my ears. I thought we were being followed for a bit. We walked off in silence and didn't speak until Dalston Kingsland Station. Paranoia City.
— Where you off ta? Ange asked.
— Ah'm gittin the overland, the North London line tae this mate Albie's in Kentish Town. Ah'm gaunny git sorted wi this pig gear, then it's down to the Bush. Civilised there, ye ken? I've fuckin had it wi Hackney, it's worse than back up the road. Too fuckin parochial. Too many self-righteous nosey cunts. Isolated, that's its problem. Nae tube. No enough social contact wi the rest ay the Smoke. A fuckin urban backwater.
I was ranting. Sick and ranting.
— I gotta come with ya. The flat's fucked. It'll be torched by now. The pigs wouldn't bother to secure the door.
I didn't want Ange in tow; she had the bad luck virus really bad. Bad luck is usually transmitted by close proximity to habitual sufferers. There was little I could do or say, however, as the train pulled up and we boarded it, sitting opposite each other in crushed, sick silence.
As the train started I stole a glance at her. I hope she didn't expect me to sleep with her. I'm not into sex right now. Maybe Albie would, if she wanted it. It was a disturbing thought, but only because all thought on matters external to me was disturbing. I'd soon be free from it all though; free from its niggling persistence, I thought, fingering the packet in my trouser pocket.
VAT '96
Fiona had been hassling Valerie to get us to come for a meal at her and Keith's for an indecently long period of time. We'd let things slide, the way people do, but eventually we got embarrassed making excuses and it seemed less hassle to actually set a date and go round to their place one evening.
We found Fiona in high spirits. She'd gained a promotion in her job which was in corporate insurance, selling policies to big businesses. Selling policies at that level was ninety percent public relations, which, in turn, as any candid PR person will tell you, is ninety-five percent hospitality and five percent information. The problem with Fiona was, like many career-minded people, she couldn't switch off her occupational role and could therefore be a crushing bore.
— Come in! Wonderful to see you! Gosh! Gorgeous outfit, Val! Where did you get it? Crawford, you're putting on the beef. It suits you though. Has he been doing weights, Val? Have you been doing weights, Crawford? You're looking great, both of you! I'm going to get some drinks. Vodka and tonic for you, Val, sit down, sit down, I want to hear all your adventures, everything, gosh, have I got some things to tell you ... I suppose you want a Jack Daniels, Crawford?
— Eh, a can of beer would do fine.
— Oh, beer. Oh. Sorry. Gosh. We're all out of beer.. Oh God. Crawford and his beer!
After making a fuss, she ticked me off for the cardinal sin of asking for a beer. I settled for a Jack Daniels, which Fiona had got in especially for me.
— Oh Val, gosh, I must tell you about this amazing guy I met... Fiona began, before noticing our surprise and dis comfort.
We didn't really have to say: Where's Keith? as our eyes must have done the talking for us.
— Gosh, I don't quite know how to put this. Some rather bad news on the Keithy-weithy-woo's front, I'm afraid. She crossed the spacious room and lifted the cover from a glass tank which stood against the wall. She clicked on a light at the side of the tank and said, — Wakey, wakey, Valerie and Crawford are here!
At first I thought it was a fish tank, that Keith had just shot the craw, and that Fiona, devastated, had transferred her emotional energy onto pets in the form of some tropical fish. With the benefit of retrospect, it was always an unlikely notion.
Then I noted that the tank had a head inside it. A human head, disembodied, decapitated. Moreover, the head seemed alive. I moved closer. The eyes in the head were moving. The hair was spread around it, Medusa-like, made weightless by the watery, yellow
— Where you off ta? Ange asked.
— Ah'm gittin the overland, the North London line tae this mate Albie's in Kentish Town. Ah'm gaunny git sorted wi this pig gear, then it's down to the Bush. Civilised there, ye ken? I've fuckin had it wi Hackney, it's worse than back up the road. Too fuckin parochial. Too many self-righteous nosey cunts. Isolated, that's its problem. Nae tube. No enough social contact wi the rest ay the Smoke. A fuckin urban backwater.
I was ranting. Sick and ranting.
— I gotta come with ya. The flat's fucked. It'll be torched by now. The pigs wouldn't bother to secure the door.
I didn't want Ange in tow; she had the bad luck virus really bad. Bad luck is usually transmitted by close proximity to habitual sufferers. There was little I could do or say, however, as the train pulled up and we boarded it, sitting opposite each other in crushed, sick silence.
As the train started I stole a glance at her. I hope she didn't expect me to sleep with her. I'm not into sex right now. Maybe Albie would, if she wanted it. It was a disturbing thought, but only because all thought on matters external to me was disturbing. I'd soon be free from it all though; free from its niggling persistence, I thought, fingering the packet in my trouser pocket.
VAT '96
Fiona had been hassling Valerie to get us to come for a meal at her and Keith's for an indecently long period of time. We'd let things slide, the way people do, but eventually we got embarrassed making excuses and it seemed less hassle to actually set a date and go round to their place one evening.
We found Fiona in high spirits. She'd gained a promotion in her job which was in corporate insurance, selling policies to big businesses. Selling policies at that level was ninety percent public relations, which, in turn, as any candid PR person will tell you, is ninety-five percent hospitality and five percent information. The problem with Fiona was, like many career-minded people, she couldn't switch off her occupational role and could therefore be a crushing bore.
— Come in! Wonderful to see you! Gosh! Gorgeous outfit, Val! Where did you get it? Crawford, you're putting on the beef. It suits you though. Has he been doing weights, Val? Have you been doing weights, Crawford? You're looking great, both of you! I'm going to get some drinks. Vodka and tonic for you, Val, sit down, sit down, I want to hear all your adventures, everything, gosh, have I got some things to tell you ... I suppose you want a Jack Daniels, Crawford?
— Eh, a can of beer would do fine.
— Oh, beer. Oh. Sorry. Gosh. We're all out of beer.. Oh God. Crawford and his beer!
After making a fuss, she ticked me off for the cardinal sin of asking for a beer. I settled for a Jack Daniels, which Fiona had got in especially for me.
— Oh Val, gosh, I must tell you about this amazing guy I met... Fiona began, before noticing our surprise and dis comfort.
We didn't really have to say: Where's Keith? as our eyes must have done the talking for us.
— Gosh, I don't quite know how to put this. Some rather bad news on the Keithy-weithy-woo's front, I'm afraid. She crossed the spacious room and lifted the cover from a glass tank which stood against the wall. She clicked on a light at the side of the tank and said, — Wakey, wakey, Valerie and Crawford are here!
At first I thought it was a fish tank, that Keith had just shot the craw, and that Fiona, devastated, had transferred her emotional energy onto pets in the form of some tropical fish. With the benefit of retrospect, it was always an unlikely notion.
Then I noted that the tank had a head inside it. A human head, disembodied, decapitated. Moreover, the head seemed alive. I moved closer. The eyes in the head were moving. The hair was spread around it, Medusa-like, made weightless by the watery, yellow
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