Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

That evening, though, he'd started out on his best behaviour. The flat was unusually tidy, and he'd gone to some trouble with his appearance; he smelled of freshly applied aftershave, and his shirt, though rumpled (Polly was no longer there to do his ironing) was clean. It was a white shirt, too, making a pleasant change from the usual funereal attire.

He'd tried hard with the food as well, though cooking had never been one of his strong points. He'd prepared spaghetti with Bolognese sauce, and though the pasta was overdone and the sauce similar in texture to a sucking bog, Polly had tucked into it with appreciative comments, because she knew what an effort it was for him to apply his high-flying talents to such menial tasks as the preparation of meals. The wine was truly disgusting — Polly had a theory he'd burned out his tastebuds with too much cheap whisky — but she held her breath and thought of how wonderful life was going to be without him every time she took a sip.

To begin with, he couldn't have been more charming, encouraging her to talk, fetching her things and telling funny, pointed little stories about himself. If only he were like that more often, she thought, there would be no problem. He was adorable when he was like that.

But then it had started to go wrong. Robert drank so much that he became unnaturally merry. As the evening wore on, his anecdotes became less coherent, his delivery louder and more slurred, and his jokes degenerated into crude quips about women and sex, domestic pets and sex, bottle-nosed dolphins and sex, and not a single one of them funny, especially since the punchlines were mostly inaudible through his chortling. Polly realized it was just like before, only worse, and that if she objected to anything he said or did, the furniture would start to fly.

So it wasn't long before she found herself humouring him — something she had vowed never to do again. She giggled politely at the awful jokes, listened rapt to the pointless anecdotes, nodded sagely as he ranted about the nationwide conspiracy that was preventing him from taking his rightful position in the pantheon of literary fame.

Then he'd asked it. Why do women have legs?

'No idea,' she said.

'Go on,' he said. 'Take a guess. Why do women have legs?'

'So they can walk?'

'Wrong!'

Polly shook her head. She neither knew nor cared. She just wanted the evening to end so she could go home and never have to see him again.

Robert got up and leaned over the table towards her. His shirt had come untucked and the bottom corner trailed in his spaghetti sauce. His grin became so wide and goofy it was within a whisker of splitting his face from ear to ear.

'Why do women have legs?'

Polly shook her head listlessly.

'I'll tell you why,' said Robert.

He paused for dramatic effort, cocking his head.

'Ever seen the mess a snail makes?'

He shouted 'Boom boom!' and started to laugh so maniacally she thought he might choke. She rather hoped he would. She couldn't even fake a smile.

'That's revolting,' she said.

Robert stopped laughing. 'The truth is often revolting,' he said. 'That's why artists are shunned by society. Because we tell the truth. That's what that tawdry pathetic little twerp couldn't understand.'

'Is that what this is about?' asked Polly, getting to her feet, ready to leave. 'You're still pissed off because Harry Fisher spiked your piece?'

Robert turned his head to one side, fixing her with one unwavering basilisk eye. 'Why are you sticking up for him?'

'I'm not,' she said.

And then, before she realized what was happening, he'd swept his arm across the top of the table. Plates, glasses, cutlery hit the floor like timpani. She stared at the strands of spaghetti coiled amongst the wreckage and thought Thank God , at least she wouldn't have to swallow any more of that.

'Isn't it fucking typical,' said Robert. 'Each time a man reaches for the stars, there's one of you castrating bitches trying to drag him back and cut off his nuts.'

'No, there isn't,' she said reasonably, but already he was coming round the table towards her, fists clenched, approaching fast. She backed away. 'Don't you dare ,' she said in a low voice. 'Don't you dare hit me again. If you so much as touch me I'll call the police.'

He stopped, and grinned again, so affably that she was left feeling foolish. 'Who said anything about hitting you?'

He dipped down and she thought he was going to clear up the mess on the floor. She started forward, ready to help, but already he'd straightened up again. Now he was holding a knife and fork.

'I'm not going to hit you,' he said. 'I've got a better idea. I'm going to cut you up and eat you.'

Polly laughed nervously. His grin didn't seem so amiable now.

Robert carefully wiped the knife and fork on the front of his shirt, leaving it streaked with orange stains. 'You heard about the Japanese student who loved his girlfriend so much he chopped her into pieces? He stored them in his freezer, and then, piece by piece, he ate her.'

'That's not funny,' said Polly.

'Of course it's not funny, you stupid fucking cunt,' said Robert. 'It's not meant to be funny. It's fucking tragic.'

'Don't call me a cunt,' Polly said, tight-lipped and trembling.

'Why not? You should be flattered. It's a quote from the great Chicago playwright David Mamet, but of course you're too ignorant to know something like that.'

'That's it,' said Polly. 'I've had enough'

'Where do you think you're going?'

'Anywhere but here.'

'But we haven't had dessert. I've prepared a nice Instant Whip. Butterscotch flavour. Your favourite.'

'I hate Instant Whip,' said Polly.

'Basically, my love, I can't let you go. Not. Just. Yet.'

'You can't keep me here,' said Polly.

Robert looked at his watch. 'Just a little bit longer. Hang around for another half hour. Please .'

She lost patience. 'I am not staying another second!'

'I need you to stay.'

'Well, tough,' she said. 'I don't need you. And I certainly don't need this .'

'You don't understand,' he said. 'If it isn't you, it'll be me. And I've got so much to offer.'

'You're right, I don't understand,' said Polly. 'And I don't think I want to.'

Robert's hands dropped to his sides, though she noticed he hadn't loosened his grip on the cutlery. 'You don't have to worry,' he said. 'Some are born posthumously. In the last resort, there is nothing but willpower.'

'Oh, stop wittering,' said Polly, and turned to pick her bag. Something jabbed her in the back. She yelped, not from pain but surprise. She turned to see Robert tracing flamboyant trails through the air with his knife and fork.

'I. Want. You. To. Stay,' he said, punching invisible holes with every word.

'This is all wrong,' said Polly.

'He who does wrong to another has done the wrong to his own self,' said Robert. 'In other words, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.'

He prodded her with the fork again, this time in the ribs. The prongs barely made a dent in her jacket, but Polly felt goaded beyond endurance. She raised her hand to slap him, but before it connected there was roar in her ears like the sound of an approaching juggernaut, and something hit her simultaneously in the face and chest with the force of a stampeding rhinoceros, and the world spun upside-down in a torrent of pain so powerful and all-consuming that at first she didn't recognize it as pain at all. The room turned red, and black, and red again, and then, just before it faded out altogether, she heard a voice coming to her across oceans, over mountains, soaring through time and space like an express parcel service, yelling, 'You want someone? Take her! Take her instead of me!'