Linger Awhile (4 page)

While I waited for Justine to return I played back our brief history. Today was the 8th of January, so it was just over a week ago, on New Year’s Day, that I did a tiny Justine in a test tube. And it was on the 2nd of January that I began my preparations for the full-size primordial soup for the full-size woman. I googled for Port of London, and trawling eastward
down the Thames on the website map I found TDG European Chemicals in Halfway Reach by Old Man’s Head. Names to conjure with. They put me on to Gainsford Drums in Walthamstow and Bob was my uncle. When the drum was delivered I stood looking at it for a while, thinking about what would come out of the soup.

The 6th of January was the big day. When I got to the point of zapping the soup I hesitated. What if nothing happened? This, after all, was the first moment of the rest of my life. What would my life be if this moment was a failure? The idea of Justine had got into my old man’s head and by now she was my without-which-nothing. ‘Please,’ I said as the 240-volt juice hit the soup, ‘be there!’

And she
was
there. I’d imagined her rising naked from the soup like Aphrodite but she was fully clothed in her El Paso costume. The sight of a full-size live monochrome woman was something of a shock to me and she was in a similar state. ‘Wha?’ she said. ‘Where? Who?’ She was very weak, and I had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing.

‘First, let’s get you out of these wet clothes,’ I said.

‘Who,’ she said, ‘you?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Nobody here but you and me.’

‘Who you?’

‘Istvan. You can call me Ish.’

‘Talk funny, you.’

‘I’m English. This is London.’

‘London, Texas?’

‘England.’

She shook her head. ‘The gold,’ she said, ‘don’t let them.’

‘Don’t worry about it, I’m taking care of everything.’

‘El Paso. Tornillo. Hit stage.’

‘Nobody’s going to hit the stage,’ I said.

‘You,’ she said as her shirt came off, ‘stop.’

‘It’s OK, you have nothing to worry about.’ Actually, her monochrome brassière and then her naked breasts were not at all erotic. Quite the opposite. Dead white skin, grey nipples.

‘You,’ she said, ‘not in this movie. Go way.’

‘This is the only movie there is,’ I said, ‘and I’m the leading man.’

‘Shit,’ she said, and fell asleep or fainted. The reality of this whole thing was nothing like what I’d anticipated. I was trying to remember why I’d been so smitten with her, so much in love that I’d had to bring her out of death and video into my primordial soup. I saw a whole lot of problems looming ahead of me while she lay there sleeping the sleep of the undead.

I hadn’t really thought through the problems of having a monochromatic companion. It wasn’t just the lack of colour – in black-and-white she had no strength, could barely drag one foot after the other. Yesterday when I took her out all bundled up proved to me that colour was the only answer, so I rang up my nephew Arkan Vulvic who’s a nurse at St Eustace and asked him to get me a blood transfusion kit. Everything but the blood, which I thought would be pushing it. I’ve got him enough special deals on electronic equipment to make it hard for him to say no
but he sounded a little worried. ‘Nothing illegal, I hope,’ he said.

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘You know me – always fooling around with one thing and another.’ Without asking more questions he sent me plastic bags, tubing, needles, cannulas and instructions by messenger. That was when I transferred about a pint of vintage Fallok to Justine. I felt a little strange afterwards but she was looking great and she didn’t say no when I wanted what lovers want. It was disappointing.

Now she was out on her first hunt. I sat there waiting for her and picturing it in various ways. Would she suddenly sprout fangs and would her eyes light up as in the movies? No, it would be more erotic, more subtle, lingering kisses and soft caresses until she would bend to his (or indeed her) neck, brush it with her lips, then sigh and drink her fill. I almost envied the victim.

I waited and drank Irv’s whisky with a minimum of water. The hours passed; I dozed in my chair and didn’t wake up until after three when she waltzed in, plumped herself down in my lap, and gave me a big wet kiss with a lot of tongue. ‘Wake up, Uncle Istvan,’ she said, ‘I’m hot to trot.’ Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were sparkling and she was wearing a Guernsey instead of the jacket she’d left in.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I said.

‘Later – first I want a little action. Give it to me good and I’ll come in Technicolor for you.’ She was out of her clothes and on top of me in a flash and I have to say it was a whole lot better than the first time.

She sounded as if she was enjoying it too. ‘Well, shut my mouth, I’m a-headin’ south on the Dixie Cannonball,’ she sang, ‘Hoo-ee!’ After she settled down she kissed me and said, ‘How was it for you, old buddy?’

‘It was great. How come you’re being so nice to me?’

‘I told you, I’m hot to trot and right now you’re what I’ve got. You can get back in the saddle any time you want.’

‘Thank you, I’ll just rest for a bit. Tell me about your evening. But first I want to know where you left my jacket and where you got that jumper.’

‘Jumper?’

‘That sweater you’re wearing.’

‘I’ll get to that,’ she said, ‘but first I have to tell you what came before.’ Snuggling up to me in my chair, she took my hand and placed it on her breast. ‘Feel the excitement in me,’ she murmured. ‘What a night!’

‘Tell.’

‘When I went up those steps out to the street I was weak as a kitten and the whole world seemed to be losing colour along with me. I was leaning against a wall feeling as if I’d been dipped in shit three times and pulled out twice when a woman came walking by. She stopped when she saw me. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. I shook my head and she came closer. She was wearing a red jacket. She was pretty, she smelled good, she was plump and juicy. I was about to fall down but she grabbed me before I did. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I was going to kiss her on
the cheek but she turned her head so that I kissed her on the mouth. Such soft lips, and she was kissing me back with her tongue in my mouth. Her jacket was open at the top and there was the smooth bare skin of her neck and she smelled so good as I went for it. She gave a little sigh as she felt my teeth, almost as if she’d been expecting it, then she gasped as the blood began to come. I thought I would drink just enough to get me back on my feet but I couldn’t stop, and as she got weaker I held her tighter. She never said anything after that one little sigh, just surrendered completely. Telling about it now I get aroused all over again – I’d never had anything in my life like the thrill of holding her close and taking what I wanted. It made me wet and squirmy, and while I was drinking there were strong colours all around me, I could hear distant voices and street sounds as if they were next to me and I could smell Chinese food and hamburgers miles away. Then suddenly there was nothing left in her. I was so sad because I hadn’t meant to take her life. I carried her down some steps and left her there. I looked in her handbag to see what her name was. It was Rose, I’ll always remember her, my first. I didn’t take any money or anything from her and I left her bag with her.’

‘Next time take their ID.’

‘What’s ID?’

‘Driver’s licence, that kind of thing.’

‘What for?’

‘So the police won’t know who it is right off when they find the body. You left her close to here?’

‘Just a few doors down. I could have slung her over my shoulder and taken her somewhere else but I didn’t want to attract attention.’

‘What happened to my anorak?’

‘What’s an anorak?’

‘The jacket you had on when you left my place.’

‘It had some blood on it so I stuck it in a garbage can.’

‘We call them dustbins. Where?’

‘I don’t know. What does it matter?’

‘My keys were in one of the pockets, on a keyring with a little torch that had “Hermes Soundways” printed on it.’

‘What’s Hermes Soundways?’

‘This studio, this place where we are right now. And even if the keys are lost the anorak can be traced back to me, so I’d like to find that dustbin. Where did you go after you left Rose?’

‘I don’t know. After a while there was a big wide street with lots of lights and people and buses.’

‘Oxford Street?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Did you dump the anorak before you got to the big wide street or after?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Where did you acquire the Guernsey, before the big wide street or after?’

‘What Guernsey? Cattle?’

‘The jumper you’re wearing, the sweater.’

‘Man gave it to me, I was cold.’

‘And what did you give him?’

‘What he wanted.’

‘Before big wide or after?’

‘After, I think.’

I was beginning to see a life of endless worry unwinding ahead of me. I could see the classic scene where the police pathologist says, ‘There’s absolutely no blood in this body, and look at those bite marks on the neck.’ I could see them coming down my steps and knocking on my door. I shook myself and pulled myself together. ‘We have to move the body,’ I said. ‘Put some clothes on and let’s go.’

When we got to where Rose was I looked down at her pretty face all pale and dead and I felt sad. I’d turned Justine loose on London and this was the result. The name on her Visa card was Rose Harland. ‘Rose Harland on her Sundays out / Walked with the better man …’ I said as the Housman poem came to mind.

‘Did you know her?’ said Justine.

‘No. Let’s get her out of here.’

Justine picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her up the steps. We propped her up against a wall and while Justine held her there I went to Berwick Street for a taxi. We pretended Rose was drunk and took her to a street near Euston Station where we left her at the bottom of some other steps. There were a few drops of blood on the collar of her jacket so I removed the jacket and put it in my rucksack. I left the empty handbag with her.

Next we searched the streets north of Oxford Street and got dirty and smelly but didn’t find the anorak. ‘Before’ and ‘after’ describe time and space but do not
necessarily mean south and north. After an hour or so I realised that our efforts were useless so we went back to my place. Justine was still full of her adventures. ‘I tell you, it was some kind of a rush,’ she said. ‘The world was roaring in my ears and I thought if I didn’t get laid soon I’d drag some passerby into an alley and rape him. I was shivering with the cold and wondering what to do next when this guy came up to me and said, “You look cold.” “What about it,” I said. “I could warm you up,” he said. “Less talk, more action,” I said. We went to his place which was nearby and that’s where I got the Guernsey.’

‘Did you … ?’

‘I didn’t harm him. I wore him out with sex but that was all I did. He was OK when I left and sleeping like a baby. I had one more go-around with another man I met – I didn’t hurt him either – and then I came home. Now I’m really hungry.’

I made scrambled eggs for her and she wolfed them down, then she ran to the loo and vomited. ‘Maybe I drank too fast before,’ she said. I gave her some toast and she kept that down. ‘I think what I need now is sleep,’ she said. She undressed and climbed into bed and I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.

Lying there she looked so sweet and pretty that for a moment I felt as I did when I fell in love with her. Everything was different now – our reality was so hedged about with practical detail that I always had the uneasy feeling of having forgotten something important. Nothing would be simple from now on, and I was wondering if I mightn’t be too old for
reactivating dead women from videotapes. I went down to the studio but didn’t turn on the lights. I raised the blinds and there was enough light from the street for me to see by. I poured myself some Bowmore’s and added about a thimbleful of water. As my insides lit up I tried to think seriously about life, the universe and everything but only pictures came into my head: Justine with Rose Harland; Justine with Man No. 1 and Man No. 2. As fast as I faded them to black they reappeared with full sound effects.

Someone was coming down the steps: Grace Kowalski. She peered through the glass and then knocked. I couldn’t evade her indefinitely so I opened the door and let her in. ‘Hi, Istvan,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Unsimply,’ I said.

‘Can I have some of whatever you’re drinking?’

‘No vodka,’ I said, and gave her the Bowmore’s, a glass, and some water from the tap. ‘Cask strength,’ I said. ‘Be careful.’

She mixed herself a drink, sampled it, and choked for a while. ‘What happens now?’ she said when she could speak.

‘With what?’ I said. ‘With whom?’

‘With you and your OAP totty. Does she make you feel young again?’

‘That’s not quite how I’d put it, Grace.’

‘That’s
where
you’d put it, though.’

‘Grace, where is all this anger coming from? It’s not as if you and I are an old married couple.’

‘That’s right, we’re nothing really, are we.’ She finished her drink, choked some more, and went out, slamming the door.

9 January 2004. I saw Justine Trimble commit murder last night. I’d been keeping an eye on Fallok’s place when I saw her come out. In full colour, which was startling. After reaching the street she leaned against a building for a few minutes, and then a woman who was passing spoke to her. Suddenly, before you could say ‘Chow Yun Fat’, Justine had the other woman in a close embrace. They stayed like that for perhaps ten minutes; then the other woman slumped to the street and Justine picked her up, slung her over her shoulder, carried her about half-way down the block, went down some area steps with her, came back up without her and walked away.

I hurried to where she’d left her victim. The woman was young and pretty, white as a sheet and stone-cold dead. Very sad but there was nothing I could do for her so I hurried after Justine. I followed her up Marshall to Great Marlborough Street where she took off her anorak and stuffed it into a dustbin. I retrieved it because you never know. I followed Justine as far as
Oxford Street but there I lost her in the crowd. I took no further action because Rightnow is a good dog but Notyet is a safer bet.