Tooth & Nail

He reached down the front of his trousers and drew out his wallet. The warning from Laine and the knowledge that he was on uncharted ground, had been enough to persuade Rebus that he should hide his wallet. Not to save him from muggers, no. So that no one would find his ID. It was bad enough being a stranger in this place, but being a copper . . . . So he had hidden the wallet, ID and all, down the front of his underpants, tucked into the elasticated waistband. He slipped it back there now. After, all, he was not yet clear of Churchill Estate. The night might turn out to be a long one.

He. pulled open the door and headed back to his table.

The brandy was working. His head was numb, his limbs pleasantly flexible.

`You all right there, Jock?'

He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. `I'm all right. Oh yes, I'm quite all right.'

`Great. By the way, this one's from Harry at the bar.'

After she has posted the letter, she feels a lot better. She does some work, but soon begins to twitch inside. It's like feeding a habit now. But it's also an art form. Art? Fuck art. So unbecoming in a man. So art unbecoming fuck in a man. So fuck a man in unbecoming art. They used to quarrel, squabble, argue all the time. No, that's not true. She remembers it that way but it wasn't that way. For a while it was, but then they just stopped communicating altogether. Her mother. Her father. Mother, strong, domineering, determined to be a great painters a great watercolourist. Every day busy at an easel, ignoring her child who needed her, who would creep into the studio and sit quietly in a corner, crouched, trying .not to be noticed. If noticed, she would be sent out of the room fiercely, red hot tears streaming down her face.

Unknown

`I never wanted you!' her mother would screech. `You were an accident! Why can't you be a proper little girl?'

Run, run, run. Out of the studio and down the stairs, through the morning room, and out of the doors. Father, quiet, innocuous, cultured, civilised. father. Reading the newspapers in the back garden, one trousered leg crossed over the other as he reclined in his deckchair.

`And how's my little sweet this morning?'

`Mummy shouted at me.'

`Did she? I'm sure she didn't mean anything. She's a bit crochety when she's painting, isn't she? Come and sit here on my lap, you can help me read the news.'

Nobody visited, nobody came. No family, no friends. At first she went to school, but then they kept her at home, educating her themselves. It was all the rage with a certain section of a certain class. Her father had been left money by a great aunt. Enough money for a comfortable life, enough to keep the wolf from the door. He pretended to be a scholar. But then his painstakingly researched essays started to be rejected and he saw himself for what he was. The arguments' grew worse. Grew physical.

`Just leave me alone will you? My art's what matters to me, not you.'

'Art? Fuck art!'

"How dare you!'

A dull, solid thump. A blow of some kind. From anywhere in the house she could hear them, anywhere but the attic. But she daren't go to the attic. That was where . . . Well, she just couldn't.

`I'm a boy,' she whispered to herself, hiding beneath her bed. `I'm a boy, I'm a boy, I'm a boy.'

`Sweetness, where are you?' His voice, all sugar and summery. Like a slide-projector show. Like an afternoon car ride.

They said, the Wolfman was homosexual. It wasn't true. They said they'd caught him. She almost whooped when she read it. Wrote them a letter and posted it. See what they'd make of that! Let them find her, she didn't care. He and she didn't care. But he cared that she was taking over his ? HYPERLINK “http://mind.as/”??mind as? well as his body.

Sweetness . . . Oranges and lemons say the bells of . . .

So unbecoming in a man. Long nosehairs, her mother had been talking about Daddy's nosehairs Long nosehairs, Johnny, are so unbecoming in a man. Why did she remember that utterance above all others? ‘Long. Nose. Hairs. So. Unbecoming. In. A. Man. Johnny.’

Daddy's name: Johnny.

Her father, who had sworn at her mother. Fuck art. Fuck was the dirtiest word there was. At school it had been whispered, a magic word, a word to conjure up demons and secrets.

And she's on the streets now, although she knows that really she should do something about the Butcher's' Gallery. It needs cleaning badly. There are torn canvases everywhere. Torn and spattered. It doesn't matter: nobody visits. No family, no friends.

So she finds another one. This one's stupid. `As long as you're not the Wolfman,' she says with a laugh. The Wolfman laughs too. He? She? It doesn't matter now. He and she are one and the same. The wound has healed. He, feels whole, feels complete. It is not a good feeling. It is a bad feeling. But it can be forgotten for a moment.

Back in his house.

`Some gaff you've got here,' she says. He smiles, takes her coat and hangs it up. `Bit of a smell though. You haven't got a gas leak, have you?'