Tweet
The man in the peaked cap was sure that he wasn’t imagining it: his hearing seemed ever more acute. He could pick her voice out perfectly through the din coming from behind the screen that was to his left. The clink of the glasses, the noise from the street as the main doors opened, the hiss of the gas lamps and a dozen other conversations all competed for his attention but he easily held the thread of her flirtatious exchanges.
He knew he’d seen her in here previously. She’d been the one with the pale, pointed face; the one who had waved the hatpin and said that she feared no one. Laughing and profaning The Lord while her bosom shook with laughter. The others had looked at her and drawn courage and gone about their filthy evil business. That night she had dressed in purple, trimmed with velvet. Tonight – he did not know.
Pretty lips, sweeter than cherry or plum,
Always look smiling, and never look glum,
Seem to say “Come away, kissy, come, come,”
Neumy neum, neumy neum, neum, neumy neum.
She was singing now, raucous, suggestive and exaggerating the kisses. A male voice joined in, hesitant and quiet. The man in the cap almost shouted for them to stop as he imagined them, close, petting. His hands on her. Why did they want to sing? The last one had been singing…
He shivered and fumbled on the table for his pint of Porter. Gently, slowly, his hand located the glass, bumping against it and slopping some of the ale. With even greater care he closed first one hand, then the other around the glass. Since the accident he had little feeling in his fingers so he had to concentrate hard to make sure he was holding things properly. At last he drank a deep draught of the ale.
In that moment he heard them depart. “Cheerio Vi. I’ll be back when I’ve cheered ‘im up a bit.” Then a flurry of fabric, the smell of a cheap cigar and a blast of icy cold from the street.
He nearly dropped the glass as he replaced it, snorting in frustration. Not long ago he would have followed and saved her soul from damnation! The tears came to his eyes and he laid his head back against the settle. The pain was excruciating as the burns had damaged his tear ducts.
Biting on his lower lip, he began thinking it through. There must be a way. She was a whore. It must be possible to take her to a room, lock it… Then what? His remaining vision was limited to shadowy, hellish shapes. He always strangled first, to subdue, so maybe...
“There you are mate, that’s from a few of us at the Bar.”
The voice was loud in his ear, the clunk of the new glass on the table was completely unexpected and the man in the peaked cap started nervously.
“Steady now. I didn’t mean to startle you, like. It’s just that we heard about the accident with the yellow stuff at Bryant’s and… Well you know, we saw the burns. Look, just sit back and drink your pint. We wanted you to know that everyone round here is watching out for you now. Strange really: how we’d never noticed you before. You kept yourself pretty much to yourself though! No need for any thanks – someone will always be around to keep an eye out.”
As the Samaritan moved away Jack cleared the tears from his scarred face with the back of a gnarled right hand and sobbed as he realised that there was nothing left for him now.
(Pretty Lips – lyric by Arthur Lloyd. Contemporary music hall song.)
He knew he’d seen her in here previously. She’d been the one with the pale, pointed face; the one who had waved the hatpin and said that she feared no one. Laughing and profaning The Lord while her bosom shook with laughter. The others had looked at her and drawn courage and gone about their filthy evil business. That night she had dressed in purple, trimmed with velvet. Tonight – he did not know.
Pretty lips, sweeter than cherry or plum,
Always look smiling, and never look glum,
Seem to say “Come away, kissy, come, come,”
Neumy neum, neumy neum, neum, neumy neum.
She was singing now, raucous, suggestive and exaggerating the kisses. A male voice joined in, hesitant and quiet. The man in the cap almost shouted for them to stop as he imagined them, close, petting. His hands on her. Why did they want to sing? The last one had been singing…
He shivered and fumbled on the table for his pint of Porter. Gently, slowly, his hand located the glass, bumping against it and slopping some of the ale. With even greater care he closed first one hand, then the other around the glass. Since the accident he had little feeling in his fingers so he had to concentrate hard to make sure he was holding things properly. At last he drank a deep draught of the ale.
In that moment he heard them depart. “Cheerio Vi. I’ll be back when I’ve cheered ‘im up a bit.” Then a flurry of fabric, the smell of a cheap cigar and a blast of icy cold from the street.
He nearly dropped the glass as he replaced it, snorting in frustration. Not long ago he would have followed and saved her soul from damnation! The tears came to his eyes and he laid his head back against the settle. The pain was excruciating as the burns had damaged his tear ducts.
Biting on his lower lip, he began thinking it through. There must be a way. She was a whore. It must be possible to take her to a room, lock it… Then what? His remaining vision was limited to shadowy, hellish shapes. He always strangled first, to subdue, so maybe...
“There you are mate, that’s from a few of us at the Bar.”
The voice was loud in his ear, the clunk of the new glass on the table was completely unexpected and the man in the peaked cap started nervously.
“Steady now. I didn’t mean to startle you, like. It’s just that we heard about the accident with the yellow stuff at Bryant’s and… Well you know, we saw the burns. Look, just sit back and drink your pint. We wanted you to know that everyone round here is watching out for you now. Strange really: how we’d never noticed you before. You kept yourself pretty much to yourself though! No need for any thanks – someone will always be around to keep an eye out.”
As the Samaritan moved away Jack cleared the tears from his scarred face with the back of a gnarled right hand and sobbed as he realised that there was nothing left for him now.
(Pretty Lips – lyric by Arthur Lloyd. Contemporary music hall song.)
Comment