Under our slightly soiled continental quilt radiates a warm glow rather akin to strong light pushing through fingers clamped over tightly closed eyelids.
Under the continental quilt I search the endless cotton seas for you, Alba, swishing sounding seas and rhythmic breathing in waves soothing the way to your lips bathed in warm bed peach light and you are floating in that tide, on a swell between what you hoped and dreamt was true what you know to be true. I lightly kiss your closed eyelid, your eyebrow, and you do not object. A slight moan and your head pitches and rolls gently in the white water, so I kiss your cheek and you do not object. I kiss your lips, I trap your bottom lip between mine, pull lightly, taste it with my tongue and let it fall back onto your night time brace, for both of you wore night time braces, and you do not object but flex your whole body in the hundred watt waves of yellowed white sheet cream white horses awakening sepia peach smile swimming between the sheets and so I understand that my apology has been accepted. I see you. I see the whole thing. I see it and feel it as a truly nice sensation, as a truly sweet moment in this tired universe and Jone grins at me from the wall opposite, her lips there, her torso too, The Imp of Mischief, this is domestic bliss. She grins at us both in truth, but you, still floating between worlds, like a leaf in a lake, like Millais’ Ophelia slowly surfacing in the midst of an ocean to sing, you are yet to be conscious of the music of the moment.
Outside a cool wind ruffles up a dark, moonlit storm of autumn leaves. Not a full moon. Just a slight cool moonlight.
Just half past eleven. Bedtime. First night in a slightly down at the heel, slightly musty smelling London hotel room eight hundred miles away from home, and Jone is showering with a shampoo and body gel that will radically transform her sensual, mildly musky smell for the worse, for she has forgotten to pack her herbal soaps, lotions and ointments.
On the twelfth floor of a tower block on The Cambridge Estate Peter and the neighbours hear the sound of the heavily booted feet of operatives from the T.B.A.P. (Tactical Bureau of Applied Politics) in the stairwells and hallways, then a short silence followed by a loud knocking and sounds of a short, but violent scuffle, a scream, more screams and pleading. They are taking their, the family on the next floor, they are taking their daughter away, all the sordid turmoil giving the lie to the commonly propagated faith that all these moonlight escapades are fabulations, second rate erotic daydreams, written into reality by malcontents, novelists, film directors, you name it, they propagate it, living instants of perfect ennui in this tired universe.
“Page 149- The girl’s body was discovered the following morning at low tide.”
Seven forty three. Pulling out of Hackbridge, four minutes late again, back gardens through sepia scratched and spat upon British Rail window. Dog collar commuter reflected in scratched and spat upon British Rail windows dog eared files and worn out video cassettes in a scuffed suitcase held on his lap under both hands. Dirty fingernails, blood under his nails. Blood on his hands. Profiles in suitcase. Decisions to be made, work to be done in this tired old universe.
Ten twenty six. The two held her down in the metal chair by her naked shoulders while another woman grabbed a handful of her hair in her left hand and thus held her head so the girl had to watch as the wasted looking blonde slowly pushed the knife into the teenager’s chest.
“You were getting old,” said the blonde. “She was getting old. Your turn next pretty thing....”
“Cut! Okay, okay, cut it!....Have I ever told you Stanislav’s story?”
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