Written in Blood(92)

‘Bottoms up, then,’ said Edie as he stood awkwardly clutching the smeary tumbler.

‘What is it?’

‘Thunderbirds Mixed Wine.’ She grinned. ‘It’s fruity. Apples and lemons and that.’

‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘Got to keep me head clear, haven’t I?’

‘Of course. Sorry.’

‘You’ll be leading me in wicked ways, Brian.’

More to smother this wondrous notion at birth than because he was thirsty Brian took a large gulp of the liquid, which exploded between his ears.

‘All right?’

‘Absolutely.’ He clutched the back of a chair. ‘Thunderbirds are go.’

‘You what?’

Of course she would be too young for the first TV series and too old to bother with the repeats. What a stupid thing to say. She’d think he was an absolute cretin.

Eyes closed, Edie was swaying now to the music, the arch of her back as strong, slender and supple as a steel spring, balancing gracefully on spiky, high-heeled shoes of patent leather that seemed slightly too big for her. Brian wondered if they belonged to her mother and the thought impelled feelings of excited tenderness. He boldly joined in, shifting clumsily from one foot to the other and clicking his fingers - off the beat, his ear for music being even worse than his ear for dialogue.

‘You wannanother drink?’ She had stopped dancing.

‘Better not. Thank you.’

‘Sit down then.’

Brian looked about him. The single armchair held video and audio tapes, freebie newspapers, some tights and a plate streaked with tomato sauce and dried egg yolk. He gravitated back to the settee.

This also held a certain amount of debris. Edie threw it all over the back. This move involved both kneeling and reaching and the narrow band of Lycra posing as a skirt was so tautly stretched that Brian could clearly see the cleft between her buttocks. He broke out into a warm glow, which he put down to the excessive heat from a three-bar electric fire.

‘So, young Edie.’ Keep it light and jocular. ‘How can I help?’ She bounced down beside him.

Well, fair enough. There was nothing in that. In fact, looking at it from a purely practical viewpoint, it was the only sensible place to choose. Not a lot of point in her sitting miles away in that cumbersome old armchair. If this was going to be a counselling session - and all the signs indicated that it was - then proximity was of the essence. He only hoped he would be able to hear what she was saying over the music. The driving, chopping beat was splintering his skull. He would have liked to ask that it be turned down, or even off, but was afraid she would think him square and middle-aged.

Edie settled, tucking her legs beneath her. Her shiny black tights had a single run, starting at the left knee and disappearing inside her leopard-spotted bandeau of a skirt. Somehow Brian dragged his eyes from the ladder and ordered his frenzied imagination to stop picturing its final resting place. Then he asked once more what he could do to allay her anxieties.

He spoke softly, knowing she would not be able to hear him, and, to his relief, the ploy worked. Edie got up and switched off the ghetto blaster at the plug. The fiery blooms on the television set also ceased their dazzle, wilting immediately into a tired bunch of dusty grey plastic.

‘Thing is Brian,’ she sat down again, surely fractionally closer than before? ‘I’m never going to be able to stand up in front of all them people.’

‘Of course you are. Once you step on-stage all those nerves will vanish. Believe me, I know.’

‘Then there’s my accent. I reckon she should talk better. More like a receptionist.’

‘Your accent’s perfect for the part.’

Even as he spoke it struck Brian that the remark might have been better phrased, for the character in question was a sluttish, foul-mouthed drug-addicted scrubber, on the dole and on the make when she wasn’t on the game. A type in fact not a million miles removed from Denzil’s deceased auntie, who made medical history, according to her nephew, by producing a death rattle in the vagina.

‘Actually,’ the fingers of her right hand, resting lightly on the edge of her skirt, curled inwards. Disappeared. ‘I find her whole personality difficult. She’s the sort that really gets on my tits. Know what I mean?’

‘Errkk . . .’ Brian, mesmerised by the shifting movements beneath her skirt (was she stroking? scratching?), croaked, ‘Let’s hot-seat this one Edie, OK? Now - no pause for thought - one, two, three - why?’

‘The way she keeps pretending she don’t fancy Mick when it’s dead obvious she’s dying for it. Me - I’d come right up front and tell him.’