eating implements.’
Bradley is reeling back and grinning wide.
Pleasure has dropped his voice to baritone.
‘If you’re a man, then I’m a Persian whore.
We’ll settle it as you say, though. Call it a duel.
Then, when I kill you, I’ll have my defence.’
He and his cronies shamble to the door
half checking us, half fearless. As he leaves,
‘You challenged me. My brothers are witnesses.’
Everyone sits, and no one says a word.
Four heartbeats pass before I break the air.
‘Tom, that was madness.’
‘Well, he made me mad.’
‘The man’s a brawler.’
‘He’ll not get a sword.’
‘Who says he won’t come at you anyway?’
‘He’ll be sober tomorrow.’
Our eyes meet, sharing doubt.
‘I liked your speech, though,’ Nashe says, ‘very neat.
Your mental side-step stole the wind from him.
You juggled him smartly.’ So the table warms
and I am toasted: ‘To Kit! To the play!
To The Jew of Malta !’ And Nashe contributes:
‘To pus-filled cullions, may they rue the day!’
‘To pus-filled cullions,’ we agree, and roar.
I notice Greene come in, turn round, and leave.
LURCH
‘I must abandon London, Kit,’ you said,
catching me as I left the inn that night.
‘My brother’s fallen ill.’
Perhaps the drink
had magnified my feelings, but your news
felt like a blow. And that surprised me so
that I staggered back.
‘Woah, Kit!’
You pulled me up
from the path of a carthorse and its fatal load.
‘All well?’ you asked.
‘No, Tom! All isn’t well.
Why are you going?’ You helped to brush me down
unaware your touch was setting light in me
a thousand fuses. And confusion too,
tipped up, the drink not helping. ‘For my brother,’
you said. ‘And Scadbury needs managing.’
‘Is he very ill?’ I asked. ‘Will you inherit?’
The drink, the drink. You smiled all your forgiving.
‘I do not know the upshot, Kit, only
that I am called away.’
‘Don’t go, dear friend!’
My sudden passion shocking even me
as I went to kiss you.
‘Kit,’ you reeled, ‘be sober!’
The boy holding our light looked sharp away.
‘I need you here,’ I said.
‘You don’t need me.
You have Tom and the others,’ you replied.
These days you know how much I needed you,
my voice of caution, and my gentler side.
How differently this story might have spun
had you remained with me. But your advice
faded in time as clothes do with the sun.
For I remember, parting, how you gripped
my hand in both of yours with urgency.
‘Work less for my cousin. All the lies required
are dangerous for honest men like you.’
‘When money comes more readily, I’ll stop.’
You went to Kent. And what was I to do?
THAT MEN SHOULD PUT AN ENEMY IN THEIR MOUTHS
Liquor kicks doorframes while the Lowlands sleep.
It shoulders blame for my catastrophe,
swallows my life and pisses it in the sink,
blurs what I hurt to look at, pillows sense.
Drink fogs a future which is only dark
and endless tramping into foreign towns
until tomorrow narrows to a point
on the nose’s tip. Then soaks and hardens thoughts,
weighting them into bruising hammer
Bradley is reeling back and grinning wide.
Pleasure has dropped his voice to baritone.
‘If you’re a man, then I’m a Persian whore.
We’ll settle it as you say, though. Call it a duel.
Then, when I kill you, I’ll have my defence.’
He and his cronies shamble to the door
half checking us, half fearless. As he leaves,
‘You challenged me. My brothers are witnesses.’
Everyone sits, and no one says a word.
Four heartbeats pass before I break the air.
‘Tom, that was madness.’
‘Well, he made me mad.’
‘The man’s a brawler.’
‘He’ll not get a sword.’
‘Who says he won’t come at you anyway?’
‘He’ll be sober tomorrow.’
Our eyes meet, sharing doubt.
‘I liked your speech, though,’ Nashe says, ‘very neat.
Your mental side-step stole the wind from him.
You juggled him smartly.’ So the table warms
and I am toasted: ‘To Kit! To the play!
To The Jew of Malta !’ And Nashe contributes:
‘To pus-filled cullions, may they rue the day!’
‘To pus-filled cullions,’ we agree, and roar.
I notice Greene come in, turn round, and leave.
LURCH
‘I must abandon London, Kit,’ you said,
catching me as I left the inn that night.
‘My brother’s fallen ill.’
Perhaps the drink
had magnified my feelings, but your news
felt like a blow. And that surprised me so
that I staggered back.
‘Woah, Kit!’
You pulled me up
from the path of a carthorse and its fatal load.
‘All well?’ you asked.
‘No, Tom! All isn’t well.
Why are you going?’ You helped to brush me down
unaware your touch was setting light in me
a thousand fuses. And confusion too,
tipped up, the drink not helping. ‘For my brother,’
you said. ‘And Scadbury needs managing.’
‘Is he very ill?’ I asked. ‘Will you inherit?’
The drink, the drink. You smiled all your forgiving.
‘I do not know the upshot, Kit, only
that I am called away.’
‘Don’t go, dear friend!’
My sudden passion shocking even me
as I went to kiss you.
‘Kit,’ you reeled, ‘be sober!’
The boy holding our light looked sharp away.
‘I need you here,’ I said.
‘You don’t need me.
You have Tom and the others,’ you replied.
These days you know how much I needed you,
my voice of caution, and my gentler side.
How differently this story might have spun
had you remained with me. But your advice
faded in time as clothes do with the sun.
For I remember, parting, how you gripped
my hand in both of yours with urgency.
‘Work less for my cousin. All the lies required
are dangerous for honest men like you.’
‘When money comes more readily, I’ll stop.’
You went to Kent. And what was I to do?
THAT MEN SHOULD PUT AN ENEMY IN THEIR MOUTHS
Liquor kicks doorframes while the Lowlands sleep.
It shoulders blame for my catastrophe,
swallows my life and pisses it in the sink,
blurs what I hurt to look at, pillows sense.
Drink fogs a future which is only dark
and endless tramping into foreign towns
until tomorrow narrows to a point
on the nose’s tip. Then soaks and hardens thoughts,
weighting them into bruising hammer
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