The Cutting Room by Welsh Louise

Author:Welsh, Louise [Louise, Welsh,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
ISBN: 9781921834035
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2006-08-27T12:00:00+00:00

11

The Worm on the Bud

Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation

Humbly crouching amid the moss, it breathes,

Still moist with love that descends the gentle slope

Of white buttocks to its embroidered edge.

Rimbaud and Verlaine,

‘The Arsehole Sonnet’

IT WAS TOO EARLY to go home. I found myself heading towards Usher's. Once there I knew I had made a mistake: there was nothing in the throng of well-dressed men that drew me. They were too clean, too well disposed.

I took my drink and sat in a corner by the window. In the street opposite, a young man leaned out of a third-floor tenement, taking the air. He stretched his body, then, in a single move, discarded his white T-shirt, pulling it over his head, tossing it behind him, somewhere into the dark recesses of the room. A shaft of light cut across the building, illuminating his torso, silver-white in the black of the window. He reached up and pulled the blind half down, leaving his body on view, concealing his face.

I sipped my beer, looked at the bustle of men in the bar around me, then returned my gaze to the boy, wondering if he could see me watching him. He was sitting on a chair now, his arm resting on the sill, swinging to and fro, marking time to a beat I couldn't hear. I watched the shadows creep across the orange sandstone, reaching towards him. When the light was gone, and I could see him no more, I left the bar, crossed the street and pressed the third-floor buzzer. The intercom hummed in response. I let myself in and climbed the stairs.

The door to the apartment was open. I pushed it wide and glanced down the dark, narrow hallway. The place looked derelict. Paper peeled from the walls in jagged tongues, exposing the dark treacle of Victorian varnish on the plaster beneath. The floor was bare, untreated boards. I walked towards a light at the end of the corridor, ready for anything, ready to run if need be. I hesitated, listening for a moment, then, hearing nothing, stepped into a long sitting room.

The light came from two tall picture windows which let in the glow of the street lamps; the only furniture was a wooden table and two upright chairs. The boy still sat by the window. He turned towards me, tousled blond hair, dreamy face, lids drooping as if in an opium trance. I judged him to be about twenty, slighter than me, good muscle tone, but I knew I could take him in an unarmed fight. He smiled a lazy smile, rose slowly, and came towards me.

When he was close enough for our breath to merge he stopped, passive, waiting. I could feel the heat of him, sense his quickening heartbeat. The blood moved faster through my veins, breath shortened, balls tightened. I stood still, playing master, forcing him to make the first move. He tilted his head, glazed blue eyes met mine, then he put a warm, lazy hand

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