“I was exercising,” she said.
“Yeah?” said Mick.
“Like aerobics. Got to keep in trim.”
“Yeah?”
“Well yes, and keep in practice, like rehearsing. I’ve got a couple more gigs at the weekend.”
“Good,” he said. “You know, at first I thought it was very brave of you to go back on stage after the gang-bang, because I thought you’d be scared of the same thing happening again. But I realized that’d be crazy. What are the chances of it happening twice? I mean, if it had happened again, if you’d got gang-banged again, well, it’d be a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t it? In fact, I think you’d have to say it was more than a coincidence. You’d have to say there was something about your dancing that drove men mad and turned them into rapists.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Gabby snapped.
“No.”
“Are you trying to say that my being raped is some kind of dirty joke?”
“I would never say a thing like that.”
“Then stop sounding as though you’re taking the piss.”
“OK,” he said. “Sorry.”
It was not normally part of Mick’s nature to say sorry. She was surprised and appreciative.
“What’s your problem, Mick?”
She meant it to sound concerned, but Mick didn’t hear it that way. Slowly, deliberately, he said, “I think the problem may be something to do with the fact that I’m down in London trying to sort out the blokes who raped my girlfriend, while at the same time my girlfriend’s taking her clothes off for strange men back in Sheffield. I think that’s the sort of general area where the problem might be.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s what I do.”
“I know, but I don’t have to like it.”
“You never objected before.”
“No, I didn’t.”
They slipped into silence, neither of them rash enough to want to open up that particular can of worms.
Then Mick said, “Actually, I rang up to tell you that number three has been dealt with.”
“Good,” she said.
“Yeah. It was a pleasure, basically. I mean the guy’s scum. He’s got all that money. He’s got a lovely wife, lovely kid, lovely house. He used to have a lovely boat too.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Anyway, he’s got all that and he goes around picking up pairs of tarts. He deserves all he gets.”
“What are you talking about? He deserves what he gets because he raped me.”
“Of course he does,” Mick said. “Of course.”
There was another silence, longer and clumsier than before. Mick knew it wasn’t meant to be like this. A phonecall home was supposed to be reassuring, nourishing. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d broken all contact until the job was completed, gone underground, but that would have been stupid. Besides, there were things that he couldn’t help asking.
“They’re a rum bunch, these men,” he said, articulating something that had been on his mind for a while. “I mean, I’ve met three of them now and they’re very different from each other. They don’t seem to have much in common. They don’t look like the sort of men who’d all be friends with each other.”
“What are you saying? That you think you’ve got the wrong men?”
“They’re the ones on your list,” he said.
“Then they’re the right men.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe gang-rape has this funny way of bringing people together.”
“Is that another joke, Mick?”
“No,” he said, being more placatory than he really wanted to be. “No way.”
“How much longer before you’re finished?”
“I don’t know, not long.”
“I’ll be glad when you’re finished,” she said. “I miss you, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course I do.”
Mick had no reason to think she was lying and yet she sounded unconvincing. Mick wondered if perhaps he no longer wanted to be convinced.
“You could come down to London,” he said. “We could have a weekend here together.”
“I hate London.”
“It’s all right when you get used to it.”
“I’ve got a particularly good reason for hating it.”
“It wasn’t London that raped you.”
“Well, it feels that way.”
Mick could see there was no point arguing. “Look, the money’s running out,” he said, although this wasn’t true. “I’ll go. I’ll phone you after I’ve done the next one.”
Before she could answer he hooked the receiver into place and some coins rattled into the change cup. The owner of the shop was tidying up the chairs, sweeping the floor, ready to close for the night. He looked at Mick disapprovingly though Mick couldn’t tell why. Was it because Mick had left the food or because he’d been listening in to the phone conversation?
Mick walked over to his former table and his abandoned plate, looked down at the food and said to the shop owner, “You know how you could sell more food around here?”
“No,” the owner said, not remotely interested.
“No,” said Mick sadly. “Neither do I.”
MR AND MRS LONELY HEARTS
After Stuart ditched her, Judy was left feeling hurt, used, worthless, but above all intensely angry. What had the relationship been about if not excitement, novelty, risk? How could Stuart turn out to be so timid, so cowardly? How could he suddenly start worrying about being caught by his wife, and as a consequence end the most thrilling relationship he was ever likely to have?
She came to the inevitable conclusion that Stuart was not the man she’d thought he was. Consequently he was certainly no longer the man she wanted. Yet she couldn’t simply turn off her feelings. She’d have been happy to feel nothing towards him, but that didn’t seem to be an option, so she found herself brooding, nurturing her anger. She was aware of a fury boiling inside her. It wouldn’t go away, and she wasn’t altogether convinced that she wanted it to.
She cursed Stuart and in her day-dreams she saw her curse bearing strange, evil fruit. She saw Stuart mown down by a London double-decker, Stuart struck by a lingering, painful, only at last fatal disease, Stuart’s business going bankrupt, Stuart’s wife leaving him for some new hunky tour guide.
Sometimes she thought that merely imagining these scenarios could act as a form of therapy. If she stoked her anger long enough it might perhaps burn itself out, but there was no sign of that happening yet. She wanted Stuart to be damaged and ruined and in pain, but she was smart enough to realize that in truth it was she who was all these things. Why else would she have answered the lonely hearts ad?
When it was over Judy realized it was not the sort of thing that a married couple would have been able to get away with anywhere except in London. Out there in the sticks, the boonies, the real world, a married man and a married woman would have had a lot of trouble placing lonely hearts ads to meet single people with a view to having casual sex. In a small town, even in a small city, word would have got out. You would be spotted. Someone, possibly everyone, would know you were married and what you were up to. But London was big enough, diverse enough, anonymous enough, that a couple could place ads, meet strange men and women, seduce them, bed them and never have to see them again.
The newspaper ads were vague but welcoming. They were meant to embrace rather than exclude, to attract all sorts of hearts, lonely or not. They were designed to elicit the maximum number of replies, to give the maximum choice. They implied a lack of involvement, they spoke of fun and good times. The word ‘uncomplicated’ was often used.