herself back onto
the rug.
Sometimes, when Thomas wakes up in the middle of the
night, he’ll see nearly naked women on the television screen
with their fingers in their knickers or sticking their thin buttocks
in the air and pumping them up and down or pinching
their nipples really hard. They want him to call or text; there’s
writing at the bottom of the screen that Thomas now knows
are messages from men, asking the girls to do things to themselves
or each other. He doesn’t bother trying to decipher the
messages any more, and he isn’t remotely stirred by what they
get up to with their bodies. Their faces interest him. He likes
the plumper ones, and the ones who look like they need a
wash, and he likes to see the barely disguised boredom in their
eyes. He wonders about how old they are, whether their
boyfriends are sitting at home watching them and wanking
off. Occasionally he’ll lean forward out of his chair, worrying
that he’s seen a bruise or an insect crawling on them, satisfied
that in the end, it’s just another tattoo. Often he’ll fall back
into a restless sleep and won’t wake properly again until he
hears the early morning shipping forecast on the radio.
Thomas doesn’t go to bed these days; there’s no point: his
bladder wakes him frequently, the sharp urgency coming with
no warning, or not enough warning to get downstairs to the
toilet. He uses the bedroom only to change his clothes, which
he does rather less often than the woman in the shop would
like, standing there behind the counter with her can of Glade
at the ready. No shame to her. He’d like to tell her what he
thinks of her, so concerned with herself, worrying about a
smell, frightened by the idea of germs. He’d like to tell her
how everything dies in the end, how it all goes bad; he’s only
reminding her of a natural process. And the landlord at the
Winterbourne never makes any objection when he turns up
there for his two pints of bitter. Thomas remembers the place
when it used to be the New Inn and you could sit at any of
the tables and pass the evening, having a drink and a smoke.
Then it had a refit and started doing food and all that was left
of the old pub was a long bench opposite the bar. The rest of
the space was for diners. The landlord never said don’t sit there,
he just got a waitress to put place mats out on all the tables
and a reserved marker in the middle. Thomas would squash up
on the bench with his pals, all in a line, and they’d watch people
from town turn up in their cars and order from the menu and
sit at the tables, candles glowing between them like a secret.
Then the landlord asked would it be all right if he left Bramble
at home. It wasn’t all right, and he told him so, and they
boycotted the pub, him and Freddy Peel and Flynn and Flynn’s
cousin Raymond. But they crept back, eventually, Thomas as
well. These days, when the landlord isn’t looking, he sneaks
Bramble under the bench where she’s happy to lie with everyone’s
feet on her. These days, Thomas isn’t allowed to smoke
in the pub any more. He wonders how long it will be before
he isn’t allowed to drink.
Bramble’s not a bad dog, but she’s lazy. Her problem is she
thinks she’s a pet. Thomas has had a few dogs in his lifetime,
all working stock. He can tell that Bramble hasn’t ever been
worked. Her previous owner put her in a rescue centre because
he was too old to care for her. When the girl at the centre told
him that, Thomas wondered if she thought that he was too
old, too, at seventy-eight. He’s taught Bramble a few things,
but she hasn’t got the nose for field work. Her retrieval is
aimless at the best of times, and her delivery is poor: she drops
the dummy anywhere. And she eats too much, foraging in the
bins at the back of the lane when he tries to reduce her
portions. Her breath is on him now, a happy, panting stink.
When morning comes, regardless of what kind
the rug.
Sometimes, when Thomas wakes up in the middle of the
night, he’ll see nearly naked women on the television screen
with their fingers in their knickers or sticking their thin buttocks
in the air and pumping them up and down or pinching
their nipples really hard. They want him to call or text; there’s
writing at the bottom of the screen that Thomas now knows
are messages from men, asking the girls to do things to themselves
or each other. He doesn’t bother trying to decipher the
messages any more, and he isn’t remotely stirred by what they
get up to with their bodies. Their faces interest him. He likes
the plumper ones, and the ones who look like they need a
wash, and he likes to see the barely disguised boredom in their
eyes. He wonders about how old they are, whether their
boyfriends are sitting at home watching them and wanking
off. Occasionally he’ll lean forward out of his chair, worrying
that he’s seen a bruise or an insect crawling on them, satisfied
that in the end, it’s just another tattoo. Often he’ll fall back
into a restless sleep and won’t wake properly again until he
hears the early morning shipping forecast on the radio.
Thomas doesn’t go to bed these days; there’s no point: his
bladder wakes him frequently, the sharp urgency coming with
no warning, or not enough warning to get downstairs to the
toilet. He uses the bedroom only to change his clothes, which
he does rather less often than the woman in the shop would
like, standing there behind the counter with her can of Glade
at the ready. No shame to her. He’d like to tell her what he
thinks of her, so concerned with herself, worrying about a
smell, frightened by the idea of germs. He’d like to tell her
how everything dies in the end, how it all goes bad; he’s only
reminding her of a natural process. And the landlord at the
Winterbourne never makes any objection when he turns up
there for his two pints of bitter. Thomas remembers the place
when it used to be the New Inn and you could sit at any of
the tables and pass the evening, having a drink and a smoke.
Then it had a refit and started doing food and all that was left
of the old pub was a long bench opposite the bar. The rest of
the space was for diners. The landlord never said don’t sit there,
he just got a waitress to put place mats out on all the tables
and a reserved marker in the middle. Thomas would squash up
on the bench with his pals, all in a line, and they’d watch people
from town turn up in their cars and order from the menu and
sit at the tables, candles glowing between them like a secret.
Then the landlord asked would it be all right if he left Bramble
at home. It wasn’t all right, and he told him so, and they
boycotted the pub, him and Freddy Peel and Flynn and Flynn’s
cousin Raymond. But they crept back, eventually, Thomas as
well. These days, when the landlord isn’t looking, he sneaks
Bramble under the bench where she’s happy to lie with everyone’s
feet on her. These days, Thomas isn’t allowed to smoke
in the pub any more. He wonders how long it will be before
he isn’t allowed to drink.
Bramble’s not a bad dog, but she’s lazy. Her problem is she
thinks she’s a pet. Thomas has had a few dogs in his lifetime,
all working stock. He can tell that Bramble hasn’t ever been
worked. Her previous owner put her in a rescue centre because
he was too old to care for her. When the girl at the centre told
him that, Thomas wondered if she thought that he was too
old, too, at seventy-eight. He’s taught Bramble a few things,
but she hasn’t got the nose for field work. Her retrieval is
aimless at the best of times, and her delivery is poor: she drops
the dummy anywhere. And she eats too much, foraging in the
bins at the back of the lane when he tries to reduce her
portions. Her breath is on him now, a happy, panting stink.
When morning comes, regardless of what kind
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