3 comments/ 12975 views/ 3 favorites Cosh By: mjexxx The cab drove away and Paula took a deep breath before walking through the doors of the restaurant. Robin, the Maitre d', was his usual obsequious self as he greeted her. 'A pleasure as always,' he said. 'And Mister Ellis?' 'Seb sends his best,' she said. 'I'm meeting Saskia this evening. Girl's night out.' 'This way, please.' He led her to her usual table in the rear. She ordered a gin and tonic and checked her phone. Ten past eight and still no word from Saskia. Still, her being late was nothing out of the ordinary. That one would be late for her own funeral. She showed up at eight thirty, full of contrition. 'Meeting ran late, traffic, then a sprint to get ready...I bet I look a fucking fright, don't I?' She didn't. She looked amazing. After considering of the lustre of her skin, the swagger of her mannerisms and the exhibitionist cut of her cream trouser suit, Paula was left in no doubt that Matt, Sakia's unfortunate husband, was once again wearing horns. A couple of glasses of wine was all it took for the truth to emerge. 'He's a golf pro. Actually, it was Matt who introduced us. He was helping him with his swing.' 'Golfers? Ugh...' Paula wrinkled her nose. 'The fashion sense alone...' 'Patrick has impeccable taste, I can assure you.' 'Especially in women.' 'Well, obviously.' Saskia smiled and raised her glass, failing to pick up on the sarcasm. 'I'm seeing him later on. Would you like to meet him? I'm sorry to do this babe, but you're my alibi for tonight. I'm going to tell Matt that you and I went to a club up the West End.' Paula said nothing. The lack of consideration was typical. After their meal they took a cab to a wine-bar in Clerkenwell. As they walked in the door, Paula scanned the assembled ranks – media bottom-feeders and other assorted hangers-on – for likely candidates. Given what she knew of Saskia's preferences, none seemed obvious. Unless she'd suddenly developed a taste for effete boy-men... 'There he is.' 'Him?' 'What's your problem?' 'Nothing, it's just...' 'He's black, what of it? I never took you for a racist.' Before she could reply, Patrick had come over. 'Pat, this is my...friend. Paula.' Saskia's looked on coldly as Paula took his hand. 'Paula. Shall we sit?' The vibe was awkward as they took their seats at a corner table. Patrick ordered Bollinger and played host with a hyperactive bonhomie that Paula suspected owed not a little to chemical stimulation. He was older than she had expected, perhaps in his late thirties, with an accent that was a cocktail of French, African and Mid-Atlantic. His skin was walnut coloured and he had a slim goatee whose contours reminded Paula of the landing strip she had fashioned from her own pubic hair. And although Saskia's accusation of racism had stung her, she nevertheless found herself checking out the size of his hands. Distinctly average. When Patrick excused himself to go to the bathroom, Paula turned to her friend and said, 'I can't believe you'd think that about me. How long have we known each other?' 'I didn't like your tone. Anyway, I'll ask you again. He's black, what of it?' 'It was a surprise. You should have told me, that's all. He seems like a really nice bloke.' 'Nice has nothing to do with it.' Saskia's leer was the most corrupt thing Paula had ever seen. Patrick returned in a welter of tics and seemed upset when Paula said she had to go. 'It's so early,' he said. 'Maybe we should try somewhere else.' 'I have an early meeting,' said Paula. 'But it's been a pleasure.' 'Saskia tells me you're in PR. Do you have a card?' She didn't, so she wrote her e-mail address on a match-book and handed it to him. It was worth it, if only to see the look of fathomless loathing that crossed Saskia's face. 'Call me.' She air-kissed her friend, shook hands with Patrick and took her leave of them wearing a smirk. * I still fancy him, Paula thought. Great ass for a forty-seven year old. Clean. Hard-working. Makes me laugh. Yeah, I still fancy him. But if that's the case, and he is all that, then why is my mind wandering like this in the middle of fucking him? Seb loomed above her, deathly serious. She cupped his face and looked into his eyes, making some appreciative noises. Looking down, she watched his cock enter and leave her body with metronomic regularity, and though she had no idea what a crankshaft was, she thought of one anyway. 'It's so good, babe,' he gasped. Maybe that's the problem, thought Paula. It's not that I'm not enjoying this. Or is it? I wish he'd hurry up and come... He wasn't quite ready yet. Paula got on all fours as requested and Seb got into position at the rear of her. She glanced sideways and watched their reflections in the mirrored door of a wardrobe – his zeal; her facsimile of it. The sight of her body displeased her – slack flesh, voluminous butt, tired eyes. And her roots needed doing... As the tip of his cock slipped inside her, he slapped her arse lightly. Now that's just plain wrong, she thought. Not his style. Seb's reflection gritted his teeth and upped the pace. Paula recognized his pre-climax face and chipped in with a selection of ecstatic moans. She rubbed her clit furiously but to no avail. His come filled her vagina with pleasant warmth and a small shudder passed through her. It was better than nothing. Seb was in the mood for cuddling afterwards. And he was feeling post-fuck profound. 'It's so still,' he said. 'You can almost touch it...' 'I need a smoke,' said Paula. 'Old habits and all.' 'When are you going to quit?' Seb lay back with his hands behind his head. 'Every month you say it.' Paula knew his apparent concern was nothing more than a dig at her for having spoiled his moment. His face was sour, like a Persian cat's. He gives me that look. I should be the one who's got the hump, she thought. 'Stress, innit.' She took a cigarette from the box in her robe pocket and clamped the filter between her teeth. 'Don't wait up.' 'I'm glad you think it's funny...' Paula shut the door behind her, missing out on the rest of what he had to say. But she was sure that it would have really made her think. She tiptoed past Charlotte's door, noting the faint luminescence within the frame. What does a sixteen year old girl do all night on that laptop? Had to be a new bloke. She smiled, thinking of her daughter's hooker face of make-up every morning for the past few weeks. God knows what her mum would have done had she seen her in a similar get-up. She lit her cigarette by the kitchen door and walked out into the back garden. It was scary how you said something and only afterwards realized that it was exactly the sort of thing your parents would have come out with. Like with Saskia the other night. "I can't believe you'd think that about me..." Caught by the balls but squirming off the hook with a display of wounded innocence. That was her old lady alright. Mind games like a fucking grandmaster. Saskia, though. Her and a coked-up gigolo. What was she thinking? A neighbour's dog half barked, half whined, the sound definitely carnal to her ears. Bitches in heat. The whole world's got the itch. She remembered watching stray cats fucking in the lane behind her house in Wembley when she was a girl. The violence of it – the rucks between the toms to see who was top boy and the prize, a couple of fur-ripping, ear-biting seconds corkscrewed into the haunches of a pissed-off queen. Was it worth all that bother? Saskia obviously thought so. Perhaps it wasn't so much the sex as the bother that people got off on. Lies, the buzz of danger, the satisfaction of pulling a fast one. But what would a well brought-up girl like her know about all that? She lit another cigarette from the butt of the first, stubbing out the latter on the wall. He wants me to quit just because he did. And the shit thing is, I'm going to. And then we can be self-righteous together. Okay, I still fancy him. But Jesus, he can be such a smug prick. * She saw him in Morrison's in Acton every Saturday morning when she dropped in on the way back from the gym. Most of those days, she didn't need anything in particular but it was better than going straight home. Supermarkets made her feel stoned. She would drift randomly from aisle to aisle, her tracksuit faintly smelling of chlorine, carrying a basket full of pointless, self-indulgent purchases – rosé, Pringles, a DVD she would never watch, a CD she would listen to once and never again. There was so much stuff to look at but she preferred to watch people and arrive at scandalous conclusions about them based on the contents of their baskets and trolleys. Bulimic, pedo, lush...the bathtub chemist with a trolley full of cough medicine and coffee filters; the suburban prostitute getting in the weekend's supplies of condoms and baby-wipes; the widower attempting to fill the hole left inside of him with cake... And then there was him. Late forties, early fifties maybe...it was hard to tell. He was lighter than Patrick, shaven headed, always dressed, as she was, for the gym. Not her gym – she'd surely have run into him there at some stage and anyway, he didn't fit the profile. She knew of a boxing club nearby. That seemed more likely even though he didn't look like a fighter. Paula's Dad had boxed in the army and she knew the kind of marks it left – scar tissue on the eyes, misshapen ears, a punchy vacancy. This bloke was clean, seemed much too alert. Even a dancing master wouldn't go through his career without a few souvenirs of occasions on which he had run into a scrapper, like her Dad had been, and been sucked into a brawl. Still, it was obvious that he'd be useful. A massive escalation merchant, she decided, like a Rottweiler – dead quiet, stock still, then boom...Your face ripped off before you knew what had happened. He caught her scoping his basket once or twice. Fruit, greens, red meat. No junk or booze. But definitely shopping for one. A poor actress, Paula inevitably ballsed up the semblance of casualness she tried to portray at those moments. There was a defensive thing in his eyes that made pretence impossible. She wasn't short on front but there was a presence about the man that made her feel cowed. Like she was facing an arm wielding a cosh... And with that, he was christened. * She had just shut the door of her car when she saw Cosh in the rear view. He was texting solemnly while slotting a key into the door of a red Insignia. Though he was in the row behind her, she crouched forward, not wanting him to see her. She hadn't seen him inside; only realised now that that meant she had been on the lookout for him. As he pulled out, she started her engine, waving on a jeep that moved into the space between Cosh's and her car. Cover vehicle, she thought. I ought to have been Special Branch. I'm not tailing him or anything. We're both leaving. It's a coincidence. Instead of taking the turn-off that would have brought her home to Chiswick, Paula flicked off her indicator at the last minute and followed the jeep and the Insignia along the Uxbridge Road. She hung back, chewing hard on a piece of gum that was failing to subdue her craving for a cigarette. Stopped at the lights by Ealing Common tube station, she took her emergency smokes from the glove compartment and lit up ravenously. Fuck it. Nearly a week off them was pretty good going. She lost her cover when the jeep turned on to Hanger Lane and dropped back even further. The Insignia continued on to Ealing Broadway, eventually disappearing into the forecourt of a block of new apartments on a road behind the Council offices. She'd often wondered about the inhabitants of these type of gaffs. Singles, definitely. Separation flotsam, mid-life crises, closet cases...Rabbits in their hutches, noses pressed to the wire. Too depressing to contemplate. She pictured his flat and saw a stripped back orderliness that reflected its tenant's personality – a meagre kitchen, a lonely razor on the bathroom sink, a bench and a set of weights in the bedroom. The smell of air freshener and Lynx. The background hum of sexual frustration... She drove through a succession of featureless streets that led her back to the Broadway. The clock on the dash said 11.45. Seb should be back from his cycle. An image of him in those aerodynamic shorts made her wince. I'll have to stop off in the garage and get some Mentos. Else he'll sulk cos I've "let him down..." "No darling, you let yourself down...I'm here to help you..." Why didn't he just admit that he didn't like her smelling of smoke? She'd never met a man so sensitive to bad odours. And as he got older, he had that face more and more, like he was smelling something bad all the time. Gave him a prissy mouth. Still, he has aged well. Looks like, no, not an actor...a vicar. A celebrity vicar... She giggled hysterically until tears stung the rims of her eyes. The house was quiet when she got back. Seb was still out and Charlotte was sleeping over at a friend's that weekend. It was rare that the place was empty on a Saturday morning, even with only the three of them, and Paula wasn't sure if she liked it or not. She made some coffee and turned on a cookery show to tamp down the sensation she had of being hollowed out on the inside, like a cored apple. She sat down on the sofa and tried to concentrate on the television. One of the guests was a R&B star who, according to industry gossip, had a serious taste for underage skirt. Paula hoped that whoever was handling his publicity had a contingency plan. Or maybe exposing him as a nonce was part of their long-term strategy. Hit the doomsday switch. Bad press is better than none. She rubbed the side of her neck as her thoughts returned to Cosh's apartment. It had changed since she had last imagined it; the cold daylight of her earlier vision replaced by dim-switch evening. She saw his clothes laid out on the bed but was lured away from examining them by the sound of falling water from the next room. Back in reality, she killed the TV, one hand worrying the chain of her pendant while the other climbed from the remote in her lap to search for her navel ring through her vest. She tried to control her breathing as she approached the bathroom door but it deepened with every step she took. The room was alternately hot and cold. She touched her chest and felt the skin coarse with gooseflesh above the bone. Now when she breathed in, she could taste the damp heat of the shower. It was difficult to see through the haze of steam and the fogged partition but she could make out a shape, a tantalizing series of flashes of dark, wet flesh. She slipped forward over groaning vinyl, her toes en point inside her trainers. Her fingertips traced circles on her exposed stomach, always heading south, squirming under the waistband of her tracksuit as she watched him wipe the condensation from the shower door to offer her a sight of his upper body. She gave him tattoos, blue upon the streaming flesh of his pectorals and shoulders. She didn't want a gym junky's physique. Fuck all that clichéd narcissism. She wanted a man who looked like a man – lean, weathered, hard... 'Fuck...' It was impossible to stifle the word as her fingers touched her clit through the stuff of her thong. She looked around, half expecting to see Seb or Charlotte watching on in horror but the house was still empty, still all hers. That it wouldn't be for much longer was an intolerable thought. Give me time to finish this. Please... She pushed one breast free of its bra cup and her vest and touched her licked fingers to the nipple. Her other hand pulled her thong aside and scribbled herself open. A gentle spasm that she always pictured taking the shape of a question mark wriggled through her insides when the tips of her fingers prepared to enter her vagina. Taking care with her nails, she dipped one fingertip inside, letting her thumb rest upon her clit. The bottom half of the shower door remained opaque but she knew that he was hard, jerking himself off in the ecstasy of warm, falling water. At least a portion of her gathering climax expressed itself as a physical hunger for the tableau she pictured behind the door. Ebbing and flowing within the fog that surrounded him, his hand – equally as fascinating to her as that which it held – moved steadily along the shaft of his cock, slowing down at intervals to delay the orgasm which she knew was imminent. She used to ask Seb to masturbate for her. She had been entranced by the spectacle, a glimpse of the mannerisms of an unfamiliar sexuality. But Seb had found it embarrassing, unlike Cosh. He knew that she was there. She was convinced of it. He knew, and it spurred him on, just as the thought of his awareness acted like an accelerant to the orgasm which surged up the centre of her body like water rushing from a breached levee. Her hips arched up from the sofa as it came again with twice the force of its predecessor. And again as Cosh's fist became still on his cock, pulling back hard upon at base of his glans as his come spurted out against the glass. She ached to feel what he felt, that ferocious concentration of pleasure in one location as opposed to the expansiveness of her own climax which left no part of her body unaffected. To feel the violence of it, just once. Past her peak, she felt a lessening of the intensity of her spasms and the onset of the bittersweet coda. As ever, the best antidote to the blues was activity. I'm sopping down there, she thought. That'll soak through. Cupping a hand over her groin, she took a wipe from her gym bag and scooped the wetness from her labia. The room smelled funky. Needed some Febreze. She recupped her breast and crossed to the fireplace, starting when she beheld the strange woman who looked out at her from the mirror. The breath was sucked from her lungs as she realized, for the first time in years, that it was a face that a man might actually want. * One Saturday, she was standing behind him in a queue for the ATM when they started talking. Paula, who wasn't in the habit of starting public conversations with strangers, seemed to be standing outside herself watching as she said, 'My friend had her card swiped. At the Abbey in the High Street.' 'Gyppos,' said Cosh. His voice had a south of the river inflection. 'Doing it all over.' 'Cleared her account,' said Paula. 'She get it back?' 'Yeah. But she's a mess now. Sees a mugger around every corner.' He took off the shades he was wearing. 'You got to be wary,' he said. 'Else you're a mug. They smell you out.' 'Frightening.' The queue moved forward. 'You ain't scared, though.' 'You reckon?' 'Nah.' He smiled. 'You from Willesden?' 'Why'd you ask?' 'Thought you was Irish.' 'Wembley.' 'But you not Wembley now. Moved up in the world.' 'What if I have?' She didn't mind that he was a bit lairy. It was refreshing in comparison to Seb's passive aggression and the timid banter of her male work colleagues. She remembered the cut and thrust of teenage courtship – the boys' deliberate provocation, the girls' overdone outrage. And she had always had a thing for the cheekiest ones. Cosh took his place at the ATM. She noticed the tattoos on his hands. Ex-con. Squaddie, maybe. He has that posture... 'So what now, you going to shoulder-surf me?' he said. 'I got more game than that coup.' 'What you know about coups? Nice girl like you?' 'Nice who?' Paula felt a pang of irritation that was reflected in her tone. 'It's a compliment.' Cosh took his money from the machine and walked away. You scared him off now, she thought, keying in her PIN. He thinks you're one of those Range-Rover bitches. Like Saskia. And, you know, maybe you are. Cosh When she turned around, she saw him idling by the bakery. She picked up a basket and walked towards him. Cosh looked up as she approached. 'We meet again,' she said and giggled nervously. 'We do.' 'I came on a bit strong...,' she said. 'Nah. You just wary. Cos you ain't a mug.' 'I should hope not.' There was a brief silence. 'Can I ask you something?' Paula blinked first. 'My Dad was in the Paras. You remind me of him. Not him, exactly, but...' This was going badly. 'I mean, you look like a soldier.' 'He in Ireland?' 'In the Seventies, yeah. He shot a joyrider. Dishonorable discharge.' 'What he do after?' 'Labouring. Worked the doors.' 'You come out and you got shit.' Cosh was nodding. 'Serve your country, yeah. You got to be in it and then come out of it to see it don't mean shit.' 'I knew you were service,' said Paula. She smiled with what she hoped looked like sympathy to him. There was always the chance he was bombed-out psycho. 'I see you in here every week,' he said. 'And you an army girl. Never would have thought.' 'So what did you think?' She was surprised at the ensuing boyishness of his demeanour. His eyes avoided hers, looking to the right of her face. 'I don't judge no-one,' he said. 'Me neither,' she said. 'But I see you and I know you didn't end up with no para. Cos you ain't no mug.' Now he looked at her, his eyes yellow and tainted with blood. 'You grow up where I did, all you can think about is getting out of it,' she said. 'And then you do...they say be careful what you wish for.' 'Am...you like to get a coffee? Or you got stuff to do?' Paula had the sense of standing before a threshold that she wasn't yet ready to cross. 'Stuff to do,' she said. 'My daughter's...' For some reason, she didn't want to tell him about Charlotte's tennis lessons... 'I have to pick up my daughter. But...' 'But...' 'Maybe next week?' 'We'll see.' * '...So who's this new bloke then?' 'What bloke? No-one. None of your business.' In the back seat, Charlotte blushed and folded her arms even tighter about herself. 'Is he nice?' 'Mum!' 'Only asking...' Paula fought off a desperate urge to gossip. She hadn't girl-talked about a new man in quite a while. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed it. * 'I thought you wasn't coming.' 'Why?' Cosh shrugged. 'Just a hunch.' They had chosen a place off the High Street, an old London caff, run by Greeks. Chips with everything and tea in huge white mugs. 'These places used be everywhere,' said Paula. Cosh ordered a full English from the young waitress. 'You not eating?' 'No...oh you know what, fuck it. Can I get egg on toast?' 'I used to come here all the time,' said Cosh. 'You're not from around here, though.' 'Bermondsey. I used to work the doors around here. The Key, on the estate. You know it?' Paula shook her head. 'Nutters,' he said. 'Well out of that.' 'I heard stories. So you're out of security now?' He cocked his head. 'Do it as a favour now and then. It's a young man's game.' 'You fishing for compliments?' Cosh lifted his t-shirt, revealing a vertical gash from his breastbone to his left flank. 'Irish pikey girl with a chef's knife. Internal bleeding, septic shock...they reckoned in the ambulance I'd be dead before we got to the hospital.' 'Jesus...' The waitress returned with their orders although Paula didn't see her. All she could see was was the white eel gristle of that scar upon the olive of his abdomen. What did it feel like? When she thought about touching it, she felt the grasp of her bra around her hardening nipples, a tautening of her stomach.... He was wearing aftershave. Underneath it was a staleness more intriguing than off-putting, the scent of the body chemistry of a strange man. Seb was a book she had read so many times that she knew it back to front. She knew all of him, the strong and weak zones of his frame, how his skin varied in taste at different places, the atmosphere surrounding his body in whose weather systems, as his lover, she had immersed herself. The thought of Seb's intimacy made her feel impatient and she chased it away. New flesh, all new. Me to him as well. 'Sorry.' 'What?' She looked up at his half contrite, half smug expression. There was a glint of metal in his mouth. 'I shouldn't have laid that on you.' 'It's okay.' 'I'm Austin, by the way.' He offered her his hand. 'Call me Oz. Everyone does.' She decided to stick with Cosh. 'P...Saskia.' 'Where you living Saskia?' 'Chiswick. Nearly ten years.' 'I'm in Ealing,' he said. 'Can I make a guess? I'm probably wrong. You work in TV. Papers. Something like that.' 'Why d'you reckon?' 'I have a hunch.' 'PR,' she said. 'Close enough. Okay, me now.' 'You going to spin me, spindoctor?' 'I know you don't work for no-one. Your own boss.' 'You got to look after yourself,' he said. 'No-one else going to. That all you got?' 'But I'm right, aren't I?' Cosh pushed his plate to one side, empty now except for the peeled off skin of a fried tomato. 'How you like PR?' 'It pays the gas bill.' 'Exciting.' 'It's a slog. Like anything.' The tip of her knee touched his by accident and she snatched it away, feeling a heat at the point of contact that began to creep up the inside of her thigh. He was leaning back in his chair, looking at her with amusement. 'What?' she said, trying not to smile. 'You remind me of someone, is all.' 'A friend?' 'Yeah, a friend.' His polo shirt was black, unbuttoned at the neck, enlivened only by an alligator logo that twitched above his pectoral. Paula tried to read the tattoos staining his arms but they defied interpretation. She thought of Seb; post-modern t-shirts and three-quarter length cargos. Once a student...She pictured Cosh in a suit. Black, single-breasted. A white shirt and loafers. Her next to him, wearing a maroon dress and lots of gold, smoking the last of a spliff as he drove them towards the city along Westway. She buzzed on the prospect of the night that lay before them... 'He's a lucky man,' said Cosh. 'Who is?' 'Your man.' 'How you know I've got one?' 'You got a man. I can tell.' Paula hadn't been sure how to broach the subject of Seb; neither was she sure that she wanted to. It was best to get it out there and now that it was, she felt relieved. 'Twenty years,' she said. 'It doesn't seem real when you say it. Armed robbers don't do that.' She regretted it the minute she said it but Cosh was laughing. Now she saw the gold in his mouth, surreal against the pink of its surroundings. She focused on the absent corner of one of his upper front teeth. How long till he bites? 'I reckon it can work with the right person,' he said. 'Long as no-one take the other one for granted.' 'But that's the idea,' said Paula. 'Getting comfortable. To the point where you're so comfortable, you forget all about them.' 'It's no way to live,' he said. 'It's life.' 'Doesn't have to be.' They both went quiet. Outside a car went by, its base-bins suffering. Paula looked at her phone. 10.56. She couldn't stay much longer. 'You got to be somewhere,' he said. The delicacy of the preceding moment gave way to practicality. 'See what I meant? Life.' He took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. West City Cabs. Corporate and Airport service. 'In case you ever need a ride. My mobile's on the back. Sorry. You been hustled.' 'See? I knew I was right.' She reached for the bill but he brushed her hand away. 'Call it my bill for touting.' 'Okay.' She threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder. 'The next one's mine, then.' * 'Little wanker trying to mug me off,' said Seb. 'Wanker wasn't even born when the track was cut.' Paula couldn't decide which was more pathetic – Seb's wide-boy affectations or his lust for owning rare Italian House white labels. There was something almost haunting about the notion of a man of his age spending so many hours on a record collector's internet forum enmeshed in vacuous controversy. He had DJ'd uninspirationally in the late eighties and had dined out on the fact ever since. Kept his decks and his boxes of vinyl pristine, ready for the day that he would need them again. She put down her make-up brush and looked again at the two tops laid out next to her. If I wear the peach, I can't wear the slingbacks. But the red makes me look pregnant. Peach. 'There's lasagne from Saturday in the freezer,' she said. 'Might get an Indian. You want something for when you get in?' 'Keep me a bit of yours and some naan bread. Peach? You reckon?' He shrugged and returned to his laptop. 'It all looks good. You know that.' She was on her way to an award ceremony for high-achieving disadvantaged youth, organized by a charity set up by the Met. It was one of her first accounts and had brought in a lot of work over the years. The event had been originally scheduled for October but, in the wake of the August riots, Paula had suggested that it be brought forward. It was an opportune moment for some positive spin. All that was required of her that evening was to put in an appearance at the reception before the main event. After that, she wouldn't be missed. Her stomach growled, less from hunger than adrenalin. No-one knows, she thought. No-one has to know. This is my thing. 'What time you book the cab for?' she said. 'Six-thirty.' 'I'll be running straight into traffic.' 'It's mostly coming the other way.' 'How do I look?' 'Stunning,' he said, without turning around. She fixed the collar of her blazer, jumping as Seb's mobile rang. 'Car's downstairs,' he said. 'Oh fuck them, they're early.' He smelled of old coffee when she bent down to kiss him. 'I have to fly. Make sure she eats something. And check if she's throwing up.' Her driver – Middle Eastern, sullen – checked her out in the rear-view all the way to the hotel. His eyebrows were thick, sensuously arched above pupils that were black with misdirected rage. Fuck me or kill me? He can't make up his mind which he wants to do more. Her fingers idled in a compartment of her bag, stroking the card Cosh had given her, as if it was a fetish that would protect her from harm. * Off-duty cops were still very obviously cops. Paula looked around the function room with a despairing professional eye. Altruistic cops. Lipstick on a pig, literally. Who's actually going to buy this crap? Their smart suits only made them appear more thuggish. They looked ill at ease, as if they would much rather have been beating confessions out of their guests of honour than giving them cheques and gongs. But that was where she came in. To make wholesome the unpalatable; credible the inconceivable. She sucked the dregs from her second glass of champagne and grabbed another, already feeling the vertical take off that comes from drinking on an empty stomach. A board member of the charity collared her and introduced her to a former gang member, now a best-selling author. A couple of minutes in the presence of such a monstrous degree of self-regard had Paula making excuses. She schmoozed some broadsheet hacks before circulating among the representatives of her firm, telling them to keep their eyes and ears open. Pissed-up coppers and ethnics in the same room was a bad combination, a minefield of potential incidents. Maintain the fucking illusion. That's what I pay you for. She found a quiet corner of the lobby and took Cosh's card and her mobile from her bag. He answered on the second ring. 'You said if I was ever in need of a ride,' she said. 'Am I ever in need of a ride.' 'Where you at? Bayswater? Give me twenty minutes. I'll buzz you.' She waited for him amongst the smokers outside the front door, nervously scanning the road for a red Insignia. It was why she paid no attention to the black Merc when it pulled up. 'Saskia.' Cosh was looking back at her from the lowered driver's side window. 'I was miles away.' She climbed into the back seat, the smell of warm leather somehow of a piece with the itch agitating her innards. 'Nice motor.' 'You at the awards?' 'The awards were my idea.' 'Old Bill classing up their act.' 'Exactly.' 'Where we going then?' He looked at her in the rear view. 'That's a good question,' she said. 'We can head for Chiswick, I reckon.' 'Look at you all dolled up.' 'Lipstick on a pig.' 'That's harsh.' They drove through Notting Hill towards Shepherd's Bush. 'Busy?' 'Slack. Tuesday's the pits. It's funny, though. I had a hunch you was going to call. Don't ask why.' 'You and those hunches. Am I that easy a read?' He laughed. 'How much you have to drink?' 'Not enough. It's a shame you're at work. I could really use another one.' 'Fuck this for work. I know a place. You game?' 'I'm game.' They drove to a street in East Acton, close by Wormwood Scrubs. 'Where are we?' said Paula. The blandness of the locale put her on edge. 'Come on.' Cosh climbed out and opened her door, crooking an arm for her to take. They walked to a junction and took a right, eventually stopping before the door of a two-storey house alongside a shuttered off-licence. 'What is this place?' Cosh pressed a buzzer twice and a moment later the door clicked open. 'My gentleman's club.' He took her elbow and led her through a hallway into a dimly lit ante-room of red velvet and black vinyl walls. At the far end was a door of frosted glass next to a reception area occupied by a thick bodied African girl. 'Faith.' 'Oz, you cunt.' She came out and touched a fist to his, looking at Paula with contempt. 'This is my friend Saskia,' he said. Paula held out her hand and Faith's mouth unscrewed itself into a fake smile. 'Pleasure.' She had a pillar-box red bob and the eyes of a murderer. Paula was relieved when she stepped back behind the counter and pressed a button underneath to open the glass door. Beyond was a flight of stairs leading down to a low-ceilinged bar. Except for Paula and a brunette in the company of a mouthy boy she recognized as a disgraced footballer – he'd failed a drug test, as she recalled – the clientele was all black and all male. They found a table in a corner underneath a mosaic of a serpentine nautch girl. 'I've driven up this way so many times,' said Paula. 'This is bizarre.' 'What is?' 'This place. From outside, you'd never know it was here.' 'That's kind of the point of exclusive,' he said. 'What can I get you?' Paula watched him at the bar, talking to a series of acquaintances. He'd have been an NCO, she reckoned. Colour Sergeant, maybe. Definitely not an officer. But he would have led a section. She also knew that he had killed men. She'd seen enough of soldiers in her time to be able to tell the difference between a hawk and a dove. Men interacted via these force fields that weren't even a conscious thing. If a man had any sense, he'd know, on a gut level, that this or that bloke wasn't to be fucked with. Watching the series of physical signs in Cosh's dealings with other men, it was obvious he was one of the latter. It was a certain type of person, she thought, thorough in every aspect. Violence, sensuality...they were all passions, different expressions of the same thing. A dream of a man she'd had as a teenager. How she might transmute the base metal of his danger into something precious. And if you failed, at least you would have lived a bit in the process. Watching Cosh's return to their table, she felt an out of all proportion hunger for him, a craving at a cellular level... 'On the house.' He handed her one of the bottles of Red Stripe he was holding. 'Tony says to say hello.' 'Tony?' Cosh nodded towards the bar and the man behind it. 'He was in my section.' 'This is his place?' 'He's the manager. You don't want to know whose place this is.' 'I didn't but I do now.' 'Some West Indian gentlemen. You follow?' Paula didn't but decided not to pursue the subject. 'What outfit were you with?' 'Bootnecks.' 'I'd better not tell you what my Dad used to say about you lot.' 'What if he knew his daughter was out with one?' 'That wouldn't have happened.' 'So you never dated a soldier?' 'I was a good girl, wasn't I? Can I smoke in here?' 'Give me one of those.' She lit her cigarette with the table's candle, feeling a bold kid's pleasure in wilfulness. None of it seemed strange; that she was out with a man other than Seb; that she was in a speakeasy; that she was able to smoke in public. It was how it used to be. When you were out with your man, feeling class, oblivious to everything outside the fact of you and him. Each second a grain of sand, watched streaming in slow motion through the waist of an hourglass, bringing ever closer the inevitable moment of intimacy. Because now you were certain it was going to happen. He wanted it and so did you. There had been enough of sizing up and skirting around the margins. Now it was a matter of when rather than if. Cosh handled his cigarette inexpertly. The thought that he was only smoking to please her made her woozy with affection. 'You alright?' he said. 'Fine. They could do with some music in here, though.' 'You feel like dancing?' 'Are you asking me?' 'Come on. Bring your drink.' As they walked past the bar, Cosh gestured at Tony, who nodded. Cosh brushed the tips of her fingers with his, pushing open a set of stained glass double doors opposite the stairs where they had come in. Beyond was a small dance-floor, lit from above by a single white spotlight. A scattering of tables, chairs stacked on top, formed a rough semi-circle in front of a bar to the right while to the left, at the far end of the room, was a low bandstand, eerily unoccupied. At the periphery of her vision, Paula was aware of a flickering that she imagined were the after-traces of past hedonism. Girls wearing batty riders and gold chains owning the dance-floor, taunting the humourlessly cool boys watching on from the perimeter with the carnal shapes they threw. The gravity of the proceedings spoke of deep and insatiable appetites, leisure as a serious business. No place for the kind of dilletante Paula felt herself starting to channel. Her foot went sideways with nerves and Cosh took her arm. 'Steady.' A light went on behind the bar, followed by an antique Lover's Rock. It was a borderline cheesy set-up but it was weirdly flattering too. Paula found it easier than usual to suspend her disbelief. 'May I?' Cosh drew her towards him and placed his arms about her waist. 'You bring your friend here?' She looked up into his face. 'What friend?' 'The one I remind you of.' Her hands, which had been on his shoulders now entwined at the back of his neck. 'Long time ago,' he said. Their dance was no more than a one-two on the spot but every step brought them closer. Her breasts touched his chest as she adjusted her arms and as Cosh bent his head towards the crook of her neck. 'You smell nice.' His voice seemed to reverberate in every hollow of her body. 'Chanel.' 'Not the perfume. You. Saskia.' She felt his hand move up her back to the base of her head. 'What's it smell like?' Her voice cracked on the last syllable as his lips touched her earlobe and whatever he was on the point of saying was smothered by her mouth. Paula had always found kissing more intimate than fucking. To her, a man's whole essence was in what he could do with his mouth in those crucial first seconds of contact. Yet it was only partly to do with his being a good kisser. The drama and etiquette of lips and tongues was like an entire relationship in miniature. It told you all you needed to know – if a man was willing to communicate, if he was possessed of the self-control exclusive to good lovers, if he had a sympathy for females. (It was frightening how many blokes didn't.) Conversely, if he was a dickhead or a mummy's boy, that was all there too. It was all processed in a hurry and at a purely instinctual level but the judgements arrived at were never wrong. Cosh One thing she had learned was to expect imperfection. Every bloke alive had nasty tendencies, no matter how well some managed to disguise or sublimate them. She found things in Cosh's mouth that she didn't like – he had a dangerously high opinion of himself, for one – but decided that they were outweighed by the quality she also found there. His breath was thick and bitter like stout and just as potent. He didn't overreact at the onset of their embrace, preferring, like she did, to let it build, see where it ended up. She kept her eyes open throughout, taking him in, feature by feature – his lips, the hollowing of his cheeks, the angle at which his neck was crooked. She touched his face away from hers and ran her hands down his shirtfront. When she looked down into the diminished space between them, she saw that they were still dancing. The rhythm to which their bodies moved was no longer an external thing. Now it seemed to be generated by that same movement, but deeper than before, funkier. The bass that set the glasses behind the bar to trembling was sent down into the floor from inside them. His whole body pulsed beneath her hands. He lifted her chin with one finger and kissed her again, undoing the button of her blazer. The strangeness of him left her mouth tasting like the blood of rare meat. This time she got a bare sense of his tongue, more a reminder of its presence than the type of flailing shark attack that left her with a desperate desire to wash her face. If it wasn't sex, would a person be so full-on? Amazing how quickly people forgot their manners. That frenzied business – all that bustle and whingeing – that people saw in porn and felt obliged to imitate had always seemed to her a regression to the indignity of childhood tantrums. They called it adult but it was anything but. To be adult, you had to be patient, willing to dispense with instant gratification. The pleasure was all in the gradual letting go. And Cosh seemed to understand this as well as she did. His hands touched the tight silk about her waist like it was something precious. She could feel every groove of every finger much as she discovered a world of contrasts in the texture of his lips. Her groin rode up and down the bone of his thigh, greedy for its hardness, as he moved his hands down, one to each buttock, and lifted her towards his crotch. 'You okay?' he said. 'I'm okay.' They had been moving backwards all the while and had now reached the furniture at the edge of the dance-floor. Cosh sat into the chair he lifted down one-handed and placed his hands on her hips, spinning her around until she had her back to him. She looked straight ahead at the empty stage at the opposite end of the room, glad to be done with pretence for a while. It felt lovely to let her eyes close, to exult in his adoration of her physique, the knowledge that the arse and hips she detested could be as yet a source of wonder. Her descent into his lap took seconds but it felt like much longer. Who knew where this would end up? That the fingers that guided her down towards him had throttled Argie conscripts and cut the ears from their corpses for souvenirs made her both nauseated and intrigued. You have a killer's hand upon your thigh and it feels so right, like the best thing ever. She thought about the scar on his stomach and wondered if he was being entirely truthful about how he had come to have it. As their bodies docked, she saw herself kissing it, running her tongue along its length, her pleasure at the thought enhanced by the knowledge that anything was possible, that now she could search for hints of its origin with the meat of her own mouth. You won't fucking lie to me, sweetheart. I want to know every scrap of you. She sat forward to allow him to take off her blazer and on her return found that his mouth was there already, exactly where she had thought it would be. The move was almost too slick. She squirmed down into the hollow of his crotch, gratified by the hardness she discovered there. Nothing more disappointing, she thought, than those promising build-ups that rapidly deteriorated, ardour divorced from ability. There was more to sex to penetration but it was reassuring to know that it was on the agenda. In the distance, she heard the music fade out, leaving a silence broken only by the soft clicking of their joined mouths and the rustle of pawed fabric. Without breaking the kiss, she hoisted a leg and swung her body around until she was straddling him, humping his crotch until she found a groove of him that suited her. The exalted position occupied by her body in their arrangement excited her as did the look of seeming confusion on the face she held between her hands. -You know what you're doing to me? said his expression. The chair creaked beneath them, one leg screaming against the stone floor as their fervour jerked them backwards. Cosh kissed her breast through the silk of her top, his hands huge upon the cheeks of her arse, meeting the force of its agitation with a countervailing pressure that she could already see as half-moons of bruises upon her flanks. She unbuttoned his shirt, surprised at the deftness of her fingers, and after a brief glance behind her, shrugged the straps of her top from either of her shoulders. As she pushed apart the sides of his shirt, she felt the trickle of silk over her breasts and down her stomach, flowing down her body before pooling at her waist. His flesh, far from being black, was the colour of expensive leather, that of a pair of handmade boots she had bought in Florence. When she had put them on for the first time she had been thrilled by the sense of their former vitality, the quickness of the beast from whose hide the material had been fashioned still evident in their snugness about her calves. Cosh was the same shade of brown but there was nothing illusory about the vigour of his flesh. He snatched at one bra-covered nipple with her teeth and she pinched both of his in retaliation. It was a moment when things could have gone wrong. Paula felt the danger of the situation becoming distinct from the passion that had concealed it up to that point. Yet no sooner had it become apparent than it was gone. His hand ran up through her hair to envelope the back of her head, pushing her forward on to his contrite mouth. -I'm sorry. -No, I am. The back and forth passed from his tongue to hers and back again, petering out eventually in a reinvigorated ardour that was the sweetness of lovers reconciled. Cosh unclipped her bra and touched her breasts together, kissing both nipples while she ran her hands over his chest, trying to recall if she had ever touched anything as hard as his breastbone or as soft as the flesh that held the scar in its midst. The tips of two of her fingers traced its length, jerking it off like a cock. In her fever, she imagined it was becoming swollen like one and became hungry for the touch of the real thing. She followed the scar to the waistband of his jeans, shifting back her body to allow her to mould the denim about the slab of his cock. Its texture, tangible even through the heavy fabric, filled her mouth with saliva. Size did nothing for her. It was all about how hard a man could get, whatever his dimensions. Given the choice between a rock-hard pencil dick and the incomplete nature of erection that had been her experience of the well endowed, Paula would have always opted for the former. Twelve inches might have looked impressive but it was called a tool for a reason. There was no point in trying to plough a furrow with a length of garden hose. And though she was told it had nothing to do with her, she always took it personally when a man couldn't get it up fully. I'm giving you permission to be inside of me and that's your response? What the fuck is your problem? There was no danger of any of that with Cosh. And even though she was enjoying his mouth upon her nipples and the feel of his bared flesh against hers, it was trifling in comparison to the desperate absence she felt between her thighs, a gap that only he could fill. She opened the button of his jeans and unzipped him, then stood up, turning her back to him again, bending her body forward slightly to show her arse at its best as he pulled her slacks down over her hips. Both his hand and hers reached between her legs at the same time, his from the rear, hers from the front, making contact upon the damp facing of her thong. He lifted the string from the crack of her arse and snapped it aside, his fingers reckoning the weight of her pelvis, guided by hers towards the places where she needed to be touched. 'There...' It sounded more like a plea. She hadn't realized how wet she was until she heard the slick of his fingers upon her. The slightest pressure was enough to make her lips part in greeting, its rhythm along the length of her reproduced in that she felt moving the bones of her hips. Her hand reached down blindly and found his cock at the first attempt. She drew him out and rubbed the blunt tip against the flesh of her arse, her thigh muscles tightening as she felt the the tip of a finger breach the mouth of her vagina. Work that fucking bone...Cosh knew what he was doing. Another fingertip joined in the coaxing at the underside of her pubis and she knew that she wouldn't need much more. But she wanted to have his cock inside her when she came. 'Do you...?' 'Wait.' Paula heard him searching in his jacket and then the rip of foil. Falling to her knees, she took the rubber from him, breathing hard as she looked upon the bliss-struck anguish of his face. His cock was ripped, a violent bruise from head to root. The lips she touched to it before rolling it over in latex were guided as much by a maternal impulse to kiss it better as they were by lust. His shirt fell from his shoulders when he took her arms and helped her up, falling to the ground in the dim light to join her discarded top in an embrace that anticipated the contours their own would take. She straddled his thighs, reaching down for his cock, now at ground zero beneath her crosshairs. His tongue licked along her stomach and up to her breast as she eased her body down on to his, wincing as the initial smart of penetration and her distaste for the feel of condoms gave way to the ecstasy of the stretch. She kissed him, her knuckles skull white upon the curved back of the chair. Cosh held her hips steady, raising his body slightly to give her the bare tip of his cock, his eyes imploring her to help him out. Their bodies hit a rhythm, an alternate rise and fall that would have appeared negligible to an onlooker. But it doesn't need to be dramatic, she thought. Only a touch. He knows it as well as I do. She felt the question mark forming somewhere deep inside her, coiling about her womb like a feather boa. Coming was a mass of contradictions – density and weightlessness, control and impotence, tension and unravelling. She felt them all at once as Cosh pushed a fraction deeper into her vagina with a showbiz buck of the hips and she greeted the augmented stretch of her insides with a powerful grip and release. Her pussy could be a moody cow if she felt herself getting the wrong sort of attention. A clumsy touch, a lack of respect...blokes, hardwired to delivery rather than receipt, couldn't possibly understand. To them it was a simple matter of jamming it into a hole, one that Paula suspected made a lot of them a bit squeamish, in spite of their avowals of its beauty. They only acknowledged the absence they plumbed, unable (how could it be otherwise?) to appreciate its dual nature as both a lack and a presence, a conscious, physical part of a woman's body. Perhaps it wasn't surprising, given the poor bitch's history of being constantly misunderstood, that she had developed issues. The best you could hope for was a degree of empathy. All men wanted to get it in but luckily there were a few who took care to be mindful of their surroundings. 'Be good to me...' she said. The rhythm modulated, rumba to salsa. Paula nipped at the underside of his earlobe as his hands slipped underneath her arse, his shoulders tightening as he took the full weight of her. She increased the friction upon his cock, feeling the pleasure of clawing at an itch with bloody nails. The irritation ran deep, through muscle and blood and into the core of her bones until it seemed that the only thing to bring relief would be the turning inside out she felt herself undergoing. Cosh buried himself to the root in her, the muscle of his pelvis working hard to keep his cock inside her as her contracting vagina made to heave him out. She transmitted the critical tension that petrified her body to his via the fingertips that gouged the flesh of his back. Half blind, she saw him laughing, although not entirely with joy. Her climax was a monster. You couldn't blame a man for being a bit intimidated. She came again as he kissed her, relishing the change in the balance of power. He was strong but at that moment, she was stronger. She felt a trace of malice that devolved into pity and finally into the same heatwave of affection she had felt earlier when watching him return from the bar. He was her man. You got one or two in an otherwise exasperating lifetime and you cherished every second you spent with them, all the good things that only your man could make you feel. Sex was just one part of it. To trust somebody absolutely and to know that he felt the same way about you could be as much, if not more, of a pleasure. Cosh became tense beneath her restless haunches, the subtle realignment she felt in his axis telling her that his coming was imminent. Fuck the fucking rubber, she thought. Her annoyance was tinged with self-pity, so great was her desire to feel the full impact of his coming inside her, every flicker of heat, every spasm of propulsion. But she would make him come anyway. She wanted him to. Her hands cupped his face and she breathed upon his mouth as she began to buck her hips, riding the length of him with slow and thorough undulation. There was no trace left of the slow burn of their initial contact. This was the meat and guts of fucking, the physical expression of raw hunger. Paula bobbed her head in affirmation, goading the animal dilation she saw in his pupils with her own version of the same thing. She smelled the burning sugar of cane fields set ablaze above the scent of a thing she couldn't put a name to, but which made her think of wild cats and the compulsion to fuck amidst the rotten tarmac and pineapple weed of a lane at the rear of a row of council houses. Meanwhile, Seb typed out a put-down to a rhythmical ignoramus; Charlotte flushed hot and cold in the course of a series of increasingly salacious IM's; and beneath the earth of East Acton, Paula kissed her lover as he came... She wasn't sure which of them started laughing first. Cosh's laugh was Sid James dirty, impossible to resist. Her eyes streamed and she had to wrap her legs around him to prevent herself falling to the ground, a prospect which made her even more hysterical. It was beautiful and ridiculous. She tried to stay serious as they kissed but could only manage a few seconds before her mouth exploded away from his and they were both off again, worse than before. 'Saskia...' The falsehood hung in the air. It sobered her up. How could she lie to him now? 'My name's Paula,' she said. 'I lied to you. I don't know why. I'm sorry.' 'It don't matter. Everyone lies to everyone. I know who you are. It don't matter what you call yourself.' Her cheek found the crook of his neck and their bodies became still. 'Paula.' He laughed. 'Pleased to meet you. Actually, it figures. You look like Paula.' 'What's she look like?' 'You looked sad. When I used to see you.' 'I didn't think you were looking.' 'It's hard not to. You should know that.' She heard the murmur of voices from beyond the double doors. 'Do they know what we're doing in here?' she said. 'We're dancing. You said you wanted to dance.' 'I did. And I do.' * The cab pulled away and Paula looked at her phone. 8.40. She was only forty minutes late. Inside the restaurant, Saskia was drunk already, having come straight from an exhibition opening. Red wine. She had a rim around her mouth. It was all over with Patrick, apparently. 'Patrick's a cunt,' said Saskia. 'You do something to your hair? You look different. Pretty.' Paula winced and made shush motions, noticing Robin looking over at them in concern. 'I got highlights. Why don't you have some water?' Paula tried to keep the conversation unsensational but all roads eventually led back to Patrick. 'We stick to our own, babes.' Saskia nodded definitively. 'That's the way God intended.' "Intended" came out with a train of superfluous d's. Halfway through her starter, she started to cry. 'Don't.' Paula touched her hand, conscious of the swish of disapproving linen on every side. Fuck them... 'Next time we should go somewhere else,' she said. 'I hate this place,' said Saskia. 'I hate my life.' You have Matt. The boys. They love you. It's not all bad.' 'I just want to be happy..'. Saskia's face crumpled in anguish. Give it some time and they'd be right back at this point. Another bloke, another catastrophe, another public meltdown. Paula took her hand. 'Let's get out of here,' she said. When the cab arrived, the driver took one look at Saskia and refused to take them. 'She won't get sick, I promise,' said Paula. 'She'll pass out. She always does.' 'On your head,' he said. He took the extra score she offered him. 'Where to?' 'Richmond. Then back to Chiswick.' Saskia was asleep before they reached the Hammersmith flyover, her head lolling against Paula's upper arm. Paula made several attempts to move it but gave up in the end and let it stay where it was. She put her arm around Saskia's shoulders, looking down at the the city below them as they headed west. It was hard to be angry with her. She brought all that grief on herself and, being Saskia, would continue to do so. But maybe, some day, she'd find the thing she was after; that raw, transfiguring moment that made a lifetime of striving and disappointment worthwhile. If it hadn't been for Saskia, would she have taken that step herself? Matt was aghast but resigned when he saw what fetched up on his doorstep. 'I'd love to stay but I can't,' said Paula. She transferred Saskia from her shoulder to his. 'The meter's running. Give the boys a hug from me.' Back in the cab again she said, 'Scratch Chiswick. Ealing Broadway station.' Now that the soiling threat had receded, her driver softened. He started an entirely predictable monologue about the riots. Shoot to kill. Throw away the key. Conscription. Send the fucking toerags to Afghanistan...Paula made assenting noises as her thumb skittered about the screen of her phone but she was only half listening. He was an army fetishist, like nearly every other bloke was that year. Worse than Eyeties, her Dad used to say. All mouth and no bottle. She finished her message and took her compact from her bag, dropping it when her phone buzzed sooner than she had expected. He was on his way back from Heathrow. Might be held up. No matter. She'd wait. A lone gypsy woman was begging at the railings in front of the station. Paula threw her a pound coin to preempt hassle and went to wait at the bus stop. Ealing was post-traumatic calm but she didn't buy it. The physical damage had been repaired but there were still traces – a semi-effaced scorch mark in the road, splinters of broken glass in the debris at her feet. Nearly all of the Clockwork Orange type stuff that had been reported during the riots had turned out to be fantasy but it said a lot about a certain type of person and their worst fears. She had been prepared to kill that Monday night had anyone tried to get into the house where they were watching TV and monitoring Twitter feeds in disbelief. Cosh "People are being attacked in their homes...dragged from their tables at restaurants and mugged..." She saw them, the mobs of London, swarming up from the Broadway and down across Haven Green, not just this year's vintage either but anti-Poll Tax crusties, kids from Broadwater Farm and Brixton, Teds and West Indians in porkpie hats, communists and blackshirts carrying table legs, Suffragettes with meat cleavers, anti-papists and subjects of King Mob, drunken jew killers with the blessing of the newly crowned Richard... Paula watched them come closer until she was surrounded but she remained calm. There was nothing to fear any more. It was only London. It was part of who she was. The mob swallowed her up and she took her place in its ranks. Away to her left, a black Merc was granted passage by the horde and took the roundabout at the top of the green. Its headlights dipped and resurged as it approached, solemn as a hearse in the midst of a carnival. Paula saw the mob melt away. Its transitory fury was a poor relation of the kind of passion that would truly endure. Hate would always sicken and die on its own virulence. Love was made of sterner stuff. The car pulled up in front of her. She tossed away her cigarette and climbed in.