Nicola Barker - Small Holdings

I tried to nod, couldn’t.

‘The ones with the big, wooden. .’ she guffawed, ‘the big, wooden key-ring? Hang on.’

She dug her hands into my pockets. She removed some small change, an old tartan handkerchief, a couple of till receipts.

‘No keys,’ she said, smiling. From the other pocket she removed my wallet. She opened it, looked inside and, finding nothing of interest, tossed it down on to the table. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘do you want me to kiss you?’

I remained frozen. She moved up close to my face. Her arms wound around me. She closed her eyes and caught my top lip between her teeth, then let go with her teeth and held my lip between her two lips. Her breath tasted of germoline and bubblegum. Sweet and antiseptic.

She opened her eyes. ‘Your face,’ she said, ‘is very swollen. You look like an apple that’s been peeled and soaked in water. Kind of bloated.’

She licked my cheek like a cat with a tight tongue. In my ear she whispered, ‘Why do you hate me? What did I ever do? You evil son of a fucking bitch.’

She unwound an arm from around my neck. ‘I’m undoing your trousers.’ More wriggling. ‘I’ve taken off my knickers. See?’ She held a pair of old, skinny black flannel briefs in front of me, then dropped them. ‘Apparently,’ she grinned, turning to face me, ‘you’re drugged and heavy and dumb and kind of numb, but one tiny little part of you is still awake, has a mind and a motivation all of its own. Life’s a killer like that,’ she added, ‘isn’t it? Full of those wicked, bitter, little surprises.’

She pulled off her vest. I could see her shoulders and her shoulder-blades. My mind was caught up in a debate with itself about whether I would like to be feeling something or whether I preferred not to feel. I could not feel. I could not.

Saleem kissed my lips again. ‘That’s right,’ she muttered, ‘move your hands just that way. ‘

My hands? What was I missing?

‘I’m kidding you,’ she smirked. ‘Your hands aren’t moving.’

Her face, close up, seemed damp. When I listened, I could hear a pan boiling on the oven and the air was full of steam. Saleem nudged my cheek with her nose. ‘One moment,’ she whispered, and pulled herself up, both her hands pushing on my shoulders, and then one hand let go, for a second, before she lowered herself down again, but slowly this time, her face puckering with something like spite but not quite. She sighed. ‘This is a good kind,’ she whispered, ‘a sweet kind of revenge.’

I wished I could feel something. Anything. Only my eyes and my lips. She kissed my lips and then sucked the air out of me. She rose and she fell. The simplest, the slightest of movements: she was a small lake, lapping away in her own time, rolling and riding with her own regular momentum. Gentle waves, rising, falling. Tiny sighs like gusts on the water.

The chair was rocking. I stared at her face. Her eyes were closed. She was smiling. She had nice teeth. I hadn’t noticed before what good teeth she had. She leaned back a bit. If I looked down I could see her breasts. I looked up again. I looked down again. What could I feel? A tingling in my chin and in my neck.

She leaned in closer and bit the side of my throat with her fine teeth. I could feel it. I felt something. Her hair tangled around my ears. Her hands touched my shoulders, lightly, and then my chest. She pulled at the buttons on my shirt. I could feel my shoulders, and just below, I was sure I felt something.

While she undid my buttons she whispered into my ears. ‘Is this hurting? As bad as I want it to? You evil, loyal, Nancy-loving little fuck.’ She pulled her head around and stared into my eyes. ‘Is it?’

I was sure I could have answered, but I remained as stiff as if I couldn’t answer. I could feel my ribs and my belly. I could feel them. She pushed her hands down on to my hips. I felt her hands. They prickled on me like itchy peaches.

Her breathing quickened. She rose and she fell. I could feel my belly. I could feel below my belly. Oh, I wanted to feel her so badly! Her eyes were closed and if I shifted my neck slightly I could see her breasts which were lifting as she was breathing, and shimmering wetly. I watched as a drop of perspiration swooped and shot from her chin to her stomach. I wanted to catch it on my lip.

Her eyes were still shut as she pushed herself up close. I could feel her so softly against me. She kissed my lips and she was smiling when she drew away, and she was very glisteny as she pulled back and as she opened her eyes.

I could feel something. Oh Christ! Something dark and strong and hot and tight and urgent as anything. The chair was still rocking. I could feel something.

She froze. She was glaring, all of a sudden. She stared at me. She had stopped moving. ‘It’s no fucking good,’ she said, savagely. ‘Fucking Nancy! Nancy! I don’t believe it. You’d fuck me over just for Nancy. That bitch. Fuck it.’ She pushed herself up. Oh, that was too bad. That was too, too bad. ‘Fuck Nancy! Fuck her! Fuck you! Fuck you both.’

She hopped over to the oven, picked up a saucepan, hit herself hard on the side of her head with it.

‘Ow!’ she yelled, staggering, and then hitting the table, gathering speed, all the time, until, finally, with the swiftest and the smartest backhand I’d ever witnessed, she hit me. Bop.

I WAS GOING to stay quiet this time. I was going to give no indication — absolutely none — that I was awake. The lights were off, which was a good sign. I was lying on the kitchen floor, slightly curved, arched like a banana with my head resting on the bunched up tablecloth and with Cog looped around me, like a fur muffler across my neck.

If I looked up I could see through the blind. The sky was lighter than pure dark. 3 a.m.? 4 a.m.? I held my breath to see if I could hear anything. Cog’s stomach rumbled and then he yawned. I slowly raised my arm and lifted him off me.

I sat up. My foot touched something metallic which shifted and clattered. I froze. I squinted. It was the saucepan that Saleem had hit me with. I put the hand to the side of my head. My head felt odd. My whole face felt odd. I rubbed my hands up and down it and it was like someone else’s face. Soft and bare and rubbery. Altogether different.

I turned my mind back. I touched my face again. I almost panicked. Who was I? It was dark. Who was I? I stood up. I looked around me. I had to see myself.

Everything ached. Into the hallway. Up the stairs. I needed a mirror. The bathroom was the first door to the left on the landing. I pushed the door wide and slid inside. I closed the door and switched on the light. I blinked. Oh my Christ.

My face was bare and clean and neat as a cauliflower. Bruised florets above my eye and on my cheek. My eyebrows had gone. My hairline had been cut back by three inches so that I looked like a Franciscan monk or Henry VIII or Coco the Clown in a wind tunnel.

I was so angry. Saleem had wanted me to go to the meeting and I had been coming round to the idea, I had been seriously considering it, actually contemplating it — I told myself, I believed myself — and now this. How could I go looking this way? Ha d she no faith in me? I was angry. It was a stupid feeling. I was angry as hell.

Where was she? I tried the first door to my left. An empty room. Second door. A cupboard. Third door. Shower unit. The right-hand side. The first door. I pushed it open.

Doug. It was dark and Doug was darker but I saw him, lying on a double bed, arm hanging off the side of it, mouth open, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. I almost withdrew but something stopped me.

‘Doug?’

He didn’t move.

‘Doug?’

I stepped up closer. One step, two steps. Closer still. I stood over him.