Gnawing at the Rind

by Mark Colbourne

The bar is humid with the musk of the summer night, with the rub of the population. I slide slowly beside the girl perched all on her lonesome and loosen my tie. Softly, softly. Simple steps. Would you like a drink? Would you like some company? I’d offer you a line but Danny’s trotted off with the posh. He claims the well’s run dry. Yes, I know. You can’t trust anyone. It’s a frightful business. You’re here on your own? Surely not. Oh. With a friend: that girl over there; dancing by the boy in the straw hat. You claim they’re modelling themselves on Kate and Pete. Perhaps they mean Price and Andre? There we go – a small smile, a little laughter; some gentle mockery at your negligent friend’s expense. I’m drawing a line in the sand, you see. I’m here to show you - oh my little London lovely, all adrift amongst this hopeless fracas - exactly whose side I’m on.

It isn’t long before she agrees to accompany me from the bar and, as I’m currently sleeping on Danny’s living room floor, a return to mine is an option unavailable. I sweep her via Hackney Carriage to an exclusive retreat employed upon hop and catch for precisely this measure of occasion. It was Danny who first introduced me to the hotel. They’re clean, considerate and, most essentially, discreet. Danny’s been here for more bangs than Sydney Harbour Bridge on New Year’s Eve. Honestly, listening to Danny tell his tales, you’d be amazed his cock hasn’t simply dropped clean off.

The taxi claims the remainder of my cash. No worry, my dear. No concern for you. We’ll exercise our flexible friend. Charge the bar bill to the room. Sup till we’re unable to sup a drop more and then upstairs to indulge in the other’s delicious intimacy. At the desk, arranging to book in. The receptionist, so courteous, so respectful, requests a swipe of my credit card to insure the room deposit.  I oblige and flash a smile towards my companion. But then - oh no. There seems to be a problem. Surely not. Please, try again. No sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to make a call, he claims, disappearing from view to the hold of an office secluded. The girl at my side agitated, impatient. The receptionist returns to his post. He’s emphatically apologetic. Practically mortified. He has been asked to confiscate my card. To give him his due, he’s awfully reasonable about it. Quite charitable, even. No air of smug satisfaction. Not a whiff of condescension. They really are very good here. You wouldn’t get this at a Holiday Inn. That’s probably why Danny likes it so much.

The girl shakes her head and turns around, heading to the door. I don’t bother to call after her. I’m pretty much certain the moment has passed.

Next morning in the office. Jesus Christ, it was a bind getting in. I require a lie down. Some slight semblance of respite. An escape route to the fortitude of well-being. I’m cowered in Jones’ office. My own is precarious territory. Chester’s on the prowl again. He’ll want figures, or a timescale, or an ETA, or some other such nonsense. I feel like shaking the man each and every time he corners me with one of his pointless, inconsequential queries. I don’t know, I’d scream, rattling his bones to the point of insanity. No one knows and no one cares. Let’s shut up shop and take to the wilderness, survive on berries and good deeds, satiated in our clean living and the righteousness of nature…

Of course, this would be unfeasible. It certainly wouldn’t work for us all. Jones, for instance, is already on his second KFC of the day. Gorging on fried chicken right before my bloodshot eyes. Christ, Jones. I don’t know how you do it. I think I’m going to throw up merely sitting here watching. He begins some lunk-headed lecture detailing how the ingestion of a square meal would signal my salvation. I shout the fat fool down. Where’s Danny? I cry. Danny wasn’t at home. Danny doesn’t seem to be at work. Danny’s phone rings straight through to message. Danny, I suspect, has been up to no good, and therefore I want to know each and every last detail.

You’re thick as thieves, you two, ain’t you? Jones splutters amidst a lipstick of coleslaw. He continues with a disparaging remark regarding the old school tie which myself and Danny share, but I refuse to listen to the insinuation of dorm-bound evenings whiled away in bum-banging conga lines beneath the motherly gaze of matron for simply a second longer. I scream that he can shut his knuckle dragging mouth, but he ignorantly persists, claiming I’m incorrect in my dismissal of his standing as he went to Oxford. I put my head in my hands. I practically weep with the futility. You went to Oxford on a day trip, I roar. Same difference, the flatulent swine mopes through a drumstick. Ok, Gatsby, I sigh. Just tell me where the hell Danny is.

But this is information to which an oaf like Jones is unprivileged. He gurgles that he has a lunchtime meeting and needs to leave. Lunch? Is eating all you do, Jones? Do you cease to exist should your hand refrain from shovelling slop between your ever-churning jaws for even the slightest second? Jones utters some guff about a healthy appetite. I leave his office and stalk like a gazelle along the corridor. The door to a meeting room opens abruptly. I dart behind the credit control team (Northern Division). Out comes Chester, and following him is Danny. They’re shaking hands. Of all things, those two men are shaking hands.

Back at Danny’s house. Rummaging through the cupboards for something my stomach is able to bear. It’s been a good day. In some ways. I’ve avoided Chester, for instance. Oh, but a poor one in others. The project isn’t going well. I really don’t have a clue what to do about it. Go live date will come and go live date will go, and questions will be asked. I fear the questions. Questions are, quite honestly, not what I desire. Questions, of course, will lead to answers and - for any longevity or security my career may warrant - I suspect these answers will prove disastrous.

I hate the job but I like the money. It’s to my detriment that the money doesn’t like me. Money and me are at each other’s throats. Money runs away. It slips through my fingers. It bolts from my stable. You should see my credit card bills. No. Really. You should. Personally, I haven’t seen them for some time. Not since I fled from my flat with three months rent hanging on the ledger and the absence of any explanation or forwarding address. What would that have read anyway? Living room floor – Danny’s house?

Phone ringing. I pick up. Safe enough here. None of my creditors have the landline number. It’s mother. Ah. Mother. Yes. I’m fine. And you? Good, good. No, it’s all tickety-boo here. Yes, still at Danny’s. Just been rather busy at the office. Hard to find time to get out there and root around for the right flat. Must get someone to take a look for me. Of course I want to know about James. He’s well? You’ve received another letter. That’s good. Yes. That’s excellent.

My brother, James. Some kind of low level officer within the armed forces. His regiment shipped to Iraq four months ago. Christ knows what made him join up. Christ knows what made him agree to go. You wouldn’t get me there, that’s for sure. The bullets and the bombs and that huge grey area. I don’t think so. I just can’t see that being for me. Perhaps that’s the difference between you and I, James, my younger and only brother. The difference between head and heart. I think about you on occasion. What do you do there, I wonder? Patrolling the front lines, manning the check points, securing the barricades… I think about you and then I think about the mess I’m in. The bills and the debts and the lies all mounting up. The whole world is wrong, James. Wrong over there and wrong here at home. The whole, entire world. And I’m scared, my dear brother. I’m scared because neither you nor I are in any position to make it right.

Our respective ends of the line are hung up. We must meet soon, my mother tells me. Sitting down on Danny’s sofa, I light one of his cigarettes.

Danny’s still not home. It’s early evening. I leave the house and head into town. Bump into H at JoJo’s and blag a gram. He’s solemn in the promise that here my credit ends. I smile and run to the toilets. That’s one debt, I must be honest with you, which I really prefer not to have to even consider.

The hour which follows is brighter and better. There’s a crowd in from Benny’s place. They’re drinking cocktails. I tag along. Caught up in the chase. In a toilet cubicle with Tom when he asks if I’ve heard about Danny? I nearly drop the toot down the pan.

Tom shaking his head and sniffing through one nostril while a finger valves the other. Danny’s got the promotion. Danny’s on the up and up. Danny’s going to the New York office.

 Danny, I think it’s fair to say, is leaving me behind.

At Danny’s. Nearly three in the morning. Danny sitting in the lounge, by my makeshift bed. Look what the cat dragged in, I wheeze. He grunts, asks if I want a drink. Sit down. Yes please. As much as you can pour. He tells me things have changed. Nodding my head. I know, I know. The whiskey seems austere. I don’t believe I’m feeling too clever. He tells me that people have to move on. They can’t keep living this same life. Eyes closing. Slipping into the clutch of the sofa. He’s got to go away. We’re not really that young anymore. Have you noticed? I nod through the fog that indeed I have. Every day the mirror screams the news. Danny’s got to do what Danny’s got to do. Yes. All the best. Good luck. Bon voyage. I feel as though I’m slipping through the netting of this world. I can’t help it. I’m falling through the gaps and drifting off into nothing.

 Danny drops silent. I’m not sure that he knows what else to say. My eyes refuse to open and my heartbeat is a whimper.
Everything is just falling away.

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~ This piece was posted on Thursday, March 13th, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~