Sean Thomas - The Cheek Perforation Dance

They sit side by side on the sofa; eat the salad. The salad is nice, the wine nicer. Rebecca decides to ask:

— The books – She says, with half a mouthful of rocket – They all yours?

— Yeah – He answers, similarly mouth full – Mostly. The fiction tends to be Joe’s, all the poetry and Russian crap

— Right

— And all the science stuff is basically mine

— Uh … – Rebecca says – Huh

They both go quiet as they eat. At one point they both laugh nervously at the same time; then they both laugh genuinely because they have both laughed nervously at the same time. Then Patrick:

— And the music’s totally mine

He is gesturing behind her. Turning on the sofa Rebecca takes in, for the first time, the entire opposite wall. The entire opposite wall is comprised of floor-to-ceiling shelves holding CDs, singles, tapes, DATs, minidisks, LPs, DVDs, God knows. Thousands of titles, literally thousands. Even from this distance, with her dim knowledge of music, Rebecca can see there is a notable mixture: jazz, blues, acid house, Celtic folk, Yorkshire brass band, Karlheinz Stockhausen (Karlhwho Stockwhat?), Wagner, bluegrass, flamenco. Pulled especially from the rack is a row of CDs, standing together by the player.

Setting her finished plate of salad on the floor Rebecca skips over to the row of CDs; kneeling, and wine-sipping, and gazing, she checks out the titles of these chosen CDs. What he is listening to now. Minnie Ripperton, Maria Callas, Joy Division, Nick Drake (?), the Carpenters, Elvis, Blind Melon (??), Jacqueline du Pré.

Again, despite her misty grasp on things musical, and the fact that she is now really quite drunk, quite pleasantly, happily drunk, Rebecca realises there is something odd, something almost too eclectic about this selection. With her wineglass in hand, feeling pleasantly sluttish, Rebecca is about to swivel and ask him about the music, when she feels his lips on her neck. His arms are around her waist from behind, making her feel slim. His voice is close, boozy, warm:

— Dead cred

— Mmnn?

Her voice is slurred. His voice is closer, hotter:

— You see I’ve had an idea we should release a CD

— Nn

— Made up entirely of music by glamorously dead people, like all those

— Realll

— Yess – He is kissing her earlobe – Cause I think there’s something about music by dead people, interestingly dead people – Another kiss – Something that’s incredibly powerful – Another kiss – And better and poignant and the copyright might be a nightmare but we could call it Dead Singers’ Songs – Two kisses, four – And I think it would it would it might oh God Rebecca your breasts they are SO

— Here – She says, laughing – Here, you unbuckle it here

— So when did you first meet Mister Skivington?

In the witness box, Rebecca coughs. Then she looks flatly across the various heads that comprise the courtroom and she says:

— two years ago

The prosecutor nods and smiles, but his smile is uncertain. The judge intervenes:

— I’m sorry Miss Jessel but you’ll have to speak up

— sorry

In the dock Patrick exhales. He wants to curse, loudly. So where did she get this voice? His articulate, educated, cultured, self-confident, sexually experienced, words-like- Weltanschauung -knowing twenty-four-year-old ex-girlfriend: where did she suddenly acquire this meek, quiet, bashful, timid, inarticulate, hushed, I-am-oh-so-innocent teenagerish voice? Cursing quietly Patrick rests his forehead on two thumbs pointing up from interlocked hands; then he looks up to hear the judge say to Rebecca:

— The jury must be able to hear every word, you see

Rebecca nods:

— Yes, I’m … very sorry

The judge smiles reassuringly at Rebecca, and then turns back to the prosecutor’s grey wig:

— Do you want to repeat the question, counsel?

The wig nods. Laying down a pen on a desk, wrapping a hand around a black gown, gazing once more at his principal witness in her gingham-checked dress and her lambswool cardigan, the suntanned prosecutor opens his mouth and says:

— So you met the defendant about two years and two months ago?

— Yes. In a bookshop

— And you began … dating, soon after that?

— Yes

Dating ? Patrick twitches, feels the horrible triteness of the word. He and Rebecca never dated …

— And how long after that did your relationship begin?

— A couple of … weeks. Maybe three …

— You were at college at the time?

— Yes. King’s College. London University. I still am

— What are you are studying?

— History. The Crusades

— And you are doing – The prosecutor looks at his file for a fact already, quite obviously, in his head – A PhD, yes?

— A doctorate, yes

— And your bachelor’s degree, from Edinburgh University – His eyes lifting – What was that in?

Rebecca shrugs:

— Art History

— And you – Gregory pauses, half smiles – took first-class honours in that, am I right?

— Yes

With a slight turn of the body towards the jury the prosecutor pauses to let this important fact take root, then says:

— OK. Now, fairly soon after this, as I understand …

And so it goes on. As Patrick sits in the dock and tries not to stare, hard, at Rebecca, at the side of her blonde head, Rebecca is asked to describe the inception and genesis of their relationship: from the first meeting, the first date, the first sex. As she sees it; as she saw it.

— I was seeing someone else but you see

— We went to a restaurant and we

— He was older than me so I

And during this litany Patrick has to admit, despite himself, that his lying cow of an ex looks surprisingly sweet, trembly and believable in the witness box. Surprisingly young, fresh, and betrayed. And raped. And in turn Patrick feels cheated, intrigued, guilty, scandalised, stressed-out, odd and libidinous. Not least because of Rebecca’s get-up. Obviously she is wearing the schoolgirly dress as a deliberate move; self-evidently she chose the pale cardigan, unheeled sixth-former shoes, and the throat-exposing hairstyle this very morning – in a deliberate attempt to gain sympathy, as self-conscious props designed to assist her in her role as the wronged adolescent, the abused child-bride. Yet Patrick still has to admit to himself: the ensemble works. At least: it works for him. Looking at her looking all schoolgirly and vulnerable, gamine and young and quite-possibly-raped-a-year-ago, Patrick wants nothing so much as to take Rebecca into the Old Bailey toilets and press her pleading face against the cold Edwardian tiling, hard.

— He was in the music business. He ran nightclubs and groups …

— I’d never really fallen for someone like him before

— I found him interesting and

Stuck in the dock Patrick wonders. As he watches his ex-girlfriend do her evidence in chief, he has to ponder how well she is going down. How well is she going down? If he were in the jury box, the visitors’ gallery, what would he see here in this pale-wood-panelled Old Bailey courtroom? Would he see a farce, or a tragedy? Or would he nip to the pub instead? Would he just dawdle a while and listen to Rebecca and then turn to a mate and say – oh forget it, this bastard’s going down. Boring.

And what precisely would he think of Rebecca? Would he empathise? Be repulsed? Find himself moved? Would he be touched by the pale rapeable baby pink of her lambswool cardigan? Or be appalled by this lying whore of a Jewess lisping her ex-lover into court?

— So you became lovers when?