she held herself a little better than usual. She left the dancers’ goodnights and kisses behind and crossed over a gangplank, pinching up her skirts with her right hand to keep the dirt off them.
The sky was pinned with a handful of stars.
As she reached her cabin, she had the same sensation of being watched. It was possible the man had followed her but it was also extremely unlikely. She felt no fear. Let them watch. Calmly she opened the cabin door, which was never locked.
Through the window could be seen a small landscape of decks and then a strip of sea to the horizon, whitened by moonlight. Her old cat Lucius jumped down unsteadily from the bed and greeted her with a reproachful yowl as he wound around and about her ankles. She picked him up and nuzzled his purring body. Sitting down, she switched on a lamp shaped like a mermaid combing her hair, settled Lucius on her lap and took up a book recommended to her by the librarian, The Aspern Papers . These books saddened her, belonging to a world she would never revisit, and yet she adored their exquisite eloquence, for the librarian knew what she liked reading and without fail would choose something to put her in this laughing-sad, crying-happy mood. Although she was finding the Misses Bordereau a little peculiar for her tastes, Venice in decay captivated her.
Lucius’s ears pricked up and his purr stopped abruptly. From being passive and pliable, he became all stiff bones and nerves.
“Who is it?” the woman asked, either to the cat or to the presence that the cat had sensed.
There was no knock. The door swung in to reveal a frail figure. Before the poor thing – not much more than a child – pitched forward on to the floor and she ran over to cradle it in her arms, the woman of smiles glimpsed blood.
Angel spent the best part of the day in the same curled-up position on the bed, getting up occasionally to urinate or throw up in the basin. The crash had hit her heavily, probably because she had never dropped a whole six tabs before. She drifted in and out of conscious dreams, the premises of which were not of her making but the action of which she found she could control. People said what she wanted them to say, did what she wanted them to do, which was funny but nice. When each dream reached a sort of conclusion, she would wake up and curl up more tightly and go back to sleep and another dream. One was about Push and another was about her father. Neither of these was too bad but they were empty dreams, filled with bland ghosts and wandering no-hopers, something missing, cut out from their hearts. Angel felt sorry for them and, in so doing, for herself.
Gradually the shakes eased off and her thoughts began to flock together. She was starving. She had not eaten since yesterday morning and it was now… She peered at the clock through sleep-crusted eyelids and saw it was 18.25. Nearly twenty-four hours had elapsed since she and Push had come back here. Time lost. She must make a move…
But it was another hour before she managed to crawl into some clothes – jeans and one of Push’s shirts. She felt like shit, like a slosh of organs and jelly, like her skin was the only thing holding her together. Catching sight of herself in the mirror which swung from a hook over the basin she saw dark matted hair and yellowy eyes and pale lips and nothing remotely appealing or perfect or angelic. She tried to smile and her reflection grimaced back at her with uneven teeth. Pushing her feet into a pair of sandals, she left the cabin and made for the Recreation Area.
There was quite a crowd at the Neptune’s Trident. All the people she expected to see hanging out were hanging out. Wild Billy was lounging by the door to the Trident, smoking a cigarette and wearing his joke sailor’s hat. Delia had a little girly on either arm – bewildered things – and had that familiar bollock-removing look on her face. Acid Cas was striking a bargain with someone Angel didn’t
The sky was pinned with a handful of stars.
As she reached her cabin, she had the same sensation of being watched. It was possible the man had followed her but it was also extremely unlikely. She felt no fear. Let them watch. Calmly she opened the cabin door, which was never locked.
Through the window could be seen a small landscape of decks and then a strip of sea to the horizon, whitened by moonlight. Her old cat Lucius jumped down unsteadily from the bed and greeted her with a reproachful yowl as he wound around and about her ankles. She picked him up and nuzzled his purring body. Sitting down, she switched on a lamp shaped like a mermaid combing her hair, settled Lucius on her lap and took up a book recommended to her by the librarian, The Aspern Papers . These books saddened her, belonging to a world she would never revisit, and yet she adored their exquisite eloquence, for the librarian knew what she liked reading and without fail would choose something to put her in this laughing-sad, crying-happy mood. Although she was finding the Misses Bordereau a little peculiar for her tastes, Venice in decay captivated her.
Lucius’s ears pricked up and his purr stopped abruptly. From being passive and pliable, he became all stiff bones and nerves.
“Who is it?” the woman asked, either to the cat or to the presence that the cat had sensed.
There was no knock. The door swung in to reveal a frail figure. Before the poor thing – not much more than a child – pitched forward on to the floor and she ran over to cradle it in her arms, the woman of smiles glimpsed blood.
Angel spent the best part of the day in the same curled-up position on the bed, getting up occasionally to urinate or throw up in the basin. The crash had hit her heavily, probably because she had never dropped a whole six tabs before. She drifted in and out of conscious dreams, the premises of which were not of her making but the action of which she found she could control. People said what she wanted them to say, did what she wanted them to do, which was funny but nice. When each dream reached a sort of conclusion, she would wake up and curl up more tightly and go back to sleep and another dream. One was about Push and another was about her father. Neither of these was too bad but they were empty dreams, filled with bland ghosts and wandering no-hopers, something missing, cut out from their hearts. Angel felt sorry for them and, in so doing, for herself.
Gradually the shakes eased off and her thoughts began to flock together. She was starving. She had not eaten since yesterday morning and it was now… She peered at the clock through sleep-crusted eyelids and saw it was 18.25. Nearly twenty-four hours had elapsed since she and Push had come back here. Time lost. She must make a move…
But it was another hour before she managed to crawl into some clothes – jeans and one of Push’s shirts. She felt like shit, like a slosh of organs and jelly, like her skin was the only thing holding her together. Catching sight of herself in the mirror which swung from a hook over the basin she saw dark matted hair and yellowy eyes and pale lips and nothing remotely appealing or perfect or angelic. She tried to smile and her reflection grimaced back at her with uneven teeth. Pushing her feet into a pair of sandals, she left the cabin and made for the Recreation Area.
There was quite a crowd at the Neptune’s Trident. All the people she expected to see hanging out were hanging out. Wild Billy was lounging by the door to the Trident, smoking a cigarette and wearing his joke sailor’s hat. Delia had a little girly on either arm – bewildered things – and had that familiar bollock-removing look on her face. Acid Cas was striking a bargain with someone Angel didn’t
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