We try to walk quietly along the narrow gap between Bishopscourt and the fence but the coarse gravel crunches under our feet. Thick creeper growing up the wall brushes at my face. The thorns had scratched Felix's bare legs as he climbed out the window. I was protected by my habit, which, for my exile, I wear over my naked body. I am aware of dried ejaculant across my belly. I hold my sandals. Felix never wears shoes. He has hard, calloused feet, which I felt last night.

		Section 16 Phil Lecks [extract] Why do you ask? I suppose I’d have to say two pieces of toast and a coffee and an orange juice. Normally, nothing. You don’t spread the butter… It’s in a square, yellow butterbox. There’s a blue milk jug and red salt and pepper quakers. One set per table. It’s very pretty with the yawning sun through the high, long, barred windows. Place settings in the market place with mawing mouths knocking to grab their dinner. I used to wait when I was invisible. No, it’s true. I used to wait… for four essential food groups to fall off barrows, boxes, baskets. One day I had three potatoes, one leek, four onions, one rockmelon (bruised) and an opened bag of smoked almonds. No, it isn’t stealing: buyer beware, falling food. Oh, that’s right. You don’t spread the butter all the way to the edge. Economies of scale. Budgeting, planning for the future. The things my mother taught me. We were so poor we had to let our father go. We were woken one night by a crack and a splatter. Her brain had burst. Yes. It was shocking. She made love every night to the receipts, accounts, ledgers and the adding machine. It all added up. My brother swept up the floor with a green dustpan and broom, and I rang the boys in blue. It wasn’t evidence. It was what she wanted. Don’t try and trick me. I have many memories in my widow’s weeds. The dark hurts my eyes. I have to electrify. Now. There are powers. The cutlery box is locked. The cutlery is counted: each shiny, cold, steel piece. I am thinking. I am planning. Don’t doubt it. I will pass. Even this interview. Entrevue. To see each other… see between each other. Face to face. They watch when I shit. The little square window is clean and shiny every day. They smile and watch. I squat and smile back. Their eyes are like bees: the bees knees. But I know them. The pyjama people watch. I know them. I have the gift. I swim into their minds and slush through their words. I stack it all up in my computer and index, codex, reflex. I watch the clock. Every half hour we taggle to a locked cupboard on the wall. Steel. They open it and give us a smoke. If I stretch my brain and squint I can make the hands do what I want and get a smoke when I want. I’d have to say that is for certain. There’s a fat Italian girl. She says: I want to get out. I want my family. I want to die. I thought she was here for comic relief. So I laughed. Until I saw her burn her tit with a cigarette. She comes to me at night and screams rape in the morning. I know the doors are locked. There is a bed. And white plaster and grey lino and a single globe and a little square window in the locked door. They watch but I know what’s on their minds. I have my exercises. I do not ignore my peril. Watch me pissing in the dunny? I can still fill up my cupped hand with piss to drink and keep the circle. No pain, no gain, no rain, no shame. I just know. I am not stupid. I know. I have the synthesis. Synthesis. What for fuckhead? Tell you? What about the questions not asked and the answers not given? You wouldn’t even get it. I wouldn’t even get you to wipe my sweet rose smelling arse! Taste and see. Riddle me riddle me ree. Cheap suits. See? They stopped me speaking. They took away my pencil. Jerks jerk. You see I have seen tiled confessionals streaked with rivers of dry cum. The inheritance of pain is glory. Don’t talk to me about nursery rhymes. I have gone beyond the city walls and smelt funeral pyres, dung hills and corpses without pennies. Alright. If you want to. To reveal, conceal, heal. I’ve committed it to memory anyway. But I’ve posted it to the Queen, the Pope and the Lord Mayor and I talked about it with the homeless man outside the newsagents. Contents listing £3.00
	Home /\/ Reading room /\/ About Total Cardboard /\/ Bookcover design gallery

We try to walk quietly along the narrow gap between Bishopscourt and the fence but the coarse gravel crunches under our feet. Thick creeper growing up the wall brushes at my face. The thorns had scratched Felix's bare legs as he climbed out the window. I was protected by my habit, which, for my exile, I wear over my naked body. I am aware of dried ejaculant across my belly. I hold my sandals. Felix never wears shoes. He has hard, calloused feet, which I felt last night. ‘I liked the monkey.' I put a finger to my lips. We aren't clear yet. I imagine the Bishop snoring in his night-shirt and dreaming of Armagnac and chocolates or, perhaps, the place of the skull. The staff are already up, probably having a smoke in the wash house. But they see nothing. We are heading for the front gate. It is just before dawn. That cold, grey pause when objects are indeterminately drawn and darkling fears mingle with hope. I know Felix, though. Curly, black hair and sturdy, tanned legs and fine hair upon his cheeks. He's enjoying the adventure. He tip-toes, as if in a pantomime, as we draw near to the front of the house. No-one had noticed him in the crowd last night. I'm glad he came. How did he get invited? There had been a fête to celebrate the Feast of the Most Precious Blood. He liked the monkey because it wore a matelot's cap and smock and played a red piano accordion. It could also genuflect and cross itself at the appropriate moments during the Mass. Felix said he might like to learn to do that too. He grasps my hand and we dash across the Long Lawn. There have been morning showers upon the grass. We leave our doubled marks on crushed blades and pass quickly through the honey suckle arbour and enter the Garden of Contemplation. It is enclosed by tall boxhedges on three sides, still dripping with rain, and a stone wall at the far end. I see the oak door, solid, closed in the middle of the wall. It is never locked. The first evanescent glimmerings of sunrise quicken above the wall. I am eager to move on. ‘Let's stay here a while. I like it here.' He picks up a peacock feather and I sit on a marble bench to put my sandals on. Felix kneels on the flagstone surrounding the pool and tries to make out his reflection in the dark water. He spits in it. He strolls between the trestles covered in sodden white linen, marveling at the remains of the fête. Silver trays and crystal bowls laden with untouched pineapples, pomegranates, peaches and plums. The sweet smell of early putrefaction has not been washed away. He drinks claret from a forgotten glass and selects a pomegranate. He sits beside me, admiring the waxen fruit. He splits it open and offers me half. Daintily he picks out some crimson seeds, one by one, to eat. Replete, he places the unseeded hemisphere on the gravel and stamps on it. His foot is sticky red. He stares at the smashed fruit, bewildered. I feel anxious because She will arrive soon and I am not prepared. I am expected in chapel for Matins. I wonder what Felix normally does at this time of day? Roll over and eat chocolate donuts? Fondle himself? I will soon find out. Felix stretches and places his hands behind his neck. I kiss him under the arm and taste him. ‘You haven't forgotten, have you?' I plead. ‘I'm sorry. Just enjoying the garden.' He rests his head on my shoulder. Whisper. ‘I love you.' The promise is fulfilled. The Lady walks through the arbour and takes her seat on a marble bench. She wears a coronet of white rosebuds. She waits. We have to go. I dare not look at her as we make for the gate. Felix waves cheerily good-bye. I have my hand on the iron handle. I am about to finally leap over the wall. ‘Please. Before we go. What is your name?' I couldn't say. I hear slow, solemn hoof beats on the gravel behind me. My name was sprinkled on my infant forehead with the royal waters. Perhaps, Adam? The denizens of hell have no name. I look back. The Unicorn with the braided mane appears in the Garden and, tenderly, lowers his glistening horn into the lap of the Lady. Chantacleer crows. * * * ‘Bollocks. Absolute bollocks. What were you thinking?' says Bart. I put the uni paper down on the desk. He continues folding the Queer Soc newsletters. I look out the window, across the Quad. The window is grimy. Smeared, smoky, grey. I pause. Aware of sharp pubic cramp. Pituitary FSH. Secretion of estrogen. Corpus Luteum. Bloody time. ‘Publish and be damned? Anyway. It's about human nature.' He stops folding, looks straight at me. Patient, certain, emphatic. ‘You know there's no such thing, Eva.' Hmm. The window is really dirty. I smile to myself. Now I see through a glass darkly… I put the paper into my satchel. ‘Don't you want to know how it ends? Adam pays Felix and grabs a coffee and a taxi? No? No. They take a room in a boarding house with plastic roses on the table and a Sacred Heart print on the wall. Adam turns into an alcoholic, tedious insurance clerk and Felix batters him to death.' Get up. Go.