The Twisted Heart by Rebecca Gowers Page A

way.’ He gestured impatiently. ‘And you know what? Nowadays, if you go to the right cities, not in England ,’—he sounded so dismissive—‘it’s understood that it’s a sign a man is, I don’t know, strong, if he dances the following part; like he’s daring the world to say something, like those gangsters who carry pink-dyed chihuahuas. It’s understood that you can only behave like that if you’re ready to kill anyone who disrespects you. Lo and behold, the symbols of effeminacy are inverted and become signs of aggression.’
    Kit, in a drained sort of way, was as much amazed by thefact of this speech as by its content—Joe, not so likely after all, she reflected, to be, say, a garage hand. ‘You don’t think that was what was going on with those two men in class?’ she asked.
    He shook his head. ‘Just now, you mean? No, no. Where do you think you are? No, those two? They’re gay.’
    Kit sagged again, almost too tired to speak. She said, ‘You know them? They were good.’
    â€˜I know who they are.’
    Their conversation lapsed. Kit continued methodically to eat, washing down each dry mouthful with tea. She remembered when it had been her looking in at the people in Pams Cafe, looking in at the wasters, whom she had envied.
    â€˜So what did make you come up here?’ Joe asked.
    â€˜I wanted to be carried away,’ she said reproachfully.
    â€˜So did I.’
    Kit was discomfited by the expression on his face. ‘I hoped it might be, you know, mesmerising,’ she said, trying to explain. ‘I like to be mesmerised. Actually,’ she added, on thinking about it, ‘in a way, I was. I don’t sleep very much so I try to do other sleepish kind of things, or brain-dead, you know?’
    â€˜And what other techniques do you have for going about this interesting pursuit?’
    She checked, but he didn’t appear to be mocking her. Who else in the world, she thought, cared enough to ask her this question?
    â€˜Oh, well, books, obviously,’ she said, ‘and going to the cinema all the time, and I guess listening to certain music, preferably loud; and I do five times as much work as I strictlyneed to, that’s probably the main thing; and I like beauty parlours, and, I don’t know, various things. The main one is probably walking. I feel like I’m at rights when I’m on foot, letting my thoughts work on their own. I dream about being somewhere so flat I could walk for miles with my eyes closed. When I’m indoors, to me that’s not exactly at home, or safe indoors, what have you, that’s the in-between bit between being myself walking along outside.’ She wasn’t sure that what she had just said was quite accurate; nor could she think why she was speaking like this to a stranger, unless it was for the very reason that he didn’t know better.
    â€˜Beauty parlours?’ he said.
    â€˜Well—’ Kit smiled. They had slipped into conversation. It was odd, but okay. ‘At the hairdresser’s,’ she said, ‘or having your face done, or even your nails, whatever, which I only have once, it allows you to lose yourself completely. I don’t think anything while I’m having my hair cut, or if you’re lying there in a back room wrapped in hot towels and stuff. It’s pleasantly tactile, but,’ she took a breath for a second, then carried on, ‘—I don’t lie there thinking, oh yes, that’s a great idea for my next chapter: when I get out of here, I must scribble it down. It isn’t like that. It’s just nothing .’
    â€˜You could—well, yes. No.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜No, I was going to say something stupid. What music? I’m trying very hard to think what you might listen to.’
    â€˜Diamanda Galás?’
    â€˜Christ.’
    â€˜You know who I’m talking