time. You have to save your fel as.”
My “fel as” are my sperm. She makes them sound like paratroopers.
She’s getting dressed. White bikini pants slide along her legs and snap into place. Then she raises the shirt over her head and shrugs her shoulders into the straps of a bra. She won’t risk giving me another kiss. I might not let her go next time.
After she’s gone I stay in bed listening to her move through the house, her feet hardly touching the floor. I hear the kettle being fil ed and the milk being col ected from the front step. I hear the freezer door open and the toaster being pushed down.
Dragging myself upright, I take six paces to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The boiler in the basement belches and the pipes clunk and gargle. I stand shivering on the cold tiles waiting for some sign of water. The showerhead is shaking. At any moment I expect the tiles to start coming loose from around the taps.
After two coughs and a hacking spit, a cloudy trickle emerges and then dies.
“The boiler is broken again,” yel s Julianne from downstairs.
Great! Bril iant! Somewhere there is a plumber laughing at me. He’s no doubt tel ing al his plumber mates how he pretended to fix a Jurassic boiler and charged enough to pay for a fortnight in Florida.
I shave with cold water, using a fresh razor, without cutting myself. It may seem like a smal victory, but worth noting.
I emerge into the kitchen and watch Julianne make plunger coffee and put posh jam on a piece of whole-wheat toast. I always feel childish eating my Rice Krispies.
I stil remember the first time I saw her. She was in her first year studying languages at the University of London. I was
“What’s going to happen to Bobby?”
“Right now he faces prison time. The crown prosecution service won’t downgrade the charges.”
“Jail isn’t going to help him. I can do you a psych report. Maybe I can get him into an anger management program.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A written request.”
Eddie’s pen is already moving. I can’t remember the last time I could write that fluidly. He slides it across the desk.
“Thanks for this.”
He grunts. “It’s a letter not a kidney.”
If ever a man had issues. Maybe it’s a Napoleon complex or he’s trying to compensate for being ugly. He’s bored with me now. The subject no longer interests him. I ask my questions quickly.
“Who put up the bail?”
“No idea.”
“And who phoned you?”
“He did.”
Before I can say anything else, he interrupts.
“Listen, Oprah, I’m due at a Law Society drinks party and I need a pee. This kid is your nutcase; I just defend the sorry fuck. Why don’t you take a peek inside his head, see if anything rattles and come back to me. Have a terrific day.”
10
Julianne is doing her stretching exercises in the spare bedroom. She does these yogalike poses every morning with names that sound like Indian squaws. Babbling Brook meets Running Deer.
A veteran early riser, she is combat ready by 6:30 a.m. Nothing like me. I’ve been seeing bloody and beaten faces al night in my dreams.
Julianne pads barefoot into the bedroom wearing just a pajama top. She bends to kiss me.
“You had a restless night.”
Pressing her head against my chest, she lets her fingers go tap-dancing up my spine until she feels me shiver. She is reminding me that she knows every square inch of me.
“Remember I told you about Charlie singing carols with the choir?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Apparently young Ryan Fraser kissed her on the bus on the way home.”
“Cheeky devil.”
“It wasn’t easy. Three of her friends had to help her catch him and hold him down.”
We laugh and I pul her on top of me, letting her feel my erection against her thigh.
“Stay in bed.”
She laughs and slides away. “No. I’m too busy.”
“C’mon.”
“It’s not the right time. You have to save your fel as.”
My “fel as” are my sperm. She makes them sound like paratroopers.
She’s getting dressed. White bikini pants slide along her legs and snap into place. Then she raises the shirt over her head and shrugs her shoulders into the straps of a bra. She won’t risk giving me another kiss. I might not let her go next time.
After she’s gone I stay in bed listening to her move through the house, her feet hardly touching the floor. I hear the kettle being fil ed and the milk being col ected from the front step. I hear the freezer door open and the toaster being pushed down.
Dragging myself upright, I take six paces to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The boiler in the basement belches and the pipes clunk and gargle. I stand shivering on the cold tiles waiting for some sign of water. The showerhead is shaking. At any moment I expect the tiles to start coming loose from around the taps.
After two coughs and a hacking spit, a cloudy trickle emerges and then dies.
“The boiler is broken again,” yel s Julianne from downstairs.
Great! Bril iant! Somewhere there is a plumber laughing at me. He’s no doubt tel ing al his plumber mates how he pretended to fix a Jurassic boiler and charged enough to pay for a fortnight in Florida.
I shave with cold water, using a fresh razor, without cutting myself. It may seem like a smal victory, but worth noting.
I emerge into the kitchen and watch Julianne make plunger coffee and put posh jam on a piece of whole-wheat toast. I always feel childish eating my Rice Krispies.
I stil remember the first time I saw her. She was in her first year studying languages at the University of London. I was
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