How the Dead Live by Will Self

Author:Will Self [Self, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781408850534
Google: _aQYAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0141040173
Publisher: A&C Black
Published: 2009-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

I’ve always managed to have a certain cold objectivity about my daughters, perhaps because of losing the loved son so early. And in the years following my own death I excelled myself. But then the perspectives afforded by my pulverised condition – the view from the Nescafé jar – supplemented my own Dulston prospect. Everyone who touched, or even beheld, that plastic pot of me, took a little bit away with them – a sarcastic smear of ash.

Natasha Yaws strode with purpose up Hoop Lane on that balmy morning in early May 1988. She’d descended a scant hour before from a house on Central Square. An oblong-fronted, mock-Regency affair of fake solidity but credible rectitude, where she’d spend the latter hours of darkness sitting, half-naked, on the edge of a man’s marital bed. She’d fallen in with the man at Russell’s in Kentish Town, where he’d been scoring cocaine. His wife and kids were away, and the nameless, never-to-be-named man had taken Natasha home with him in the first, cocaine flush of certainty that he’d be able to fuck her. Natasha had been confident he wouldn’t be able to – and she’d been right. She needed to be north in the morning – so why not grab two kinds of lift?

He’d lain in the marital bed casually rubbing the mush at his central juncture, while Phil Collins cried melodramatically from concealed speakers, feeling him coming in the air at night . . . O Lord!

Natasha had sat on the edge of the big Slumberdown, half-naked to give the married man the necessary visual fodder, while she snarfed up the remains of his cocaine. She interspersed dirigible lines with chases of smack off of a generous foil hanky torn from a family-size roll, which she’d found in the immaculately white, family-size kitchen below. She’d only needed to strip off her funereal woolly and funereal blouse and funereal M&S black bra to give the man what he wanted. Ach! Such loveliness. Such high breasts, such long pink nipples, such a smooth back. Such a pity he was too far gone to see the raw pink pits in the crooks of her arms. Such a shame he wasn’t able to insist – once Rémy Martin and cocaine had done their work – on her removing the black skirt and the black tights, so that he might see the truly awesome mess she’d made of her nether regions with her sharp nails. Picking and slashing at her own long thighs, as she vented her hatred on half of herself. But he didn’t.

Now, Nescafé urn in her arms, Natasha banged the brass knocker on the big white door and waited for the married man to come running. Which he did, jerked awake from spunk-sodden sopor with a sudden awareness of all that had transpired. Could it be wife and kids prematurely returned? He pulled on trousers, shirt, kicked drug trash under the bed, limp-staggered down to the front door. But no – it was the tart without a heart.

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