Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

Either that, or her family were poor. Lost the family fortune. It never occurred to me before because I don’t know anyone who is poor. Not personally, anyway. That would explain why Eve left them the money.

I put the car top down so that the painting can fit behind the front seats. I wedge it in so that it doesn’t fly away on the way home.

When the electric garage door opens and I drive down the driveway, I see that the back door is open. Denise must be here. I hope Denise is here, I am particularly in the mood for her. I press the button to close the garage and call out to her at the open door before going in. Nothing. When I am closer, I realise that the lock has been jemmied. Cold sweat. I try not to panic, take a step inside, expecting to be clobbered over the head by a gimp with a baseball bat. My den has been ransacked. Drawers have been pulled out and emptied, books lie on the oriental carpet, some splayed out with their pages to the ceiling, as if surrendered. The wastepaper basket has been shaken out onto the floor, and my laptop is gone. I clutch my chest and have to sit down for a while. Jesus Christ. The rest of the house seems untouched: cappuccino machine, Panini Press and Juicerator remain in the kitchen, entertainment system in the lounge. The bastards could have at least tried to make it look like a burglary. I call Detective Inspector Sello who seems impatient with me.

“Don’t you see?” I say, “Whoever did this is the same person who framed me for Eve’s murder. They’re after me! They want something from me. Come and look, the door’s lock has been broken.”

Sello seems distracted. Am I sure it was a break-in, he asks.

“Of course I’m sure. The place is trashed,” I say. It’s clear Sello thinks my house is always trashed, which is fair. He says he’ll send a team to take fingerprints when they become available, which may take up to a week. I shout, stomp around a bit and throw the phone against the wall.

I see Denise at the door with groceries in her hands. She has stopped in her tracks and is staring at the phone on the floor.

“Bloody cops,” I say. “If it had been anything to strengthen their case against me, they would already be here. They would have been here before it even fucking happened.”

She seems wary of me, not sure whether to come in. I walk to her and take the bags from her hands.

“Sorry,” I say, setting them down on the kitchen floor and starting to unpack.

“The door is broken,” she says.

“I’ll fix it,” I say. Fuck the cops; I’m not waiting a week before I can sleep again.

Denise is pale. I think this is the first time she believes that someone means me harm. Before, she thought I was just paranoid. I abandon the groceries and walk towards her.

“I’ll fix it,” I say again, pulling her body against mine. I can see that she is spooked and it makes me feel strong. I can protect her. I go to the storeroom for my toolbox and electric drill.

After the lock is fixed I add another one for good measure. It feels good to use my virgin tools. Denise inspects my work and sweeps up the sawdust from the floor. She asks about the man with the will and only then do I remember the painting in my car. I fetch it and Denise helps me unwrap it. I recognise it: one of Eve’s first successes. Despite generous offers, she wouldn’t sell it. She kept it in her studio, as if to remind her while she worked that she was worth something. Maybe that is why she left it to me: a reminder on the wall that if I did it once, I can do it again.

It’s a picture of a man holding a basket of fruit, Tretchikoffian smoothblue skin, but the background is made up of hundreds of miniature portraits, mixed media, with tiny threads and slivers of ribbons and miniature buttons, as if some dollhouse-maker had gone crazy. Some of the people in the portraits are reading, some pulling faces, some sleeping. The detail is astonishing. I imagine Eve hunched over this canvas with the thinnest brush and a magnifying glass. If you look closely enough there are words in the fruit, disguised as shadows and texture: entourage, proliferate, strumpet. Eve loved the sounds of some words. She didn’t care what they meant.

I should sell it, but know that I won’t be able to. Denise thinks it’s worth two hundred and fifty K, maybe more now that Eve is dead. While I still have my toolbox out, I drill space for a Rawlplug and a screw, and hang the picture in the lounge. The man’s eyes follow me, like the people trapped in the paintings at my dad’s house. He looks like he has something to say.

Denise wakes me by licking me. She tongues my lips, my neck, and sucks my nipples. My cock grows stiff against the groove just under her ribcage, and she moves up and down, stroking it with her soft belly. I let out a groan. As often happens when having sex with Denise, I feel like I am dying. Not that I want to die, not really, but it is usually so good that if I were to meet my end I honestly wouldn’t mind.

Freud said that the goal of all life is death. Thanatos : the death instinct. It’s supposed to be the opposite of Eros, but with Denise it feels like the same thing. Sweet, delicious cuntess Denise. She puts me deep in her mouth and I am so turned on that I have to stop myself from thrusting. I stop her before it’s too late, sit up and turn her around so that she’s on her hands and knees. I spread her legs, kneel between her calves and run my tongue along her cheeks, slowly, stopping only to bite. I put my whole mouth over her pussy and lick and suck her. I drag my flat tongue over her clit again and again and then plunge it into her hole. She is quivering. I feel an electric current zip through me and I have to pause for a second. Three seconds. I put two fingers inside her and reach her g-spot. I find her swollen clit with my other hand and massage it. God, she is so warm and so wet. Her moans get louder and louder. I know she wants me to move faster but I can feel how hot and alive her body is and I want to draw this out. She can’t help moving her hips. Suddenly she is silent, holding her breath, and her muscles tighten around my fingers in waves. She hollers into the pillow. As my fingers are squeezed I almost come. I keep still until the contractions stop and her body relaxes, then I rake my left hand down her back and spank her ass. She breathes in gasps. She murmurs something and I ask her to repeat it.

“Fuck me,” she moans, “please, fuck me.”

She is so swollen I have to force my way in. I think it will crush me but then it’s so smooth I am able to move. Every thrust is a rush of stars in my head. I can’t feel any part of my body except for where my skin is touching hers. There’s no chance of stretching this out, I have so much pressure in my body that if I don’t come now, I’m sure I will have a stroke. She is bracing herself by holding the headboard. Again her body tenses up and again she shouts out while her muscles contract around me. I grab her hips and fuck her with everything I have, and my whole body erupts.

Afterwards, while spooning, her body seems lifeless and I ask her if she is all right. She turns her head and gives me a lazy smile. I notice for the first time a thread-thin silver scar running like a seam over her ribs.

“Seven lives left,” she murmurs, and her eyes flutter shut again.

Despite having given up years ago, I crave a cigarette.

Ilisten to my voicemail and don’t like any of the messages. The man from the bank wants to set up a meeting to see if we can consolidate my debt. He recommends debt counselling. He doesn’t see there is no point: my finances are past the point of no return. I know I should sell the painting but I just can’t. It’s here for a reason. Denise says there’s no point in having a painting but no wall to hang it on. I appreciate the irony, but I’m not selling. If I end up in a soup kitchen I’ll be taking the painting with me. The second message was from my father, wanting to know how I am and when I’ll be visiting. He has probably run out of whisky. Then Sifiso, wanting the usual. The most interesting message was from Detective Inspector Sello, asking if I’ll come down to the station. Very polite. Too polite. I think they must be waiting with hungry handcuffs. I play Russian roulette with the messages in my brain, then acquiesce to the boys in blue. At least if they lock me up I won’t have to worry about the other two.