Bleeding London (1987) by Geoff Nicholson

Author:Geoff Nicholson
Format: epub
Published: 1987-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

MASH

Mick called home again from a pay phone in the corner of an eel and pie shop where he’d just left most of a plate of pie and mash. It was early evening and the place looked ready to close. Cabby’s phone rang for a long time, its tone thin and very far away. When she answered her voice sounded breathless and guilty and there was music playing in the background that she made no attempt to turn down.

“I was exercising,” she said.

“Yeah?” said Mick.

“Like aerobics. Got to keep in trim.”

“Yeah?”

“Well yes, and keep in practice, like rehearsing. I’ve got a couple more gigs at the weekend.”

“Good,” he said. “You know, at first I thought it was very brave of you to go back on stage after the gang-bang, because I thought you’d be scared of the same thing happening again. But I realized that’d be crazy. What are the chances of it happening twice? I mean, if it had happened again, if you’d got gang-banged again, well, it’d be a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t it? In fact, I think you’d have to say it was more than a coincidence. You’d have to say there was something about your dancing that drove men mad and turned them into rapists.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Gabby snapped.

“No.”

“Are you trying to say that my being raped is some kind of dirty joke?”

“I would never say a thing like that.”

“Then stop sounding as though you’re taking the piss.”

“OK,” he said. “Sorry.”

It was not normally part of Mick’s nature to say sorry. She was surprised and appreciative.

“What’s your problem, Mick?”

She meant it to sound concerned, but Mick didn’t hear it that way. Slowly, deliberately, he said, “I think the problem may be something to do with the fact that I’m down in London trying to sort out the blokes who raped my girlfriend, while at the same time my girlfriend’s taking her clothes off for strange men back in Sheffield. I think that’s the sort of general area where the problem might be.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s what I do.”

“I know, but I don’t have to like it.”

“You never objected before.”

“No, I didn’t.”

They slipped into silence, neither of them rash enough to want to open up that particular can of worms.

Then Mick said, “Actually, I rang up to tell you that number three has been dealt with.”

“Good,” she said.

“Yeah. It was a pleasure, basically. I mean the guy’s scum. He’s got all that money. He’s got a lovely wife, lovely kid, lovely house. He used to have a lovely boat too.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Anyway, he’s got all that and he goes around picking up pairs of tarts. He deserves all he gets.”

“What are you talking about? He deserves what he gets because he raped me.”

“Of course he does,” Mick said. “Of course.”

There was another silence, longer and clumsier than before. Mick knew it wasn’t meant to be like this. A phonecall home was supposed to be reassuring, nourishing. Perhaps it would have been better

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