was writing about the authenticity of rules in the game of
Risk
. “I mean you have to give it a chance, don’t you? Or you’ll never know who you are.” He cast an absent-minded glance about the lab. He was in a world of his own.
Miss Brunner came in wearing a white coat. “The kids called. They won’t be here until Boxing Day.”
“Bugger,” said Mo. “Don’t they want to finish this bloody game?” He was suspicious. Had her snobbery motivated her to dissuade them, perhaps subtly, from coming? He already had her down as a social climber. Still, a climber was a climber. “Why didn’t you let them talk to me?”
“You were out of it,” she said. “Or cycling or something. They thought you might be dead.”
He shook his head. “There’s days I wonder about you.”
Catherine Cornelius decided to step in. He was clearly at the end of his rope. “Can I ask a question, Mo?”
Mo took a breath and began to comb his hair. “Be my guest.”
“What’s this word?” She had been looking at Jerry’s notes. “Is this holes, hoes or holds?”
“I think it’s ladies,” said Mo.
“Oh, of course.” She brightened. “Little women. Concord, yes? The dangers of the unexamined life?”
11 . REBOOTING THE BODY
We could hear the Americans counting money and saying to the Pakistanis: “Each person is $5,000. Five persons, $25,000. Seven persons, $35,000.”
—Laurel Fletcher and Eric Stover,
The Guantánamo Effect: Exposing the Consequences of U.S. Detention and Interrogation Practices
.
H E HAD BUILT up his identity with the help of toy soldiers, cigarette cards, foreign stamps, all those books from the tuppenny lending library with their wonderful bright jackets preserved in sticky plastic. Netta Muskett was his mum’s favourite and he went for P. G. Wodehouse, Edgar Rice Burroughs, P. C. Wren, Baroness Orczy, and the rest. They were still printed in hundreds of thousands then. Thrillers, comedies, fantastic adventure, historical adventure. Rafael Sabatini. What a disappointing picture of him that was in
Lilliput
magazine, wearing waders, holding a rod, caught bending in midstream, an old gent. It came to us all.
Didi Dee seemed to feel more comfortable without her clothes, nodding to herself as she looked at his books. Was she confirming something? He sat in the big Morris library chair and watched her, dark as the mahogany, reflecting the light.
“I wasn’t exactly a virgin. My dad started fucking me when I was twelve.” She turned to study his reaction. “Does that shock you?”
Jerry laughed. “What? Me? I’m a moralist, I know, but I’m not a petty moralist. You think a spot of finger-wagging is what Jesus would have done. So I should be saying ‘Bloody hell! The fucking bastard’?”
She came back into the bedroom and started snapping on her kit. “It was all right. He got it over with quickly and then he was guilty as hell and I could go out all night and do what and whom I liked without his saying a word because he was scared I’d tell the cops and my mum would find out, though really I think she knew and didn’t care. Gave her a quiet life. So by day I was doing my mock A-levels at St. Paul’s and by night I was having all the fun of the fair.” She blinked reminiscently. “Or thought I was. It took me a bit of time to find out what I liked. What I was like. When I met you I’d just turned twenty-one. I thought I was ready to settle down.”
He didn’t make the obvious response. He licked the smell of her cunt off his upper lip. He needed a shave. Maybe he’d teach her how to use the straight razor on his face. She required training. She’d said so herself. “What a waste.” He thought of those lost nine years.
Suddenly her face opened up into one of those old cheeky grins. A lot better than nothing but it made him want to pee. No, he wasn’t really getting that old feeling. She showed him her perfect ass. So this is where nostalgia got you. She lay down next to him.
Risk
. “I mean you have to give it a chance, don’t you? Or you’ll never know who you are.” He cast an absent-minded glance about the lab. He was in a world of his own.
Miss Brunner came in wearing a white coat. “The kids called. They won’t be here until Boxing Day.”
“Bugger,” said Mo. “Don’t they want to finish this bloody game?” He was suspicious. Had her snobbery motivated her to dissuade them, perhaps subtly, from coming? He already had her down as a social climber. Still, a climber was a climber. “Why didn’t you let them talk to me?”
“You were out of it,” she said. “Or cycling or something. They thought you might be dead.”
He shook his head. “There’s days I wonder about you.”
Catherine Cornelius decided to step in. He was clearly at the end of his rope. “Can I ask a question, Mo?”
Mo took a breath and began to comb his hair. “Be my guest.”
“What’s this word?” She had been looking at Jerry’s notes. “Is this holes, hoes or holds?”
“I think it’s ladies,” said Mo.
“Oh, of course.” She brightened. “Little women. Concord, yes? The dangers of the unexamined life?”
11 . REBOOTING THE BODY
We could hear the Americans counting money and saying to the Pakistanis: “Each person is $5,000. Five persons, $25,000. Seven persons, $35,000.”
—Laurel Fletcher and Eric Stover,
The Guantánamo Effect: Exposing the Consequences of U.S. Detention and Interrogation Practices
.
H E HAD BUILT up his identity with the help of toy soldiers, cigarette cards, foreign stamps, all those books from the tuppenny lending library with their wonderful bright jackets preserved in sticky plastic. Netta Muskett was his mum’s favourite and he went for P. G. Wodehouse, Edgar Rice Burroughs, P. C. Wren, Baroness Orczy, and the rest. They were still printed in hundreds of thousands then. Thrillers, comedies, fantastic adventure, historical adventure. Rafael Sabatini. What a disappointing picture of him that was in
Lilliput
magazine, wearing waders, holding a rod, caught bending in midstream, an old gent. It came to us all.
Didi Dee seemed to feel more comfortable without her clothes, nodding to herself as she looked at his books. Was she confirming something? He sat in the big Morris library chair and watched her, dark as the mahogany, reflecting the light.
“I wasn’t exactly a virgin. My dad started fucking me when I was twelve.” She turned to study his reaction. “Does that shock you?”
Jerry laughed. “What? Me? I’m a moralist, I know, but I’m not a petty moralist. You think a spot of finger-wagging is what Jesus would have done. So I should be saying ‘Bloody hell! The fucking bastard’?”
She came back into the bedroom and started snapping on her kit. “It was all right. He got it over with quickly and then he was guilty as hell and I could go out all night and do what and whom I liked without his saying a word because he was scared I’d tell the cops and my mum would find out, though really I think she knew and didn’t care. Gave her a quiet life. So by day I was doing my mock A-levels at St. Paul’s and by night I was having all the fun of the fair.” She blinked reminiscently. “Or thought I was. It took me a bit of time to find out what I liked. What I was like. When I met you I’d just turned twenty-one. I thought I was ready to settle down.”
He didn’t make the obvious response. He licked the smell of her cunt off his upper lip. He needed a shave. Maybe he’d teach her how to use the straight razor on his face. She required training. She’d said so herself. “What a waste.” He thought of those lost nine years.
Suddenly her face opened up into one of those old cheeky grins. A lot better than nothing but it made him want to pee. No, he wasn’t really getting that old feeling. She showed him her perfect ass. So this is where nostalgia got you. She lay down next to him.
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