Sean Thomas - The Cheek Perforation Dance

Gregory has stood up, and is saying to the jury:

— Members of the jury, the case you are about to hear is distressing in the extreme. It involves the savage sexual brutalisation of a young girl by the defendant, Patrick Skivington – Gregory does the faintest of gestures towards Patrick; Patrick thinks how much he wants to staple train timetables to Gregory’s head; Gregory goes on – It is my duty as prosecution lawyer to present to you the evidence in a dispassionate and logical light, but also to convince you beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant was responsible for the truly appalling crime you are about to try – A second actorly handwave, then – The burden of proof, as we call it, rests with me. My colleague who is appearing for the defence – He wafts the same manicured hand at Stefan, who nods, smiles briefly – Has nothing to prove, as such. His job is more to sow doubt, as it were. However I restate that it is my belief that the evidence in this case is overwhelming and conclusive, besides being … ah – Looking at the ceiling; looking down – … Very upsetting, and that you should encounter no difficulty in finding the defendant guilty – A glance, a glance at Patrick – At this stage in proceedings it is usual for the prosecution counsel to present a kind of résumé of the indictment, a summation, but as we shall be going over all the evidence in some detail more than once I shall restrict myself to a brief precis of the alleged crime – Gregory pauses, gazes down at his papers in a somehow Oxbridge way; Patrick feels his teeth grinding; he tries not to listen to his own teeth, or to Gregory; but can’t help – The allegation is simply put: that the defendant, on the night of August twenty-eighth, last year, raped his ex-girlfriend, Rebecca Jessel. But, members of the jury, that bald statement barely begins to describe the true horror of the crime that, the prosecution posits, the defendant perpetrated that night. You all, I hope, have some photos in your files, these photos – Gregory suddenly and unexpectedly holds up a big photo and wafts it at the jury. Even from this distance Patrick can see a picture of his and Rebecca’s bedroom. Eyes left, Patrick sees the jurors reaching in folders and looking at the same photo and nodding back at the prosecutor, who smiles so ingratiatingly and says some more stuff that Patrick succeeds in blocking out. For a few moments Patrick is successful in not hearing anything, but then the prosecutor gets a little louder, as if approaching his peroration, and the loudness forces Patrick to listen, to hear Gregory say – Nor was this just a simple case of non-consensual vaginal penetration, the technical definition of rape. No, the prosecution holds that this man, the defendant, also subjected this terrified girl to a number of other degrading acts, to coercive anal penetration, to forced oral sex, to various other sadistic sexual crimes, some of which are dealt with in the ancillary indictments – Adjusting his wig Gregory stands back a touch, as if thinking; then he looks up and goes on – I shall be bringing medical evidence to support this claim. A deal of evidence that will require a … strong stomach – Patrick feels his own jaw chewing, jaw-going, his jaw, jawing, hurting – And now, with the court’s permission, I should like to call the alleged victim, Rebecca Jessel, to the stand

Patrick lifts and shakes his head and tries to stare bravely at the wall, at the neutral wall above the judge’s head. A faint tiny prickling behind his eyes indicates to Patrick Skivington that he would probably be crying if he were ten years old and being picked on like this in the school yard.

Patrick does not cry. He stares forward.

Wasp-face! Dog-features! Badger-breath!

— Great arse?

— … Yes

— Great arse?

— So?

— Ha! This Patrick guy – Murphy picks up a pencil, waggles it – Smooth-talking bastard !

— It was a book …

—Yep OK

— I was looking at a book, of French rococo art

— Sure, Becs

— No you don’t understand he was looking over my shoulder, at that picture by Boucher – Murphy not responding, Rebecca goes on – The painting of that girl with her bottom in the air, so you see it was really quite sharp

Murphy percusses the end of the pencil against her lips:

— It isn’t big and it isn’t clever

— Murf!

— I don’t mind you lying to me, it’s when you lie to yourself

— Ohhh

Amused but frustrated Rebecca says no more. Instead she leans against the edge of Murphy’s desk: the only furniture of note in the pale-blond-wooden-floored, mostly white-matt-walled emptiness of Schubert & Scholes, Murphy’s gallery.

Rebecca:

— How long has it been since you had a shag Murf?

— He just sounds rough. Very rough … – Murphy is twirling the pencil like a tiny baton between her fingers – Tell me about his criminal record again?

— It’s nothing heavy

— Oh, only a tiny little bit of GBH

— He got in a couple of fights when he was at Uni

— A couple of fights. Jesus! – Murphy sticks the pencil into her hair, twists hair around the end — That’s why they threw him out of his college, the University of Tesco’s Car Park, or wherever it was? Right?!

— Yyyess

— Let’s face it, he’s a bloody caveman

Rebecca tilts her head:

— Mmm. Sexy, isn’t it?

— No – Murphy snaps – It’s not. It’s wanky. The guy’s a musclebound fuck-wit and you’re all gooey-eyed. Christ! – Murphy gazes into the eyes of her friend – What about all that feminism stuff we studied at Edinburgh, what about Simone de Beauvoir and … that other French cow?

— You should see him when he’s got a bit of stubble

— Ohhh … – The pencil falls from Murphy’s fingers, bounces off a two-month-old edition of Blueprint magazine, and spins to the pale-blond-wood floor. Murphy looks down, says – I presume you’ve shagged him already?

— He’s such a spunk

— So that makes it OK? You atrocious slut

Surveying a pile of oversized metal film canisters stacked carefully in one corner of the gallery, Rebecca says:

— Actually we haven’t – Looking back at her surprised-looking friend, meaningfully – I only went down on him

A clucking noise from Murphy; Rebecca:

— Which I thought was rather restrained

— Restrained?

— Comparatively

Murphy:

— Fifteen minutes after meeting the bloke you’re on your knees wrestling with his zipper … restrained ?

— Nice and big, by the way

— ?

— And thick

Murphy laughs:

— Girth?

— Gerrrrrrtthh!

— We Like Gerrrrrtthhhhh!!

Their chorus done, Murphy shakes her head and says:

— Just don’t come running when he goes and dumps you you hairy old SLAPPER

A pause. Murphy is bending to pick up the pencil from the floor. Watching her friend bend over, Rebecca assesses her friend’s shortish brown hair; her lithe figure; the cuttlefish tattoo she can see above her friend’s new jeans-belt. Rebecca, idly:

— Love the belt

— Yeah?

Saying ‘yeah I do’, Rebecca sits back against the desk again. Looking at a grainy art photo of a power station on the wall, Rebecca says:

— Actually, we’ve only kissed

— Yeah right – Murphy looks sarcastic and uncomprehending and pleased at the same time – Three dates: and you’ve only kissed? Honestly ?

— Honestly

— Wow … – Murphy pretends to get up from her chair – Do you want to lie down? I’ll get you a blanket

— I think … he’s a bit … inhibited