Sean Thomas - The Cheek Perforation Dance

Stuck by lust to his bench, Patrick regards his own reaction to the girls, the parade of girls. Mostly he loves this, the constant catwalk of London, the fugue of female beauty, the sweet repetition with minor variation. But at this moment he also resents the power, he resents these girls’ power and fame and the way they get in clubs for free, like members of some manufactured boy band … like unwarranted celebrities with no real talent …

— Dying for a smoke

— What?

Joe pats his pocket, rueful:

— Need a cig …

— So … smoke one?

— Can’t, man

— Given up?

Still rueful:

— Boracic

Silence, traffic-thrum, Patrick’s hand reaches for his own pocket:

— You want to borrow some cash?

— Nah – Joe surveys the Square, as if looking for a different benefactor – I already owe you enough – Joe’s face is wide, sad, honest, wry – Anyway. I start some temping job tomorrow

— Shipbrokers?

— Shipbrokers …

This sadly spoken word some kind of signal, Patrick checks his watch and says:

— OK. Better get going … Got the lawyers round

— Going over the contracts for the club?

— Yep, some hitch with the survey

— … what’s it like being more successful than me?

Patrick replies:

— I’m not

Joe replies:

— Haddaway and shite

Now the two of them are up. Now the two of them are up, out the Square, and walking over the road towards Greek Street. Halfway across they come to a stop. Barring their way is a builder’s lorry making beeping noises as it reverses. Using the moment Patrick looks down Greek Street at yet another building site: at the place where a building is going up behind a vast theatre curtain of plastic. Watching the moving girders and big yellow machines and men in red plastic hats carrying lengths of scaffolding, Patrick says:

— I remember when all this used to be fields

— Yeah?

— When I first lived in London there was … a meadow here, with sheep … and fallow deer …

Joe, nodding:

— God yeah, and there was, like, a little stream down there, and that’s where there used to be that shepherd with his long clay pipe, right?

— Yep. And that – Patrick gestures, vaguely – That Starbucks coffee house, that used to be a little glade with crab-apple trees, and we used to make cowslip bells. Right next to that van, remember?

— Seems like yesterday

The lorry circumvented, the two friends cross the road and pace more briskly, until they come to the junction where they part. Jabbing his friend’s arm Joe says goodbye and good luck and then angles away and then jogs down the street towards Charing Cross. Watching his friend go, Patrick thinks about his friend’s drug habit for a second and then Patrick turns and walks, and sees, strolling towards him, a very pretty blonde girl, a beautiful blonde girl who gives him the usual feelings of resentment and sad yearning and powerlessness and why don’t I ever get girlfriends like that … until Patrick realises it’s Rebecca. His girlfriend.

— So he pinned you to the wall and said what?

Out-staring the prosecutor Rebecca says nothing; then she looks frankly and somehow bravely above his head and says:

— Kiss me properly you …

— Yes?

— Kiss me properly … you …

Rebecca stops. The judge’s eyebrows go up. In the witness box Rebecca shrugs: a shrug that says she doesn’t want to say any more. With an inscrutable glance at the defence lawyer the judge leans towards Rebecca; and says:

— Miss Jessel, I am aware this might be rather painful – The judge does an avuncular smile – But we have to have the exact wording as far as it is possible. It might well be very important, it might not, but that’s rather for the jury to decide – Again the smile – So if you could tell us just as much as you can?

The smile turns into a nod at the prosecutor. Alan Gregory nods back at the judge, and then expectantly turns to Rebecca. Shifting her weight slightly in the witness box, Rebecca responds:

— Well, he … he … came across and he pushed me back and … then he said ‘kiss me properly you …’

Another silence. This time, before the judge can intervene, Rebecca says:

— Jewish bitch

A pause. Half the court is looking at Patrick; the other half is looking at the prosecutor. The prosecutor:

— He called you a … ‘Jewish bitch’?

— Yes

— And by this time how long had he been in the flat?

— About ten minutes

— Just ten?

— Yes. It can’t have been much longer than that because the kettle hadn’t boiled

— Yes, I see – Alan Gregory QC caresses his own chin – OK. Yes. Now – Gregory glances momentarily at the back of the court, at Patrick – Now as the defendant kissed you, did you try to push him off?

— Yes – Rebecca looks slightly offended by the question; Patrick feels he doesn’t want to look at her; Rebecca regains herself and says – Yes. I pushed him away as much as I could but he … just laughed. He was acting weird …

— In what way?

— I’m not sure – Her face goes slightly blank – I remember wondering if he was drunk, I could smell beer, smell the pub

— Were you scared by this time?

Patrick can hear the big clock on the side wall ticking. Rebecca:

— Yes

— So what did you decide to do?

— Well … I … uh ?

The lawyer turns to his notes. Says:

— I’ll rephrase that. In fact, if I may – A half nod towards the judge – I’d like to go over the facts as they stand again … – Patrick notices the judge give a subliminal answering nod. Gregory says – Let’s take stock. This is a young man you used to live with but with whom you no longer have a relationship. Is that correct?

— Yyes

— And he’s only in your flat on the pretext of picking up some clothes, correct?

— Uh-huh

— Sorry?

— I mean yes. Yes that’s right

The prosecutor lifts the papers closer to his face, as if to scrutinise a surprising fact more closely; then:

— OK. So. He’s come round to the flat to pick up his stuff. He’s been in the flat for ten minutes – A direct glance at Rebecca; Rebecca nods; the prosecutor says – So he’s tried to kiss you, he’s … abused and insulted you, he’s acting to say the least somewhat … strangely. And what do you do?

— I … I’m – Again Rebecca looks like she is aggrieved by the tone; across the court Gregory comes back with a softer, more explanatory voice:

— Miss Jessel I’m only trying to get the facts straight – A jaunty smile – Look at it this way, perhaps. Some people might say that you should have asked him to leave straight away. At this early point. You see?

Realisation seems to cross Rebecca’s face. She nods vigorously like she has remembered her lines; then she says:

— Yes I see what you’re getting at but you must understand. Yes he was a bit drunk but … he was still my ex. I still felt … you know … – She pulls her cardigan sleeve distractedly – That’s why I invited him around

— And this is why you let him linger?

The cardigan sleeve is released:

— Yes. I still felt for him. I had been very much in love with him – Her face goes odd – I never thought he’d go and do … that …

— Naturally

The prosecutor flicks a tiny hardly detectable glance at the back of the court; in Patrick’s direction. In the dock Patrick tries to stay calm. His chin resting on a fist, the elbow on a knee, aware he looks like Rodin’s Thinker, Patrick stays calm and stares straight back at the prosecutor. Patrick is determined not to be fazed or angered. Patrick wants a calm detachment to enter his mind. He wants to think about something else. And so, as Rebecca goes on to describe, in tediously minuscule detail, their subsequent movements about the flat that fateful evening, that evening, the evening in question, Patrick sits back in the dock and decides to think about sex. Religion. Sex. Religion …