Pthc

The kid is sick, I say.

I'm stood in the kitchen on the phone looking out of the window and
into the window opposite where a woman - I'd say she was maybe thirty,
she was in good shape - was moving about her living room and giving off
the impression of looking for something. I could only see her top half,
could only see the unbuttoned white shirt and the black bra. She had
tiny titties but I liked the look of her.

Lem comes back. There's nothing he can do.

I say again, about the kid. She isn't well enough to perform.

Lem says shit and for a second I don't know whether shit means I'm
talking shit or shit means the fact the kid is sick is shit. Lem is not
always so easy to read.

He is speaking on the other end of the line with his hand over the
receiver. There is a mash. Three voices talking. I can't make out a
damn word they're saying.

The woman opposite is looking under cushions. I figure she's lost her
keys or something. She lifts each cushion from the couch and then moves
over to her dining table and starts to root through the fruit bowl. I
imagine knocking at the door, her answering (that half polite, half
put-out yes question mark), me not speaking, stepping inside her home;
wait a minute, she says, wait-a-minute; the surprised expression, then,
as I drive my fist into her face, her landing sprawled, legs akimbo,
skirt - she's wearing a skirt I see now, navy blue, tight - skirt hiked
up her legs, bloody lips, blood on her tongue, oiling the grooves
between her teeth. Olly is following me - I hear the sly click of the
door closing, the deviant hum of the mini DV. We move her from the
floor to the table, push the fruit bowl onto the floor, and lay her
down.

Nothing we can do, says Lem. The girl is on at 5.

Nothing you can do I say but my mind is across the way in the tower
block opposite. I want to make that girl naked. I can see myself,
yanking the black bra down and along her rib cage without bothering to
unfasten it. I can feel it - I can feel the material between us -
between her tummy and my gut - as I fuck her. I want to fuck her hard
dry. Fucking Jewish princess. I want to bring my ring hand - the hand
with the gold - I want to bring that hand down on her face, forehand
backhand. I want to see her little titties jumping, her hard brown
nipples jogging each time I stick her.

The titties and the shocked expression on her face.

Man o man.

Come on now, I say. The girl is the colour blue.

It doesn't matter, Lem says. G says that does not matter.

Fuck man. This is me again. Fuck, man I say. Send somebody over here.
She is shivering on the floor. She is fucking blue, man. She is fucking
blue and she's sick. There is sick all over her fucking room and -
there - is - no - way I am cleaning that up. I am not here to clean up
sick, motherfucker.

Then don't clean it up. It's as simple as that. Give the bitch a pill.
Give the bitch a slap. Give the bitch whatever the fuck you want. Just
make sure she is on at 5.

The line goes dead.

The receiver returns to the handset on the wall by the fridge.