Chapter 6

Cab rank across the street there under the trees.

When he gives the address the man says: No trouble, I hope.

Smiles wanly without answering.

Out the window the passing facades of buildings, painted brickwork, stickered windows, laundry while you wait.

Anyone might see him.

Why is he even doing it.

Don't you have a girlfriend? Even if you're not speaking to each other.

Should have ignored Janine's text, he thinks, taken it as a sign.

Find some other young one to hang around with, maybe even a well-adjusted girl from a nice family this time.

Would feel guilty though, if she ever got to like him.

Naomi at least never.

All this madness for what: some transient satisfaction, flattery, probably insincere.

To normalise once more his relations with the other, the relevant energy spent elsewhere.

Does he need all that so badly.

And is it anyway in such short supply.

Must be any number of girls out there tolerably pretty who just want to get fucked a couple of times a week.

No hard feelings.

No text messages from the best friend: Shes in Kevin St.

Stupid bitch.

No, I'm sorry.

Pressing down the roller button for the window, cold wind stings the side of his face.

Okay if I pay with card?

Inside: grim waiting room with broken chairs, noticeboard, woman in an ugly synthetic raincoat filling out a form.

Garda behind the Plexiglass.

Grey eyebrows.

Member in charge.

Is she in custody here, yes.

Arrested on suspicion of what, may I ask.

See it in the man's face of course: here we go.

Kids these days pretending to be homeless, crying about illegal evictions, hardly in the cells five minutes before Daddy calls the lawyers in.

Go home to Donnybrook why don't you.

If that's what he wants to think, let him.

Probably better for her if he does.

You the solicitor? No, but I'm happy to call one.

And I'm sure he'll want to know why exactly his client has been arrested, so why don't you tell me? Garda asks his name and Peter as usual has to spell it, K for kilo.

Catch the split-second pause.

Not many Koubeks on the Ailesbury Road are there.

So what then: just some cheap little tart after all and her Polish boyfriend.

Want to risk it though.

Fairly well spoken isn't he, never know these days.

Okay, the man says, I'll be back to you.

Disappears then behind the greenish glass.

Notice on the wall Peter reads about passport renewal.

K for kilo.

Woman in the raincoat gone already.

Minutes elapse.

Clanking of a door somewhere inside now, and he turns, looks down the cool grey corridor.

Walking towards him, dark hair piled up glossy on top of her head.

Garda beside her.

The lovely Naomi.

Tear in her black tights, scraped knee, bleeding he can see a little.

In her leather jacket, chewing gum.

Lips he has how many times kissed.

In fondness, frustration, irresistible desire.

Hey, he says.

And she answers: Well, look who it is.

Outside, the sun dazzles through parted clouds, flattening the streets with light.

Released without charge, the man said.

It's your lucky day.

Rage pounding in his blood even thinking.

Thirst for violence.

Go back inside, rip a chair out of the wall, fuck it into the guy's head.

Your lucky day.

Jesus, God.

Don't think.

Anyway she said she just wanted to get out of there.

Don't make a scene.

It's pointless.

What do they care what the law says.

That's for a court to decide, later on, years later, after your life has been wrecked already anyway.

Find out the eviction was illegal after all.

Very comforting.

Snapped her chewing gum between her teeth murmuring, don't make a scene.

Windshields flashing past now.

Cold wind at the same time carrying rain.

Together they walk away from the station towards the Bishop Street flats.

Canvas bag over her shoulder bulging, sleeve of a sweatshirt hanging out like a pink cotton tongue.

Who told you? she asks.

Janine, I bet.

Ignoring the question, pointing down at her knee, he says: How did that happen?

She stops walking and looks.

Oh yeah, she says.

Security guy tried to drag me up the stairs.

Is that legal?

Closes his eyes again briefly at the thought.

Is it legal, he repeats.

Jesus, I don't know.

It's insane.

Did he hurt you?

She shrugs.

I'm alright, she replies.

Where are all your things?

Looks away from him, down the street.

One of those pricks took my phone, she says.

I was filming him, it was stupid.

I think Janine has my laptop.

She swallows, looking down at the concrete pavement.

I have my wallet, she says.

And my prescriptions.

Some clothes, not everything.

They threw a lot of stuff out on the street.

Where are you going to stay tonight? he asks.

She shrugs again.

I'll find somewhere, she replies.

Rubbing her eye, tired.

After a pause: You didn't have to come.

Right.

You're welcome.

She makes a face then, looks up at him.

Acting the big man, she says. Fuck off.

Despite everything he smiles.

Cut of her in her little jacket, telling him to fuck off.

You could stay at mine, he says.

She pretends to laugh, averts her eyes.

That place, she says.

What if your cleaner sees me, would you not be mortified?

I don't have a cleaner.

She really laughs then.

Flash of chewing gum white between her teeth.

Seriously? she says.

I thought you did.

Maybe you're thinking of a different boyfriend.

Looking up at him, chin lifted.

Or maybe I don't remember your flat too well, she says.

Seeing as you've only invited me back once.

Twice, I think.

No, the second time I actually invited myself.

Holds her gaze a moment longer.

Up to you, he says.

Sunlight white on the wet road surface.

Alright, she replies.

Go on.

He hails a taxi passing.

Get inside together, middle seat between them.

Click of her seat belt.

Upset, he thinks: that's natural.

A year she lived there nearly.

And was happy.

Time of life at an end.

Dragged up the staircase screaming.

Feels for her, of course.

While impassively she gazes out the window at the traffic.

Doesn't want to feel like a charity case, who would.

Resents him no doubt for being out of touch.

But was she glad at all to see him, he wonders.

Or wished it could have been someone else.

One of her own friends.

Feel more at ease.

Coming with him in the taxi out of grim self-preservation maybe: roof over her head, in no position to say no.

Dreading the thought of what he'll want to do with her later.

Sleep on the couch in that case, figure something out.

Someone else after all maybe.

Lad in her room the other night.

Or that guy online who posts the peach emoji under all her pictures.

Peter naturally unable to be thirsty on main, he has a career to think about.

Prominent junior barrister faces questions over use of ‘smiling devil' and ‘droplets' emoji on social media website.

Anyway maybe there is no one else, maybe she's just bored of him.

She stares out the window, not looking, and he at least declines to pay her the ignominious tribute of looking at her.

Once parked she climbs out and leaves him to settle up.

He follows her up the front steps, opens the main door, worried they might run into someone, but they don't.

Inside his apartment it's cold and the air is stale.

He turns the heating on, goes to the living room window to pull it open, selfconscious, while she waits by the sofa.

You didn't sleep here last night, did you? she says.

He turns to her.

Oh, he answers.

Yeah, no.

The last few nights, I haven't been.

Airily she touches the arm of the sofa, as if expecting dust.

Staying with your friend Sylvia, were you? she asks.

Stunned for a moment by his failure to anticipate the question he falls silent.

Finally answers: Right.

She stares at him a moment longer.

Cool, she says.

Very interesting.

So are you back together then?

He clears his throat.

No, he says.

She laughs: high musical sound.

He shuts his eyes briefly and opens them.

Why not? she asks.

She's not interested?

I don't think her feelings are any of your business.

Raises her eyebrows.

Terrible, he thinks: as if to play them off against each other.

But what else can he say.

His weakness, feeling of loyalty, confused.

Defending himself, and worse, more painfully, defending her.

Her angry miserable tears, I want you to remember, oh Christ.

In an arch tone of voice, sarcastic, Naomi says: Okay…

He nods his head.

Avoiding her eyes.

Do you want to eat something? he asks.

She gets in the shower while he looks around in the kitchen.

Milk still usable.

Stick of butter in foil, packet of bacon.

And in the bread bin, half a stale loaf.

Box of eggs.

He turns the fan on, heats some butter in a frying pan, beats the eggs with a fork.

She sings in the shower usually, but not today.

Nice sweet voice too, mezzo soprano.

Soft sizzle of the dipped bread on the pan.

Whitish foam of frying butter.

Wonders what the others will do: find sofas to sleep on.

Hostels maybe.

Go home, some of them.

Not she, of course.

Father not in the picture, and the mother's a headcase, drinker, in and out of rehab.

Only forty-four.

He's heard them on the phone together: Naomi the grown-up, her mother the child.

Yeah, I know, but drinking isn't going to make you feel better, Mam.

Pain in his chest thinking about it.

From the bathroom, the sound of the shower door unsealing: open and then shut again.

Something like a sigh he can hear.

Spots of bacon fat sticking to the pan.

Spitting.

Closer to his own age, the mother.

Not, but feels that way.

In the kitchen doorway Naomi reappears, smaller now in bare feet, adolescent-looking.

Old white bathrobe fraying at the cuffs, gold embroidered hotel logo.

Peers into the pan, her eyebrows raised.

And he can cook, she says.

What a catch.

He lifts a slice of fried bread on a spatula and slides it onto a clean dinner plate for her.

This isn't really cooking, he says.

Turns a piece of bacon fried side up, the fat crisped and amber, translucent.

Holding the plate expectantly she casts an eye.

Is the bacon not for me? she asks.

Feels himself again despite everything smiling.

It's for you, he says.

It's just not done yet.

Sweetly she laughs.

And coffee?

In the living room they sit at the ugly glass dining table together.

With her mouth full, eating, she tells him she needs a new phone.

He's peeling an orange onto a small white saucer.

I can get you one, he says.

She nods her head, swallowing, lifting another forkful to her lips.

Cool, she says.

Nothing fancy, obviously.

Just need to let people know I'm alive.

The peel splits and he deposits it onto the saucer, begins peeling again.

To see her eating wholesome, relaxing.

Wonders what he would have done if he had been there.

Not impossible.

Lying in bed with her maybe sharing a cigarette when they broke the door down.

Tried to drag me up the stairs, is that legal.

Tear in her black tights.

I'm sorry I haven't been in touch the last few days, he says.

She's mopping the butter from her plate with a crust of bread.

Yeah, she says.

Janine told me you stormed off the other night when I was on the phone.

He divides the orange in half, the half into sections.

Well, I didn't know where you went, he says.

You didn't seem too pleased with me.

I wasn't.

Hands clumsy.

Pith yellowing the white of his fingernails.

Okay, he says.

Look, I suppose I haven't been feeling great lately.

Or behaving very well either.

You're upset about your dad, Peter.

I get that.

But I think you could communicate better.

If you want to stop seeing each other, you have to actually say it.

He doesn't look at her.

I should have read that letter for you, he says.

That wouldn't have made any difference.

Shrugging he answers without looking up: Still, I could have tried.

I can take care of myself.

He wipes his nose with his fingers, swallowing again, half-smiling.

Okay, he says.

Next time you're arrested, I'll just let you sort it out, shall I?

She starts laughing.

You didn't even do anything, she says.

Three hours I was in there screaming my head off.

And then you show up in your nice suit waving your dick around, and it's oh yes sir, of course sir, your friend is free to go.

Sheepishly he laughs also, separating a segment from the orange with his fingers.

Your lucky day, he says.

She falls silent for a time.

He eats a piece of orange, soft pulp in his mouth, and then another.

Finally she asks: Does she know about me? Your friend Sylvia.

About you being evicted? Not yet.

I'll tell her.

Funny expression on her face when he looks up at her.

I meant, about me and you, she says.

What, that we're seeing each other? Of course she knows.

It's not a secret.

Pleased now, she looks down into her coffee, trying not to smile.

Talk about me a lot, do you? she says.

Chewing and then he swallows, smiling back at her, and says: Complain about you, you mean.

All the time.

Gratified, he can see.

Thought he was lying about her.

Letting on he was single.

Showering afterwards and transferring her some cash.

Listen, thanks again.

Dinner with Sylvia, sorry I'm late, darling, you know what it's like at work.

Feels guilty for letting her imagine.

She lifts a hand now to her hair.

Can I lie down on your bed? she asks.

Yeah, of course.

Quietly she rises from her seat, empty plate left on the table.

Thinking quickly he finds himself.

Uncertain.

Glancing up at her as she passes him.

You want me to come with you? he asks.

Touching his sleeve she nods her head without speaking.

Dissolving effect on his train of thought, sort of darkening down, and he follows.

First night they spent together, he remembers: the way she trembled when he touched her.

So young she seemed suddenly and innocent, all her brazen looks and words forgotten.

At the foot of the bed now he unties the sash at her waist, lets the robe fall from her shoulders.

Pink softness of her smooth full figure, heavy breasts.

Her open waiting mouth he kisses.

Eyes lowered she says: I really need it.

Everything in him aching to give it to her.

Animal stupidity of desire.

Get on the bed, he says.

She lies down and he kneels up, still dressed, looking down at her.

Graze stinging pink on her knee he sees where she washed it clean.

Sound of her high breathing as if only to be near him.

You can do whatever you want with me, she says.

Anything you want, you can do.

Tracing her cheekbone he smiles at her irresistibly.

You're so pretty, he says.

His hand between her legs then, and she shuts her eyes.

Wet and open her cunt.

You can do anything you want, she repeats.

And he could, he thinks.

Turn her face-down, hurt her a little, make her take it, tell him how it feels.

Degrading.

Shock her out of thinking about anything else.

Afterwards, though, remembering, the door broken down, dragged up the staircase: distressing probably, and not funny anymore.

I know, he says.

Like this, alright? And moves with his hands her legs, open, her knees bent.

Drawing away then he starts to undress himself.

She waits, watching, glassy her eyes and lips parted.

He moves his hand down over her jaw, her throat.

Heat of her body under his palm.

Gets on top of her and she opens her mouth to be again kissed.

Taste of her tongue, her soft passivity, deep.

Closing her eyes as if ashamed she says: Just use me, just do whatever you want.

You can hurt me, it doesn't matter.

Inside her now slowly very deep and tight until she cries out.

Soft sinking feeling so peaceful it's like sleep.

Contentedly his eyes close and for a moment he rests still.

Says nothing, not moving, feeling only the rapid flutter of her breath beneath.

In a tightened voice she whispers: Is it okay? So docile she always gets and anxious.

He smooths her hair back from her cheek.

Kisses her lips.

It's good, he says, don't worry.

When he moves inside her she cries out again.

Raw almost wailing sound.

Oh God, she says.

Thank you.

The openness, the receptivity of her body, the flush on her cheeks, her throat.

Allowing herself to be used like this, wanting, needing it, and he for a moment has to close again his eyes.

That she, trusting, wanting only to please, is letting him, giving herself into his power, to be caressed and played with like a doll.

Frightened only of disappointing him.

Pleading for reassurance, is it okay.

Just use me, you can hurt me, anything you want.

Her breath shallow and once more he looks at her.

Do you like that? he asks.

Look of desperate gratitude she turns towards him.

What he feels also and can't express.

I love it so much, she says.

I feel really safe.

I don't know.

When it's like this, I get this feeling.

I feel so safe, I can't explain.

All over himself a strange rising intensity like heat looking down at her.

To give her that feeling, yes.

Naomi, you are safe, he says.

Com pletely, I promise.

Everything's going to be okay.

For a moment longer just looking at one another.

The same desperation they feel, the same terrible gratitude, tender painful vulnerability, depth of pleasure.

Gasping contractions of her breath.

Peter, she says.

Fuck, I'm sorry.

He also then.

Wet inside her, which she loves.

Hears her dazed voice under him mumbling: Oh, it's so nice.

Her irrepressible love of life, he thinks.

Pulling fried chicken apart with oily fingers.

Last sip of soft drink rattling in the straw.

Or trying on a new dress, the way her body luxuriates in tactility.

Pleasure of her own gorgeousness in the mirror.

Deep complete joy she finds in being alive.

No job, no family support, no fixed address, no state entitlements, no money to finish college.

Owner of nothing in the world but her own perfect body.

Men, and even other women, and systems, bureaucracies, laws, intent it seems on breaking her, forcing her to accept misery.

And here she is laughing, drinking sugary coffee, begging to be fucked.

He loves that in her.

Wants to protect her at times even from himself.

Her freedom, wild animal that she is.

Both finished they lie in silence side by side.

He thinks of her staying a while, however long, her underwear drying on the clotheshorse, dishes in the sink.

Sees himself cooking dinner while she sits with bare feet on the sofa recording some interminable voice note for her friends.

I literally can't believe he even said that.

Undressing her for bed at night, kissing fondly her unresisting lips.

Far away here from anything that could harm her.

Object only of idiotic desire and love.

Was that okay? he asks.

Feeling silly now perhaps she laughs.

Yeah, she says.

You didn't do anything bad.

Don't sound so disappointed.

Looking sleepy, happy even, she rolls over beside him.

He puts his arm around her.

Can you believe they fucking evicted us, she murmurs.

Moving his hand over her back he says: Do you want to stay here for a while?

For a moment she says nothing.

Then asks simply: Are you sure it's okay?

Yeah, I'm sure.

Thanks.

In silence they lie together for a time.

Sense of them both having dropped a long pretence.

Wants almost to say more.

Tell her everything, what happened, is still happening, the agony, hatred he wakes up with every morning, wishing he was dead, fear of losing her, both of them.

I can't go through it again.

I'm sorry.

There's someone else.

I think it would be better for everyone if I.

No need however he thinks to speak.

In the quiet of their breath and the slow grey sounds of the passing traffic on the street she touches his hand.

To have her here with him enough.

Bathed, fed, satisfied, half-asleep.

Out of harm's way.

I have to teach a class this afternoon, he says.

Alright? You can take the spare keys if you want to go out, they're on a hook by the door.

She says that's fine.

Do you need some cash? he asks.

Her eyes closed, no answer.

I'll leave some with you, he says.

Without looking she answers quietly: Okay.

He touches her hair.

She lifts her gaze finally to meet his.

The feeling however futile and senseless is in its own way mutual.

Something understood between them that can't be expressed.

Thank you, she says again.

He kisses her forehead, salt damp.

See you later.