Dolls &; Holes

DOLLS &;amp; HOLES

Thirst! An evil thirst! I so want to go to sleep. The booze is to
blame. I woke up parched and that was it. I was awake and my head was
all revved up with thoughts. I shut my eyes, trying to relax?. Thoughts
going round the houses of their own accord?.Regardless of what I want
them to do. The longer I tried relaxing the more this tension got a
hold of me. These pockets of tension situated about an inch inwards of
either temple. The stomach too. There is a feeling in my guts. A vile
feeling. I'm awake and I want to sleep. I couldn't get to sleep and I'm
anxious. The thirst, tiredness, a weariness of living with and having
to bear the shortcomings of other people. An odour in my room like
rotting potatoes. An earthy, fungus like reek. Set against all of this,
not bothered one iota by the raging thirst and the swings and
roundabouts and commotion of my head, as if to prove a Cartesian point
about the division between the mind and the body, is the hard-on I
have. It wouldn't do the decent thing and disappear. So I relented and
thought of the girl who was once in this bedroom, screaming as my cock
pushed into her tight arsehole, Elton John's Crocodile Rock on the
stereo. Sir John there with me in the surround sound. His lyrics always
with me: "Well Crocodile Rocking is something shocking / when your feet
just can't keep still / I never knew me a better time and I guess I
never will?."

The blood literally drains from me as I hear a noise in the flat.

A sound like a door opening and closing. That's what it sounded like. A
door: opened/closed. It either is or it isn't. One or the other. I sit
up in the bed and go to switch on the bedside lamp. I had my hand round
the stem of the lamp, thumb about to press the switch. But then?..The
fear and loathing of a minute ago are second to a more immediate kind
of fear of really being hurt... Another noise. A creak on the
floorboard. There was somebody in the flat. One minute I'm wondering
about ending it all, the next I'm desperate to live. That's me all
over. I threw off the duvet and walked to the bedroom door, gently
pressing my back against it. I listened for footsteps. I still have my
Thomas Pink shirt (covered in stains) and tie on, although the rest of
me is bollock naked. Apart, that is, from a Star Wars sock (showing the
triumvirate of Leia, Solo and Skywalker). I look to see if I can spot
my trousers. The curtains were open and some orange light was cast into
the room from a street lamp. I thought I saw the trousers. I listen for
a sound. If I move from the door then I'm taking my life in my own
hands. They could burst in, attack me. What was I talking, though? A
few feet. No further. The trousers were there. A knee was out of the
left leg. Was it worth risking myself for the sake of decency? Decorum?
I pushed my back harder against the door. It was a joke. Why this flat?
Of all the flats, houses, properties, why this exact point in space
when I am here at this specific time? What were the odds on that? The
chances? Given the size of London and the dimensions of the universe
itself. When it came down to it, everything was based on luck, which
isn't much of a basis really. It's shit, in fact.

All I want is a drink of something fizzy and to try to go to sleep and
now there is someone in the flat.

My trousers are at the side of the bed. Stained, I suppose, like the
shirt and tie and jacket. It was a messy night. Very messy. I listened.
For all I knew the person could be on the other side of the door, knife
drawn, poised for the kill. These were, after all, dangerous times. All
the drug addicts and thieves and schizos loosed upon London with
reasons to kill. I heard a motor bike start in the street. Sounded like
a moped. I own a moped.

Anyhow, there was no proof the intruder was a killer. Innocent until
proven guilty, now there's a motto to live by. Why did a door opening
and closing (if that's what it was) mean I was about to come to a
sticky end? If, indeed, the noise I heard is an intruder. Was it not
possible that Doll had changed her mind and was coming back to me? She
had the keys still. I made her keep a set. Just in case. She's had a
change of heart. Lying in her own bed, full of regrets, on this very
night, and she'd seen it was a mistake to leave, to call it a day, that
living without my funny ways had made her come to her senses. Doll is
coming home to me. Tonight's the night. The time of thinking things
through, of taking stock, was over. I told Doll she would have second
thoughts about giving me the elbow. If I was right (and I normally am),
then I was resolved to losing some of my charm but that was unavoidable
if an adult was to develop, to mature. That's what it was all about:
seizing the day, taking a chance, making the moment your own but also
being adult enough to make sacrifices.

For Doll and I, this world can be our oyster.

I'm edging from the door. Looking over my shoulder. Once I buttoned up
the trousers I felt better. Secure. Dignified. Apart from the knee out
of a trouser leg and my cock, which was still hard...

...I realised if I was held hostage?Basically kidnapped? Tortured. If I
was dragged screaming from the bedroom, after getting cut and sliced
up, and forced into the bathroom and knocked unconscious with a hammer
and found myself coming to tied up with rope, gagged with black masking
tape and was having my chest scraped with an electric sander bought at
a one hundred thousand square foot, windowless box of a mega store
B&;amp;Q in Surbiton near the roundabout at the special (I'd be mad
not to) discount price of twenty five, ninety five?. If I'd met me in a
club and listened to my funny jokes, the ones about Essex girls. If I
had laughed at me and said, "Hey, don't be cheeky you, I'm from Essex".
If I had stabbed a knife into my stomach and removed my kidneys, my
liver, and my heart and placed them into a blender, then poured the
mixture into a Pyrex dish in the kitchen with tomatoes and onions and
par-boiled potatoes, sprinkled with parsley, mixed herbs and, as my
grandmother used to insist, some Bisto, a couple of Oxo cubes, lots of
pepper and a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and placed the dish onto the
top rack of the oven and turned the gas up to mark 6 for approximately
four hours (not forgetting to check and stir and add water if
necessary) to make a spicy casserole?..given that kind of bloody prep
and zeal for culinary invention?. Then untorn trousers versus torn
trousers was neither here nor there. A cock, soft or hard, was hardly
worth raising an eyebrow for...

I took the lid off one of Doll's aerosol deodorants on the dresser and
held up the spray. I had a disposable lighter in a trouser pocket. I
checked to see if the lighter worked. In one motion I pulled my thumb
back on the small, metal cog and then pressed down onto the plastic
lever to release the gas. A flame darted up. I shook the deodorant.
There was enough left. Aiming at the door, I stretched forward my arms,
putting the top of the lighter under the nozzle of the can. I pressed
the nozzle on the can, catching a whiff of Doll's smell, and then I
pulled down my thumb on the lighter and a streak of fire gushed from
the can as the gas ignited. I felt the heat against my knuckles. The
room filled with light. The fire brushed against the door. Then I let
go and it was dark. Listening for whoever was there. I was pleased with
myself for improving the odds, adapting to the threat. I was ready for
fighting, as always. Whoever was there, if not a friend, then a foe,
now knew I was armed, ready for them. I mean business.

Still, though, I was on edge because someone else was in the flat. I
switched on the overhead light. Pulled open the bedroom door. Ready
with the lighter and can. I yelled if anyone was there. I went into the
hallway, looked left and right. Switched the light on and saw specks of
brownish blood ruining the smooth wooden floorboards Doll thought made
the flat classy. I readied myself. The front door was locked. I kicked
open the bathroom door, I shot a burst of flames behind the shower
curtain into the remnants of the girl in the bath. I kept the fire on
the girl. She was sure she wanted to come back to mine. I asked her.
She said: "Yes, I'm sure". I pulled the string for the light and went
to the kitchen. Flicked the light switch. Saw the blender and the
plates and cups in the sink and smelled the food cooking in the oven.
Claret was everywhere, spotting the walls with bits of shredded meat. I
peel off a strip of flesh stuck to a tile and place it into my mouth.
It tastes like lead.

In the lounge, I switch on the overhead light and the lights for the
Christmas tree. The girl's head is spiked at the top of the tree. A red
and a blue fairy light planted in each eye socket and the lights take
turns flashing. Every four seconds the left flashes red and then four
seconds later the right flashes blue like she's winking at me. I pull
open the curtains. Looking down I see that some thieving cunt has
stolen my moped. I loved that scooter. Fucking loved it. I opened the
windows and screamed they were going die. The cunts were dead. That
bike was my pride and joy. I said it time and again, they were dead,
deader than fucking dead could be. I was spraying bursts of fire from
the aerosol into the darkness. Sweating. Fucking frantic. I could smell
Doll too. She is in the air, all over me. I looked behind me. Shot off
a burst. It kept persisting. It wouldn't go. The hard on. The smells. A
taste in my mouth. Wanting the fucking bike back.

I went to the stereo. Put the Crocodile Rock on. Elton was the man. Sir
Elton. That's right. He knew. The feeling. The fucking depth of feeling
was, well?"But the years went by and the rock just died / Suzie went
and left us for some foreign guy"...What I had to put up with...I was
surrounded by scheming fucking morons?It could bring tears to my eyes
thinking about it. I turned the volume right up. Listened to Sir John's
voice. He deserved a knighthood. No question. I go to the two seater
sofa and shake the cans of lager on the floor. Needing the dregs. I
have a mouthful. Spot a dog end in the ashtray. I lit the cigarette.
Have a drag. Black smoke drifts into the room. I walked along the
hallway and through the smoke I could make out the shower curtain in
the bathroom was on fire. I watched the flames spread over the bath and
up the walls. I went into the kitchen. The smoke alarms were set off.
Doubtless, the neighbours would be in their flats complaining at the
noise. I went to the fridge and I took a bottle of Diet Coke and
swallowed a mouthful. It quenched that craving I'd had. I smacked my
lips. The fire in the hallway. Hearing Elton. The second track. It did
me in every time.

I finish the gas in the aerosol, spraying flames on the messy walls and
cupboards and shelves.

I grab the oven gloves that belonged to Doll. Coughing, I open the oven
door. The fire is in the hallway. I take out the Pyrex dish from the
oven and take off the lid. I pick up the knife I used to cut the meat,
and a spoon.

Dinner isn't ready yet. Not quite.