Kronk

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gabriel had decided that he must pay a visit to his studio. There were some things he wanted, and some things he had to do. There ought not to be any problem, he told himself, because thus far there was really no reason why he should be officially connected with the P 939 frolic. Camilla would be the only lead MicroWar had — if, indeed, MicroWar had yet woken up to the fact that it had developed and lost the greatest microbiological weapon of all time.

The studio was on top of one of the oldest towers in Queensway Village. Originally it had been a small penthouse built as an afterthought on top of the ancient apartment block. As it was an afterthought, the only approaches to it were the fire escape and a narrow metal staircase leading from the top storey up through the roof of the block.

As he climbed the staircase, Gabriel tried to work out how long it was since he had last been home. Only a few days, but it felt like weeks. Life with Camilla, he reflected, had a sort of concentrated quality about it. More interesting events had happened in the last few days than in the preceding year.

There was no id ring on the door of the studio, only a simple lock. Gabriel had his key. He He went inside. No one was there.

But there was evidence of recent occupation in addition to the empty vodka bottles, wine bottles, peanut packets and food cans that Gabriel himself had left. Various items of female underwear hung on a string in the small and decrepit bathroom. Cosmetics seemed to be everywhere. A half-eaten chicken, some cooked meats and two or three bottles of German wine were in the fridge.

In the studio the signs of occupation indicated more subtle intrusion of Gabriel’s private world. On his favourite figurine — Nude in Ecstasy, sculptured with loving care from a 1979 edition of the Encyclopaedia of Psychopathology — a small red arrom pointed to the crutch; and on the abdomen above the arrow had been written, “Put it there.” Across the buttocks of a larger piece, The Lover, was scrawled, “I hate homosexuals.” And on the large expanse of Fertility, a heavily pregnant woman created from the collected works of D. H. Lawrence, there was the legend, “Do not kick against the pricks.”

Similar aphorisms had been scribbled on the studio walls, presumably with lipstick: “God is hard”; “Spare the rod and spoil the spasm”; “Onwards and upwards”; “Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more”; “Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood”; “Love is a phallusy”.

For a moment or two, Gabriel was utterly baffled. Then, simultaneously, he heard footsteps on the fire escape and realized who had taken over his studio.

The girl who came in was ultra-petite and still as breathtakingly beautiful as Gabriel remembered. He had once lived with her for six exhausting weeks. She was about nineteen years old and probably the smallest and most dedicated and frigid nymphomaniac in greater London. Her real name was Aurora Perkyn, and she was the daughter of the Father-Dean of Winchester. Gabriel had always called her Messalina.

“Hello, Messalina.”

She almost dropped the large bag of groceries she was carrying. From the sounds, it chiefly contained bottles.

“Gabriel! Wet my tights, where have you been, boy? I was lonely.”

“I got called away urgently.”

“And now you are back?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that. I — er — made other arrangements.” She laughed. “Vast quantities… It’s O.K. to use your place?”

“Suppose it is not?”

Messalina sighed. “That would be difficult. But Gabriel, darling, I still have to use it. I have been thrown out of everywhere. Don’t be tiresome.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being tiresome… In any case, you have already made yourself quite at home.” He glanced at the graffiti and the plethora of cosmetics.

“Then you don’t mind?”

“Of course I bloody mlind, not that it matter,” he snapped irritably. “But do you have to indulge your retarded I.Q. on my book sculpture? There is a lot of work in those pieces.”

“Sweet man,” said Messalina, rapidly and efficiently removing all her clothes, “you take yourself far too seriously… Forgive the bluntness, but I hope you are not staying too long. I’m expecting guests, you see. Nice, fat, meaty guests.” She lay on the studio bed — still, by the look of it, unmade from a dozen previous rumplings — and began to manicure her nails.

“No, I shan’t be long. I only came to pick up a few personal things.” He looked at Messalina, marvelling again at her smallness, the proportions of her figure and the grace with which she managed to do everything. But everything.

She was an alley cat, he reflected. No, a carnivore. No, a sad little child dressed up in a child’s body. There were prepubes with bigger breasts than Messalina; but he doubted if there as a woman within fifty kilometres filled with such consuming and unquenchable fire.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. A delicious thougt. A wonderful thought.

“Messalina, these guests. Have you time to open your legs for me?”

She looked at him with interest. “Darling, what a joke. You swore you’d never lay me again, remember?”

“That was because I loved you.”

“You don’t love me any more?”

“No.”

“That’s all right then. It was all rather restricting.” Messalina leaned over the side of the bed and fumbled underneath it. She found an apple, a large red apple. “God, I love apples. They are so clean and fresh. Besides, I’m famished. I really must eat something some time… You don’t mind, darling, do you?”

Gabriel, already half undressed, stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Then he shrugged.

“No, I don’t mind. Don’t choke, that’s all.”

She giggled. “Quite. In the circumstances I think the reverse would be appropriate.” She lay on her stomach, raised her head slightly and began to munch the apple.

With considerable effort and restraint, Gabriel did his best not to interfere with Messalina’s concentration on the apple. But he was mildly gratified that towards the end for a few moments she stopped munching.

Presently, he withdrew, got off the bed and was immediately and immensely sorry for her.

He was sorry for all the fulfilment she had never had and all the fulfilment she would never have.

No doubt there would be many more bodies lying on Messalina before the day ended; but nothing would be achieved, nothing at all. Some day somebody would kill her out of sheer pity because she didn’t know what it was to be alive.

He was filled with tenderness. Poor child. No alley cat. No carnivore. Just somebody looking for a golden fleece. Only, for Messalina there never had been any golden fleece. The Father-Dean of Winchester and some clown up in orbit had seen to that.

“That was quite pleasant,” sighed Messalina. “Quite, quite pleasant.” She put the apple core back under the bed.

Gabriel had the good sense not to ask precisely what she was talking about. He searched himself for money, found about fifty pounds and put it in the grocery bag still lying on the floor.

“Messalina,” he said, “you have just joined the army. The cause is just, victory is assured, you will make an excellent soldier, and I hope you have an interesting war.”

“Balls,” said Messalina. “But thanks for the money. What is all this trip crap? Who’s fighting for what?”

“You are — for peace. That is what they always say, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Don’t worry, little one. You are an invincible one-woman assault division. Hasta la pizza.” Gabriel blew her a kiss and left the studio.