Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

It’ll be all wrecked now, I say. Library school is it? he asks. Drama school actually. Which one? Does it matter? It might. How come? I’m an actor. Oh. He long-angle lights a cigarette Are you always this bad-tempered? And my cheeks go shame So then what would I have seen you in? Now, now, you should never ask an actor that, he says. Why, in case you’ve mostly been ‘resting’? Exactly. And have you? No, I’ve not. So what’s the last thing you did? This month I started work on a script. That’s not. Sorry to interrupt, but can I get my coat? No! Eye beg her as he sits forward to let. She tugs it up and while buttoning, merciless mouths Good luck! then gives the goading eyes Come round tomorrow alright? Alright. Left bereft so, I watch her now going going gone.

Irksome slowly, I turn back. Don’t worry, he says You’ll be alright, canines showing in his English smile. Eyes a little tired but features fine. God, to be a parrier not I know I, being all I can get through my lips. Him, tapping his own, takes pity I think, long legs eased out asking When did you read it? The Devils? Yes. Two years ago, three. Did you like it? I did. Why? Stavrogin. The child-molesting nihilist? He’s not a nihilist, really. Smoke sheets from his mouth I’d say the child-molesting is the more concerning part. At least he acknowledges what he did wrong. What does that matter, once the irreparable’s done? But he’s sorry. Even if he is, so what? Forgiveness. He’s not entitled to that. Why? Because the child’s still dead. He didn’t kill her. He nods his head But there are more ways than literally to make someone die. So then just waste another life? That life’s already wasted. Is it? Isn’t it? he says. Well he did something that he regrets and isn’t needing forgiveness common to all of us? That’s just being alive then being dead. Don’t be cynical, I say What about hope then? Or love? And have you ever been in love? Not yet but I will. Faith indeed, he smiles. So what about you? I pin him. Have I been in love? No, what do you believe in? The lifelong struggle to remain indifferent. That sounds sort of sad. Oh you think so? I nod. Just wait until you’re my age, he sighs. Don’t you patronise me, I say. Then don’t patronise me, he replies. Silent us. I bite my lip. Oi mate! somewhere at a barman, and hot to the gills. This my worst by far and You know, he says, through his cigarette You’re the only girl I’ve ever said that to and still wanted to keep chatting up. Are you chatting me up? I thought I might how’s it going so far? It’s going alright. So if I go and get us another pint you’ll still be here when I get back?

Turn turn the blood in my cheek. Eyes accumulate his universe, whatever he is. I daren’t even guess at the cut he must see — unshaved leg and old bra on — while he’s half a head up on the pub’s other men and. What you thinking about? he asks, sitting again. Nothing and don’t look at him strange are you from London? Up North, can’t you tell? I don’t know English accents well. Have you travelled much anywhere else? And I steal into her, what would she be? More than clay. Go on. It’s only this evening, sure when will you see him again? Weirdly, more exotic places, I say. Naples, interrailing, boats stretched out in the bay. Age eight, with my father, foothills of the Himalayas. A friend’s parents’ house in Crete. Thailand, me and a boyfriend sneaked. Got caught and killed but. Was it worth it? Yes for the sky burning in the night. And these lies like me, tear out of me, ring almost as fact. And they’re pristine copies of someone’s truth, I’m fastidious about that. But he listens like I’d never lie and seems amused enough I cast shyness aside. Praises a boldness he doubts he’d have managed then charms away for more. And at some point I know if he asked, I would. What? he says. What? I say. What’s that look? Don’t be paranoid, nothing. He holds his hands up. I go red and so we carry on.

To flickering lights. Shouts of Time! How was the chatting-up in the end? Pretty good, well done. Thanks, he smiles Good enough to warrant taking me home? Here it is then. Here I am. Oh God I would but I’m up in Kentish Town in this bedsit and my landlady. Oh right, never mind. Sorry I’m sorry. Don’t worry, it’s fine. No it’s the truth, it’s not that I wouldn’t like to and I. Okay, so come back to mine? Oh, I Nearby is it? ask, like distance is the thing. Yeah, five minutes up the road. I feign indecision but he is so easy in the wait, like he already knows. Alright, I say. Alright then, he says Come on, get your coat.

In the metal clang night talking films we walk. Fish my hand near his but he only smokes. Maybe he’s a murderer? Fuck’s sake. He’s a fuck and, look at him, he’s probably done this lots. But oh my body opts out and in. Flesh scraping fear against the Do of my brain. So slice my fingertips on every railing to keep by him up the Camden Road.

See not far, he says brushing round the hedge Just along, number five, with the broken gate. God! this is your house? I gasp. Floors high and white. Not mine, he laughs Where I rent a bedsit, up there, first floor. Have you lived here long? He mulls his keys Ten years, give or take. So since I was seven or eight. Jesus, don’t tell me you’re as young as that? Why? He shakes his head Never mind, then thumbs his fag end back down the cracked wild path.

No hall lights, sorry, follow me. I follow up the stairs. Silver key and Let me turn on a light first, just wait there. So I lull in a dark ocean of motely air as the traffic beyond here calms. Motorbike and lorry alike hold all I know about tonight. To do and then to be. Click and glow and It’s a mess but you might as well come in, he says. Choose him. Choose this, and now.

Higher but smaller than Jesus what a state! Hence the suggestion of your place first — him down at the fake fire striking the gas — I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home. Sink in the corner. Bay window jammed with desk. Books going topple. I pick by old letters, ash saucers, scripts, half-filled mugs. Give me your coat. His single bed. Dumped on the armchair where I could’ve myself but. Politeness is polite. I’ll just clear these plates. Goodbye dried mince. May the kissing go better for the Pinter beneath it. Will it? Orange peel on Valle-Inclán. What might have been a plaster on Howard Brenton stop it stopit. So Let Love In? What? Do you like Nick Cave? I don’t know, I say. Well let’s find out. Dum. Devils tossed and his long coat slung. And I see it then, quiet tense in his mouth, how now’s getting past time for more. Come here. But the nerves make a faff of my own Actually it’s not that bad a room how much is it a month? About two hundred. That’s pretty good but the way you treat your books. Bollocks to the books, he says touching my face. It is the first time we have and I go quick to the thrillpleasuredread. Terrible mouth though, keeps on saying Is it annoying always having to bend to kiss unless she’s as tall as you which I’m obviously not and. He is so tall he must bend a lot. But he does, saying No, then kissing me.

Fright I. He holds to. The make of his lip, turning into my own, turn until I kiss back. I think he is smiling but means it the same. Kisses to bit breaths and touch of his tongue making fast me, does he notice? Doesn’t say or doesn’t care. Just amuses his mouth and flips all my blood over. So here’s how grown men kiss and this one knows how. I know it’s a fine kiss but gird for what follows as, in the depths of his curtain, some dying fly sings. Hear it go against the glass and. Put your bag down, he says stripping it, tossing it, kissing again. Gone fuck to forbearance. Mouth on my neck. Then deep with mine. Open. Working out something else like under his worn shirt his whole body is. And his skin is so live and likes being touched — even my barest morsel of palm on his stomach. My skin shifting too, if not quite there, scares to his search for a zip on my dress. There isn’t one either, he gets that quick. Instead ups the dress, up my thighs, past my tights. Up my back. Arms up, he says, pulling it off and I am I’m. Getting bare. Bra. My old bra, the red marks it makes and. Oh God I am blood thud at the hand on my breast. Beg off the moment he might want to look. Undoes his shirt though. Thanks reprieve. Shrugs it off and swings far with kissing. Lovely. But getting precise with his hands. My grey straps simple tugged down. Then where he slides one of mine so I Jesus! I eyes wide. This isn’t a game. This is already well underway. And I’d like to look at his body but he doesn’t know that and I am miles too shy to ask, for now the kissing’s more biting. Now it’s Show me your breasts, and the bra’s off like Voilà! He steps back. I fold up. Too late for modesty, he laughs, yanking my wrist. I can’t though. Just clench in. He tries again. I double over. Hey, is something wrong? I don’t reply. Are you sick? Shake my head. Have I hurt you somehow? No I, eyes pricking wet. His voice turning anxious What’s just happened? What’s wrong? And I know I must any minute NOW say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m shy.