Sin City (65 page)

They're kissing on the box now – a stunning blonde with Suzie's nose. Funny how he didn't even kiss me, not on the lips, not even when we were lying on the floor. I switch the kiss off, check through Victor's bookcase. No distraction there. All fish manuals or gardening guides, or huge tomes on engineering. Nothing frothy, no romance. I choose a book on breeding axolotls (whatever they are), take it to the light. A moth got there before me, a small brown stupid moth which keeps fluttering round the lamp, falling back as if it's singed, then flapping up to burn itself again.

I force myself to concentrate. “The female lays five hundred eggs, sometimes several times a year. At least three-quarters of these will die after hatching …”

I slam the book shut. Suzie wouldn't be shivering here reading death statistics, with her client lying a few yards down the passage in a cosy double bed. I jump up from my chair, slip along to Victor's room, open his door a crack. He's not asleep at all, just propped against the pillows with the bedside light switched on. I start to giggle. Crazy. Both of us awake in separate rooms.

“Jan? Is that you?” He sounds wary, almost sharp.

“No, it's Carole.” I pad over to the bed, still giggling, lift the covers. “Can I get in? I'm cold.”

“I'll … er … find another blanket.” He's trying to slip out the other side. I stop him, squeeze his hand.

“You're warmer than a blanket.”

“Look, Carole, I think it's better if we …”

I kiss him on the lips to stop him talking. Of course he's scared – it's obvious. I should have been less selfish, thought of him, rather than myself. I'm a professional now, with a few tricks up my sleeve: how to take the initiative myself without appearing dominant or threatening; how to coax a shy man, build his confidence.

“Let's just lie together, shall we? It's nice like that, relaxing.”

“I'll … make some tea.”

“I've had tea.”

“Well, breakfast then. I bought some sourdough muffins. Or there's …”

“Victor, darling, it's still not six o'clock. We don't want breakfast yet. Just relax.”

I undo my pyjama top, let him see my tits. He makes no move to touch them. He's lying there, absolutely rigid, trying to cover his body with the bedclothes. I coax them off again, lean over, so my naked breasts are poured out on his chest. He shuts his eyes, lets out a sigh so deep it's more a groan, starts to stroke my nipples. They love it, stiffen up immediately. I'm tremendously relieved to see I can respond, even down below. Yes, dead cold Abigail is slowly resurrecting, stirring into life. I unbutton my pyjama bottoms, slide my hand across to his, fumble for the fastening.

He's out of bed – just like that – blundering towards the door, reaching for his dressing-gown
en route
, clutching it round him, mumbling something about having to switch the immersion heater on, and how about some fresh-squeezed orange juice; using words to keep me at a distance. Actually, I haven't moved. I glance down at my silly eager nipples. This is more than shyness. He must have some real problem. Hundreds of men do. Impotence, premature ejaculation, are as common as the common cold. At the Silver Palm, we flatter both the rockets and the squibs, tell them all they're wonderful, to boost their egos (and erections), keep them coming back. I probably handled Victor wrong, frightened him by stripping off like that.

I punch the pillows flat, collapse against them. Can't he talk, for heaven's sake, at least explain what's bugging him? He probably doesn't realise there are ways of getting round these things, and that Suzie's not the only one who knows them; slow-down techniques for young or inexperienced guys who can't hold it back (especially wealthy ones who can afford to pay for extra time); speed-up skills for when we're busy, short of girls. The ex-streetwalkers are pretty good at those – it's all speed-up on the beat; grab your cash in hand, then get the whole thing over as quickly as you can. Victor needs a different tack completely, something very subtle and low-key. I'd better go and find him, start again from scratch. Sudchit taught me an Oriental foot massage, which is specially good for problem men. It doesn't just relax them, it disarms them. Feet are safe, they think. Actually, it's surprisingly erotic, as if there's a hotline from the big toe to the prick. I'll have a shot at it. I owe him that at least when he's paid so much to keep me here all night.

He's in the bathroom. I can hear splashing, running taps. Perhaps he was just embarrassed about BO. I like him for that, actually. Too few men consider it.

I knock. “Can I come in? I'd love a bath myself.” That often works as well – relaxing in warm water with the guy, letting him imagine that the bath is just a preliminary, then surprising him offguard.

“I'll run yours after mine, okay?”

God! He is a prude, can't even share a bath. I try the door. It's locked. That's the bloody end. To lock me out as if I'm some pesky little kid, instead of a skilled courtesan who's been trained to give men baths – French baths, Japanese baths, spa baths, fantasy baths. How can I try anything if he won't even let me in? I lean against the wall, see Reuben's cracked old tub again, feel his greedy soapy hands edging up my thighs. He was wild for me, betrayed me. Victor's honourable, devoted, and a wimp. No wonder Adrienne and co find comfort with their own sex. I stomp into the kitchen, pour myself some orange juice. I've finished half the carton by the time he comes to find me. He's double-wrapped in pyjamas and a full-length stripey dressing-gown, which makes him look like some aging Arab sheik.

“Water's running, Carole. I've put some bubble bath in and there are clean towels on the stool.”

I don't say thanks. I still feel irritated, maybe just dog-tired from lack of sleep. To hell with fancy massages. The sooner I can get away the better. I'll snatch a few hours kip at Angelique's, then devote the rest of this weekend to Norah. She won't lock me out.

The bathroom's hot and steamy, smells of pine. My bath is far too full. I try to turn the taps off, but the shower comes on instead – ice-cold. I twiddle knobs and dials. No good. Still that jet of fierce and freezing water. The water's rib-cage high now, threatening to spill over. I dash along to Victor's room, burst in through the door. “Victor, that dratted shower's gone crazy and …”

I stop, clutch the door handle. Victor's about to step into his underpants, wearing nothing but a shirt which is unbuttoned, hanging open. He freezes for one panic-stricken second. So do I. He sees me staring. I can't not stare. I feel sick, shocked, yet my eyes won't move from that horrifying sight. Suddenly he snatches up the dressing-gown, uses it like a shield.

“Get out!” he shouts. “Get out of here.”

I'm out, pounding down the passage, unlocking the front door, dashing through the garden and along the dirt-track. It's still dark outside and fiercely cold. My feet keep sliding, tripping on loose stones. I even fall once, graze my knee. I don't feel any pain though. Nothing else will register, save that one first shock.

I keep on running, almost blindly, blundering into bushes, sweating and shivering both at once. I can hear my own breathing disturbing the dank silence of the night. It
is
still night, not a glint or chink of morning; dark and angry clouds racing overhead as if I've set them off by my own ungainly pace.

At last I stop. A dark shape off the path turns into the ruins of a house. I creep inside, slump against the damp and crumbling walls. I hear a sudden rustle. A mouse? A bat? I'm terrified of both, but I've got to stop and rest. My own pain is throbbing back, aching knee, sore and stinging feet. I close my eyes, but I can still see Victor's body, the lower half horribly scarred. The skin is gnarled and puckered, cobbled up as if someone's ripped it off, then sewn it back too tightly. It doesn't even look like skin. It's dry and dead with little raised and twisted ridges running down his stomach and his thighs, flat discoloured patches in between. His cock's affected, too, lumpy and thickened as if it's got some cover over it. I could never ever look at it again, couldn't bear to touch him. I've always been squeamish about things like scars or blemishes, even if they're tiny, and his are massive. It's bad enough seeing them on strangers, let alone a man you're involved with, almost went to bed with. Horrible. And then the way he shouted, really yelled as if I were a dog. That was quite a shock as well, when he's never even raised his voice before. I felt utterly put down.

So what does
he
feel? Loved and wanted? Hardly. I let my back slide slowly down the wall till I'm sitting on the floor. I could have shown more sympathy, reacted less hysterically, instead of bolting out in pyjamas and bare feet as if he were a leper. Poor Victor. What in God's name happened to him? Some ghastly car crash probably, like that poor sod Angelique described. Or an accident at work maybe. Yet couldn't he have told me, warned me in advance? He's deceived me, really, posing as a normal guy, pretending he's like anybody else.

The floor feels damp and soggy. Christ knows what I'm sitting on – dung or shit or something, or the remains of a dead bird? I shudder, try to stop my mind racing round and round in circles, darting from pity to revulsion to resentment. What am I going to do? Stay here all day, go back and say I'm sorry, go back and say nothing, pretend I never saw a thing – or simply disappear?

Something runs across my foot. I jump, dodge across rotting piles of debris to the door, blink as I emerge. The windows of the house were boarded up, so I couldn't see the first grey ghosts of light filtering from the east. Dawn seems reluctant and bad-tempered, not rosy-pink, but a sallow mauvish-grey streaked across the sky.

The mountains are still blurred and bulky shapes, only their peaks shining spooky-white with snow.

I stand dithering on the path. One way leads to Victor, the other to the garage and the store. The garage has a public phone. I could call a cab, escape to Angelique's. He'd never find me there and he's far too decent to complain to Carl or make trouble for me at the Silver Palm.

Decent. Yes, he is. Kind, loving, honest; generous with his self and time and money. And no one's ever worshipped me like he does. It's marvellous being worshipped. All your bad bits simply seep away and you bask in being beautiful, inside as well as out. Can't I do the same for him, then, make him feel good, overlook the scarring? After all, it doesn't show, not in public when he's dressed. His arms and legs and face and chest are fine. It's just that middle band, only puckered skin, for heaven's sake. Is it really so important, so horrendous?

Yes, it is. I take the right fork, scramble down the dirt track to the garage and the phone. If I go the other way, Victor might want more than I can give. I'm prepared to be friendly, but not to go to bed with him – not now. No one could expect that.

I stop a moment. Suzie went to bed with him. I can see them suddenly, walking down that passage in the Silver Palm, chattering and laughing. She didn't seem disgusted. In fact, she praised him to me, called him quite some guy. It's easier for her, though. She's used to all the horrors – disabled men and perverts, wrecks in wheelchairs, amputees. It's just a job to her, a sort of social work which I could never face myself. Maybe I'm selfish, but you could also call it sensitive. Suzie's so thick-skinned it's as if she's scarred as well.

I lurch on down the path, trying to avoid the roughest of the rocks. God! I look a sight. Ripped pyjamas, bleeding knee and feet. These little hamlets are buzzing hives of gossip and the garage man knows Carl. Suppose he reports me, says a wild girl in men's nightwear came tearing in at dawn and asked to use his phone. All-Niters last past dawn, so Carl will know I've run out on my job. That could mean the sack.

He'll be pretty mad already. I forgot to call him, say I was okay. You're meant to phone once or twice on out-dates, so he can keep a check on you. It's a stupid rule, in fact. You could be phoning in at knife-point, or with a gun held to your back. That happened once, apparently, to a French girl called Thérèse. She was lucky to escape alive. Carl was pretty shaken, but he didn't stop the out-dates, just charged more for them.

I stumble to a halt, new resentment churning in my mind. Carl should have told me about Victor, warned me what I'd have to face. Perhaps he didn't know, though. Suzie did – that's certain – but I wouldn't be surprised if she concealed the fact on purpose, relishing the thought that I'd be shocked and couldn't cope. Oh,
can
't I, Suzie? Really? So feeble, am I, gutless?

I swing round, start charging back the way I've come. My legs ache, my noisy laboured breathing hurts my throat. I don't care. I'll show her. She's racing me, the bitch, her slimmer longer legs pounding past me, that waist-length hair flicking in my face.

“No, you don't,” I shout. “Get back! He may have bloody fucked you, but he didn't take you home.”

I'm out of breath, jabbing stitch both sides. I clutch my middle, slow into a walk as I glimpse the house at last. I hadn't realised quite how far I'd run. The whole place looks different in the light. I'm still astonished by the change in my surroundings since that brazen sun first burst above the mountain tops, staining the sky a deep and gloating crimson. The stony hills are shining now, the clouds slashed and gorged with red. I almost hate that sun. It seems so heartless, so absorbed in its own glory, when drabber, feebler creatures are hurt or scarred or terrified. My heart is thumping, not so much from running, but from fear – fear of seeing Victor again, fear of what to say and how to be; fear of his anger or embarrassment, of making things still worse.

My pace slackens even more as I turn into the garden. The house looks hostile somehow, closed against me, though the front door is open still, the passage warm in contrast to the chilly air outside. I stop and listen. Not a sound. Is Victor there still? My bare feet make no noise, yet the house is so ominously quiet, they seem to startle and disturb it. I check the kitchen and the bathroom; one empty, the other semi-flooded; go on to his bedroom. The bed's unmade, a limp blue tie coils across the floor. I pick it up, feel a sudden sweaty panic as I stare down at the tiny monogram. Supposing Victor's disappeared, done the sort of bolt I was planning on myself? No, he mustn't. Can't. Suzie's right. Of course he's quite some guy. Didn't I feel happier last night than I've felt for years and years; notice how he put me first in every tiny way; how sane and wise and balanced all his views seemed? Jon never had opinions, except on snooker and hard rock, and Reuben's were all fanatic and revengeful. I've got to find him: better grab a coat and shoes, go and search outside for him.