The Lesser Bohemians by Eimear McBride Page B

him now. Up yet another street. In there. A bar. A new kind of glamorous for – under wigs I long to pull – are men in white dresses with blue satin sashes, and him saying I’ll get the cockstails in. What’s his name? Who cares? What’s the harm? It’s only pink drinks from a Connemara man. Get that down you, he says. I drink and try not to burp. He talks. Strokes my hair but the room starts to twirl as he’s finger flicking Another round, more. She sliding down the pvc telling fuck all men. So this is how we drink, dribble kiss and     go to bed? No. No. Not with him even if I let a kiss with the tongue. Whoo! she says Look at you, and Iam      I am     Got to go to the loo. But the toilet’s a maze, now I’m drink undone. Far drunker than I know how to be. Wee. Wash my hands. Stare. Is she really me? The sad of her. Her sad eyes ponder. Ow! Smack on the cheek. Ow! Sorry, I didn’t expect someone there      that’ll bruise sorry. Don’t worry   I’m perfect, and stagger out into crashed light. There’s him, but where’s her? Ah her, slumped. Hey! I say. He doesn’t look. Reaches over for my hand. His other up her top and     Hey! Stop that! Let go! Hey! Wake up! She, head swings. Sees. Hits him a thump. Fucking slut. I pull her Please be able to get up. Sit down, he orders I bought you drinks. Fuck you, you fucking pervert! then slipping between tables of men going Who are you calling pervert, love? No, not you not you HIM!
    Wake up, wake up I think I’m going to puke. I call Stop, on the bus, and she stumbles off. Does. Me holding her hair back, trying not to myself. Oh Jack’s Sore Asshole     how’d we get to the Heath? I don’t know     I don’t know where we are, and as the two-ten disappears What are we going to do? She points to the park Kentish Town’s the other side. No way! Are you mad? There could be rapists or anything. More like men having it off. And, in all our drinks, that’s enough. So down we go. In. Sobering under tree creak. Terrified to holding hands. At least the wind doesn’t whip as we trudge, smoking, regretting our livers’ work. Do you know where we are? No      I’ve not been here in the dark. Some rustle sets us running out to the open and up. Look! Look at that. Night London. God it’s ugly, she says. But no no no I take its side. Somewhere below he is sleeping I hope on his own. And her beloved lies married down there while we, above, wait, enumerating our grass stains and watching til dawn lifts through the morning sky. Froze to the bones and organs tired, making our ways down. Well, that’s all folks! Seeyou Monday, she says at the gate and knight us it Skank Night for immemorial ahead.
    *
    Six thirty-five and him pulling me out to Royal College Street.
    Jesus, fucking Hellcat, what’s wrong with you? You heard him. I heard him but that’s no excuse, he could’ve fucking killed you, he could’ve killed me – he was easily taller and four times the width! I barely touched him. That’s not the fucking point. I bet you’re glad you bombed Warrington, you heard what he said. I know and it was out of order and I told him that but you shouldn’t have hit him. Yes I should anyway you got him to stay back. That was only luck and him being far too drunk to realise he could’ve snapped me like a twig. Well fuck him. Yeah fuck him but I have to tell you something    I’m not much good in a fight any more so let’s not do that again.
    After, I lie across him, all licked and kissed, lifting odd drags from his cigarette. Warm in the gaslight. Half under the clothes. My hair being wound his thumb while I smoke and So much for Blasted, he says. Sorry, maybe we shouldn’t have stopped for a drink first. Yeah     I can now see that. But I’m frisk