Chapter 12 ~ To The Depths
March 23, 2010
She was on the street corner. Beyond her district; out of her depth.
This rich-bitch, slumming it, spending time in the ghetto.
And I was hurting. Needing. Wanting.
Shaking.
She’s had that look about her, an air of arrogance that only a pampered, preened princess can perpetuate. It was down to her eyes, the way she looked about herself; sneer of disgust shallow beneath her lipstick grin. Black dress, classic; chiffon wrap. Mid-heel shoes under which she would grind any poor sap who dared to look at her the wrong way, stabbing their eyes with high-cost heels.
Beautiful, of course, fucking beautiful. Out of reach, out of this world.
In the alleyway alongside a deli, I shivered in the shadows.
The street was calm. Quiet. Like a sniper, like a landmine, like hidden memories.
Three weeks on the street, a week after the park, a week after I had dreamed a murder that really happened. His slashed throat, bloody and dripping; carousels twirling crimson. I hadn’t reached the point of returning to my parents by then, although in my heart of hearts I knew it was close; I woke up thinking about it most days. The climb-down, the humble pie.
But on that evening, I was still refused to go to them on bended knee, even though I had no money.
I had no money.
Which meant I had no fix. Which meant I was quaking in the alleyway, feeling the tremors vibrate through my arms and legs, deep within the core of the bones. My joints ached with premature arthritis, elbows and knees throbbing like toothache.
And she’d just wandered around the corner.
Like an billboard. Open for business.
Rich pickings.
What the hell was she doing down here? She had mid-town written all up and down. Hung all over her in couture and trinkets.
Rich pickings.
She looked up and down the street, seeking out something. A lover? A cab?
A black guy walked past the mouth of the alley, burgeoning afro held down by headphones, rap music chattering loud enough for me to hear from my nest of shadows. As he pulled level with the deli, he noticed her on the corner. His hands were at his ears within a second, ripping off his headphones and looping them round his neck, his hair springing back upright. He turned to her, made some gesture with his hand that I couldn’t see.
“Daaamn, woman!” he shouted, “but ain’t you fine?”
She ignored him, maintaining her gaze, staring up the street.
He took a step forward.
“Hey! You hear me?”
Still she blanked him.
He held both hands out, palms up in conciliation.
“Oh I’m sorry,” he pleaded, “I’m not good enough to talk wit you? Am I too African for your fine bones?”
And now she turned to him, spearing him with a gaze that…
A childhood memory hit me so hard that I felt paralyzed for a moment.
Martin Sanderson sat on the floor, pinioned by that same look; Jamie.
The dust of the storeroom whirling about his shame.
The black guy, shot down, walked into the deli without another word; she headed in the other direction, similarly silent, towards the East River, the end of the street dark where open sky replaced foreground lights and crossing signs, Brooklyn beyond.
Me, trembling, hungry for some calm, shadowing her at twenty paces.
Wondering how I had come to this intention.
Knowing how I had come to this intention.
Unwilling to eat that humble pie just yet. No climb-down. Regardless of where my pride was willing to force me to go.
* * *
“Well?”
Jamie looked at him. Looked through him.
For a moment, he found that words didn’t want to come. More used to being the bon vivant at any party, recounting his youth and stories of unbridled passion, daring-do, chivalry and charm, this time Martin didn’t know where to start.
He sat down on a large drum of scenery paint, rubbing his chin and sighing.
Jamie just stared at him. They had ten minutes until the next scene would be shot and she really needed to go to the toilet. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to meet him here. But he’d said it was important. That they had to talk. So she’d come. And now he was just sitting there.
She didn’t have time for his theatrics. None of them did.
They were all tired from years of pandering to his ageing sensitivity; creeping senility. Five long years.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Martin, will you just spit it out!”
“I think we should ask for more money,” he whispered.
“What?”
“A raise,” he looked at her now, or at least in her direction, still not meeting her eyes, “we all deserve it.”
No we don’t, she thought, recalling her agent’s advice, I’m the star of this show and I’m getting a pretty good deal already. You’re the one who’s so drunk most of the time that he doesn’t know how to negotiate a reliable contract. Or can’t get an agent interested enough to take care of it in the meantime.
She also knew it wasn’t what he’d wanted to say.
“Is that what you asked me here for?” she scoffed, “a conversation about your rate of pay? Why don’t you ask me about the bloody weather while you’re at it? Is that what you wanted me here for?”
He looked back at the floor and shook his head.
No, she thought, it bloody well isn’t, is it?
Because she knew exactly what he wanted.
Exactly.
And she wanted to rub the salt deep into his wounds. Beyond compassion. Far beyond.
She took a couple of steps towards him and touched the tips of her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head up until it was level with her chest.
“Is it these?” she asked, knowing the answer already, playing her own game now, “the other night?”
Tears had begun to form in the corners of his eyes.
He nodded.
“You still want to touch them?”
He nodded again, a single drop of water running down his cheek.
“To stroke them?”
Gratitude flirted with his mouth, twisting it into a grimace she tried to ignore.
“To touch me?” she continued.
Her other hand came up from her side and she began to stroke upward from her left hip, towards her breast. His eyes followed its movement; hypnotized.
“Like this?”
He nodded frantically.
She licked her lips hard enough to make sure he would be able to hear it. Leant towards him slightly, so that her perfume would begin to fill the space between them.
Remembering the touch of his hands on her at the party, the fun of flirting, of kissing and knowing it was going no further, of feeling his old man’s erection through the material of his trousers, pressing against her hip while he tried to remember what it was to be a young teenager again. His tweed trousers and button down shirt.
Remembered telling him: “Be patient, take your time.”
Remembered breathing in his face, Bacardi and Coke vaporising between them, overcoming the waves of scotch coming off him.
Remembered telling him: “Maybe later tonight, eh?”
And then leaving the party as soon as she could find her coat.
“Oh Jamie,” he said now on a breath, moving a little; paint can rattling on the cement floor of the storeroom.
Her hand continued its meandering journey up her ribs, counting them one by one with her first two fingers. Sanderson counting along with her, transfixed.
Her thumb brushed the underside of her breast and she sighed slightly, lips parting, tongue wetting them again.
“Is that good?” she asked him, “is it?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“It feels good,” she continued, voice getting quieter, almost whispering, “it’s really good. Really…”
Her hand moved over the swell and she squeezed slightly, crumpling the material of her t-shirt.
“Oh,” she sighed.
“Yes,” he echoed.
Her right hand moved so quickly that it surprised them both, grabbing his chin and pulling it upwards, his neck cracking as the whiplash hit him.
Her left hand flew, slapping him hard across his cheek.
“You filthy, disgusting pervert!” Jamie yelled. “Where the fuck do you get off trying it on with me? Eh?”
She shoved him backwards and he tumbled off the can.
Neither of them noticed the door begin to open.
Sanderson landed in a heap, clattering into brooms and mops stacked in the corner. Dust whirled up about his head.
Jamie just stood, staring down at him, content in her ruse, her success in humiliating him.
He was pathetic.
Old. Past it. Drunk.
Pathetic.
“Jamie? What’s happening?” Kenny asked from just behind her left shoulder.
She didn’t even turn to look at him where he stood in the doorway, the bright lights of the corridor forming a halo around his little boy’s silhouette.
“Nothing Kenny,” she said, “nothing for you to worry about.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Kenny. All right?”
She sensed him taking a step forward. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him now, looking up at her, looking down at Martin, his almost comical double take, his five year old brain trying to make sense of the scene being played out amidst bottles of bleach and scouring powder. Still she stared the old fart down.
“Martin?” Kenny tried an alternative approach.
But the old man said not a word in reply, nor twitched a muscle.
Kenny stared up at Jamie for a moment, rooted to the spot.
“Leave, Kenny,” she finally said, “just go. And shut the door behind you.”
He paused for a moment, looked from one to the other one final time, turned and walked out of the room.
He followed orders and made sure the door closed behind him.
* * *
She looked out at the East River.
And I was sure that she was playing some movie in her head, watching herself from distance, camera panning in to highlight her elegance; her untapped emotions, just waiting for the right man to unlock her core.
How else could she possibly have explained being down here at this time of night? In this area. And seemingly so oblivious to the danger all around her.
I made it quick, hitting her from behind. Smashing her head against the railing enough to disorient her, ripping the chain of pearls from round her neck, the bracelet from her wrist, the purse from under her arm.
Running before I had chance to think.
She was screaming as she realised what had happened.
But there was no-one there to help her. She should have known that before she ventured that far into the dark side of town; before the cameras rolled.
She screamed for help.
I ran, pocketing my gains, hoping they would be enough to trade for a little hit.
Ripping open the purse as I ran, rifling through to the cash that I knew she’d have in there somewhere. No interest in the cards. No need for them. I just needed a little fix. A little something to keep me warm on this May night.
She’s had about fifty bucks in there.
So I didn’t even need to worry about the pearls and bracelet.
I retrieved them from my pocket and dropped them immediately, throwing the purse alongside. Pocketing the fifty, I slowed to a walk.
And even though the exercise and adrenalin had made the aching and trembling ten times worse, I knew they would soon be gone. I felt good.
Good enough to forget what I’d done.
What I’d come to.
What had I come to?
