‘Don’t mind him,’ said Sharon briskly. ‘That’s Impy. His name’s Tom really, but I call him Impy because he’s … important—impotent. Aren’t you, Impy, you little wreck!’ She turned to Mary and said conciliatingly, ‘You know, I think it’s always better to laugh about these things, out in the open, you know. Otherwise he’s bound to get a complex about it or something. Eh, Impy? How are you this morning then?’
‘I’m cold,’ said Tom.
‘Well you go out and get some then. Don’t look at me. Now this is Mary and you keep your bloody hands off her. What’s the matter with you, girl? You look like you’re giving birth … Does, does it hurt?’
Mary nodded in apology.
‘Where? Where does it?’
Mary stroked her sides gently.
‘Did they do your back in too? What sort of pain?’
‘Just a simple pain.’
That frown again, and that little click of time as it showed on her face. ‘Whew! You are simple, aren’t you.’ She reached for Mary’s waist with hands that were less harsh than Mary feared. ‘Here,’ she said. Mary felt pressure lifting from her middle. ‘Everybody’s something. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from life. Everybody’s something. Don’t mind him—you’ve seen it all before, Impy, haven’t you?’ Gracefully holding Mary’s hand aloft, Sharon helped her step out of the skirt. They both looked down and saw a complicated network of bands and clips. ‘You aren’t half a mess, my girl. Were you in somewhere? Well take down your knicks! You must have been in somewhere. Over here. Come on then!… Gawd, you’re helpless, girl. Take some looking after.’ Sharon slipped her fingers into the central band. It started to come away quite easily. ‘You’re pretty though. I always wanted to be dark. It lasts longer. Talks nicely too, doesn’t she Imp? That’s it, now crouch down. Go on, silly. You … just let it … That’s it. Ah, don’t—no need to cry now. Silly girlie. Everybody does it. Everybody’s something. You know what my granny used to say to me? “Everybody’s queer dear, except you and me dear, and even you dear look a bit queer dear.” We’re going to take you away from here, yes we are. We’re going to get you fixed up.’
3
• • •
Inside Out
Mary, of course, had no very clear notion of what being ‘fixed up’ by Sharon might entail. Fixed, fixed up. But she thought it sounded quite a good idea, and she didn’t have a better one.
They headed off together towards the distant, stirring streets. The grass was kind to Mary’s feet; Sharon hovered hugely in the corner of her eye. Already she felt less fear about the question of her re-entry into the vociferous, the astronomical present. And she was pleased about everyone being queer. Mary looked up. The corpulent beings of the middle-air were hanging around again, rolling slowly on to their backs to enjoy the sun. She wondered with interest what Sharon had in mind for her.
Tuck!’ said Sharon suddenly. She halted and placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder. ‘Scuse my French.’ She crooked a leg and groped downwards. ”Hate walking on the grass in these heels.’ Her heels did indeed look particularly vicious, curved on to a thin prong and secured to her ankles with metal clamps. ‘God, we’ve got to get you some shoes as well, girl. I generally keep, you know, a little wardrobe down here but… You must be fucking freezing. Whoops!’ She straightened up with a grunt. ‘It’s lucky the weather’s turned.’
They walked on. The weather had turned. It was lucky. Everything was coming right. Mary now felt inclined to dismiss or at least extenuate the insidious burden of what had happened to her while she slept. Because something had. Boy, something certainly had. Something had come at her in the night, something had mangled her, something had turned her inside out. Whatever it was had hated her life, had wanted to murder her soul. Was this how the past got back at you? Perhaps. It made sense, in a way, for the past to wait until you were asleep before sneaking up on you like that. And the worst thing was that she had wanted that violence done to her. She had brought it about. And she had wanted more.
‘You know, Mary,’ said Sharon, ‘I’m buggered if I— sorry—if I know why I keep coming back here. I don’t know for the life of me why I still do. Only for Impy I suppose, soppy old fool that I am. I’m not accustomed to this sort of circle at all really. I’m not like them. But, you know, get a couple down you and, you know … When I wake up I never know how I got here. But we all do it, don’t we? Silly really, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘I suppose it is.’
Mary walked the streets again, but with purpose now. Accordingly they seemed rather less effusive to her eye. Sharon knew the way: her progress was bold, even brazen, and yet she saw nothing. The streets did not strike her, nor did the other people and their storms offortunes.
They walked quickly and Mary was always trying to catch up. The streets Sharon led her down varied in size and demeanour. Some were owned by the raucous cars: these were given over to movement, so that the very air seemed to shoo the people along in its gusts and backwash. When enough people massed on a corner the cars would arrest themselves and wait in lines, rumbling with impatience. Occasionally a man whirled hectically out to dodge across the precipitate passageways, while the snouty cars stuck with menace to their tracks. Other streets were owned, collectively and with civic pride, by their buildings, the houses: these were in the interests of quiet, and their air was still. You hardly ever saw anyone going into the houses and you practically never saw anyone coming out. Anxious to divine the laws of life, Mary assumed that once you got inside you stayed there, avoiding the streets and all their chances. Here, cars nosed about with diffidence or had already come completely to rest, and people could cross more or less as they pleased.
‘Money money money money money money money money,’ said Sharon. ‘You haven’t got any, have you?’
‘What?’
‘Money!’
‘I’m not really sure.’
‘Let’s have a look then … You must have had a skinful last night, my girl.’
Sharon delved expertly into Mary’s black bag, while Mary looked on in wonder. She hadn’t given it a thought—and yet the bag had remained at her side, its straps still clinging to her shoulder. Mary almost lost her balance as Sharon’s movements suddenly grew driven and frantic, her hands working deeper downwards.
‘Hello-ello-ello, what have we here?’ In her trembling fingers Sharon held up the two scraps of wrinkled, faintly luminous paper. ‘Know what we can get for this?’
‘Money,’ Mary ventured, but Sharon wasn’t listening now. With huge strides she crossed the street. Mary was nearly running again.
‘What do you reckon?’ panted Sharon. ‘Clan Dew? Couple of Specials each? Some nice Port Character?’ She slowed down. ‘Or what about a bottle of Emva,’ she said shrewdly. She halted and looked at Mary with narrowed eyes. ‘Or shall we get some spirits…’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘let’s get some of them.’
‘Yes, I think that’d be best,’ said Sharon, on the move again. ‘You know, this time of the morning, spirits are more … refreshing. Don’t you think. It’s awful really though, isn’t it. But we all do it, don’t we? Now you wait here, killer. Be back in a sec.’
Sharon made her entrance to the sound of a bell. Mary peered through the glass sheen and discovered she could read. Now this is more like it, she thought. Signs told her in elementary style about money and goods. Whoever drew up the signs kept getting the numbers wrong and was repeatedly obliged to cross them out and put new numbers in their stead. Using a trick of her eyes Mary looked beyond the window through to the gloom within. There were the bottles that the signs had pictured and praised, flamboyantly ranked against the wall. Sharon was inside this complicated grotto, busy doing her deal. The exchange occurred, with the man giving Sharon something extra before she turned and came back through the reflections towards the door.
‘Hair of the dog,’ said Sharon in the sidestreet near by. The bottle top gave a crack as she twisted it off. ‘Your health, my girl.’ Her bulky face, with its puffed layer of time, looked both glazed and intent. She poked the small bottle into the hole in her head—her mouth, that wet and curious private part, a thing that seemed to have no business there, too vital and creaturely against the numb contours of her face. With an unobtrusive movement Mary lifted a hand up and checked. Yes, she had one too. And from the inside she could trace the scalloped bone curved on to the hard inner lips. Was there anywhere else like that in your body, a place you could feel from the inside and outside at the same time? She couldn’t feel one; and so she felt mouths must be very important.