Day 19

Andaw

Of course, cyberspace can't provide everything, and so sometimes even I, with my lightspeed net connection, venture outside. There are many pull factors. Sunlight for vitamins, the smell of freshly mown grass, the laughter of small children. Most commonly, though, it is a push over a pull: the call for ice, which I go through in quantities and frequencies sufficient enough to render DIY freezer tray efforts inadequate, and which is impossible for grocers to deliver in solid form. I like to lie in baths of ice after particularly tiresome days. The qualification for a day being tiresome ranging from not being able to shake off the ache of a flagpole Morning Glory through pole-axing on the floor because MG wants rid of a hangover and all of its accompanying foulness.

Today it is ice, yes, but also the need to post a letter. I am not normally afraid, but today for some reason, opening the front door is like prising apart the jaws of a starving alligator. As I step over the threshold I can feel the hot breath of the city on my face.

As I stilt-step down the high street, Tourette's-twitching, plotting in my head the quickest route, or the route through which I might meet the fewest people, some unavoidables, including a tubby gremlin and his mother, stare. There are different kinds of stare. The crafty double-take once you think they have politely walked past, the blatant I-have-every-right-to-gawp-I-pay-my-taxes stare, the sympathetic, big-eyed stare that comes most commonly from females of a certain age ' I get a cross-section every time I go out, and I'm always surprised by new variants.

As my reflection catches in the window of Rancey's Bikes, a four-foot peppermint bullets roughly into me.

"Ooof!
"Shit, sorry!

A little girl, angelic in a light green puff-sleeve frock, stands before me, adjusting a fluffed-out gingham bow in her dark ringlets. She looks up, brushing dust from her skirt as she does so, and her eyes are huge, pupils spilling into their oceanic borders. Did she really just swear? She looks as though, like any small child, she's about to cry. I bob down to her level.

"Are you alright love?
"I swear to God, if you ask where my sodding Mummy is, I will belt you one.

The bark of the insults wrapped in her high-pitched voice throws me.

"I-I...
"Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Now if you'll excuse me -
"You...er, excuse me, I -
"Right, right, but I do have to be going. Sorry again, if it makes a difference.

She stalks off at a pace, and I stand, watching, as her neat little legs spirit her away, flounces bouncing, frills a-quiver, curls swinging. I feel like I've been visited by a cherub, a perfect Lolita and a grumpy East End barmaid all in one.

When I look down, a letter is floating like a feather in the puddle at my feet. Dreamily it spins, as the wind blows ripples across the water. It is a minute before I realise my hand is clamped, empty, in a grip position, and the letter is mine.

* * *

Martaro

"Sorry, I tell her. "I don't know of any hypnotists practising in the vicinity
"Damnit. Oh, never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway.
"Can I get you anything? Tea? Latte?
"A beaker of milk wouldn't go astray. Oh don't FUCKING get it. What do you take me for?
"Whiskey?
"Gracias.

As we sup, her with a fine malt brand, me with a fat mug of Kilimanjaro coffee, she explains that she needs work. As much as possible and as fast as possible.

"Ms Renee, there will always be be work for you.
"That's not strictly true. Well, maybe if I can work enough ' I'll level with you, I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place at the moment. I need cash, but if I don't get it soon, there'll be no point in me doing the work and no more work for me to do.

I look blankly at her.

"You have no idea, have you? Look, this is a little delicate. I...I find myself in a very fragile predicament. Oh, fuck, here I go.

Her voice cracks and I see something of Miffy Renee that none of her co-stars or fans or even directors, will have seen, and believe me, that doesn't leave much. She's crying. And even though I know she could be my mother, I put my arm around her instinctively, draw this tiny elf, this vampiress, to me. And fuck me, I actually get hard for the first time since Saral left.