of muscle, flesh and bone; feeling my shoes as flexible, overall calluses, attached at heel and toe.
By the brackish, oily carp pond, in the very centre of the park, a small wooden bridge is marooned on the impacted earth. Squirrels flow about, grey rivulets of rodent. The hacked and husbanded woodland here is filtering the lax sun, making for bad dappling. At a fence of waist-high, wooden palisades, two young men stand, feeding pigeons and crows.
If not foreign – they ought to be. They both wear expensive overcoats, of lamb's-wool, or cashmere. Their hair is too glossy, too dark, too curly. Even from some fifty yards away I can see the sideburns that snake down from hairlines to jawlines. They are both wearing gloves. I don't like birds at the best of times, and the pigeons and crows in this town are getting quite obese. We don't need types like these coming into our park and feeding them expensive peanuts.
The pigeons and crows rear up so. And they're so big. Today, their bipedalism makes them humanoid to me. In their greasy, feather capes of grey and black, they might be avine impersonators, hustling a sexual practice founded on fluttering and paid for in peanuts.
As I draw level with the two men, one turns away from the fence, scattering peanuts and pigeons from his gloved hands, ‘See you, Dave,’ says his companion, but not with any real feeling. Dave glances at me, once, but with an unexpected acuity, as if reading me. He strides away in front, kicking up small sprays of old leaves, mould and twigs. It's clear that he is uncomfortable, that he wishes to put some distance between us. I quicken my pace.
I caught him by the octagonal, wooden gazebo, used by the park staff as a place to brew up teas, and stash their tools. He was unexpectedly heavy-set, his body fluent like a waterfall beneath his soft overcoat. There was a nasty, ungainly struggle, which reflected badly on both of us. There was no symmetry, no choreography to our bestial growls and spasmodic cuffs . He went down to his knees, hard and fast, an enthusiastic convert to nonconsciousness.
There was mush on the mattock. I hefted it. It felt so light, so buoyant. I resisted an urge to hurl it up, into the bluing sky, to watch it rise to the heavens, rotating slowly on its own axis, like the transmogrified tool in 2001.
His wallet was made from slightly furry-feeling leather. Possibly pigskin. Credit cards, business cards, driving licence, kidney-donor card, all were in the name of Jonathan D. Sczm. I wondered about the D. Did it stand for David, or was Dave merely Sczm's nickname? Did it matter now?
Velma answers the door looking very grey, very drawn. She only opens the door a fraction, just far enough for me to appreciate how very grey, how very drawn she is. ‘You look rather rough,’ she says, ‘and your jacket's all torn.’
‘What's this?’ I reply, gesturing, taking in the crack, the vee, of Velma. ‘I'm not hawking anything here, Velma, you can take the chain off.’
‘I'm – I'm not sure I can do that, I don't think I want you to come in. Dave called me from the café – he said you were in a bit of a state.’
‘Oh, for fuck's sake!’ I lean against the brickwork, and awkwardly kidney-punch the intervening air. I'm doing my best to affect a manner of complete naturalness – but I have the idea it isn't working.
‘Dave said you had an appointment with Dr Klagfarten for three this afternoon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘After Dave rang, I called Dr Klagfarten, he says it would be fine if you wanted to go back there now, have a word now. He said –’
‘What? What did he say?’
‘He said you might be a bit upset – upset about me . . .’
‘You, Velma?’ I'm looking at her now, and I can see the tears swelling in her eyes. ‘You? Velma?’ She shakes her head.
‘Not Velma, not any more, not Velma, not –’ And she's sobbing now, the sobs slotting into a cycle, an hysterical cycle which she breaks, crying, ‘D-Davina!
By the brackish, oily carp pond, in the very centre of the park, a small wooden bridge is marooned on the impacted earth. Squirrels flow about, grey rivulets of rodent. The hacked and husbanded woodland here is filtering the lax sun, making for bad dappling. At a fence of waist-high, wooden palisades, two young men stand, feeding pigeons and crows.
If not foreign – they ought to be. They both wear expensive overcoats, of lamb's-wool, or cashmere. Their hair is too glossy, too dark, too curly. Even from some fifty yards away I can see the sideburns that snake down from hairlines to jawlines. They are both wearing gloves. I don't like birds at the best of times, and the pigeons and crows in this town are getting quite obese. We don't need types like these coming into our park and feeding them expensive peanuts.
The pigeons and crows rear up so. And they're so big. Today, their bipedalism makes them humanoid to me. In their greasy, feather capes of grey and black, they might be avine impersonators, hustling a sexual practice founded on fluttering and paid for in peanuts.
As I draw level with the two men, one turns away from the fence, scattering peanuts and pigeons from his gloved hands, ‘See you, Dave,’ says his companion, but not with any real feeling. Dave glances at me, once, but with an unexpected acuity, as if reading me. He strides away in front, kicking up small sprays of old leaves, mould and twigs. It's clear that he is uncomfortable, that he wishes to put some distance between us. I quicken my pace.
I caught him by the octagonal, wooden gazebo, used by the park staff as a place to brew up teas, and stash their tools. He was unexpectedly heavy-set, his body fluent like a waterfall beneath his soft overcoat. There was a nasty, ungainly struggle, which reflected badly on both of us. There was no symmetry, no choreography to our bestial growls and spasmodic cuffs . He went down to his knees, hard and fast, an enthusiastic convert to nonconsciousness.
There was mush on the mattock. I hefted it. It felt so light, so buoyant. I resisted an urge to hurl it up, into the bluing sky, to watch it rise to the heavens, rotating slowly on its own axis, like the transmogrified tool in 2001.
His wallet was made from slightly furry-feeling leather. Possibly pigskin. Credit cards, business cards, driving licence, kidney-donor card, all were in the name of Jonathan D. Sczm. I wondered about the D. Did it stand for David, or was Dave merely Sczm's nickname? Did it matter now?
Velma answers the door looking very grey, very drawn. She only opens the door a fraction, just far enough for me to appreciate how very grey, how very drawn she is. ‘You look rather rough,’ she says, ‘and your jacket's all torn.’
‘What's this?’ I reply, gesturing, taking in the crack, the vee, of Velma. ‘I'm not hawking anything here, Velma, you can take the chain off.’
‘I'm – I'm not sure I can do that, I don't think I want you to come in. Dave called me from the café – he said you were in a bit of a state.’
‘Oh, for fuck's sake!’ I lean against the brickwork, and awkwardly kidney-punch the intervening air. I'm doing my best to affect a manner of complete naturalness – but I have the idea it isn't working.
‘Dave said you had an appointment with Dr Klagfarten for three this afternoon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘After Dave rang, I called Dr Klagfarten, he says it would be fine if you wanted to go back there now, have a word now. He said –’
‘What? What did he say?’
‘He said you might be a bit upset – upset about me . . .’
‘You, Velma?’ I'm looking at her now, and I can see the tears swelling in her eyes. ‘You? Velma?’ She shakes her head.
‘Not Velma, not any more, not Velma, not –’ And she's sobbing now, the sobs slotting into a cycle, an hysterical cycle which she breaks, crying, ‘D-Davina!
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