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snubs.
    Fucker
. She looks like she hates him.
    He doesn't care. They fuck hard. Harris wants things from Frank he won't give. Pain. Humiliation. Hers and his.
    Fuck me harder, fucker
.
    Her black skin's a novelty for Frank, his cock for her. He holds her down, her wrists pinned above her head as her legs wrap around him, pulling him in deeper.
    Where's Linda? The thought slides in and then out again and is lost only to return, with interest, later.
    Drink, the great denier and giver, this time smiles on him, granting him stamina, and she comes first, bucking under him and holding him stiff-armed, eyes fixed on his in that glazed, unfocused death stare.
Un petit mort
.
    Cunt. Fuck. Bastard. Do me. Fuck me
. She's swearing a blue streak and when she can feel Frank coming she moves him out.
Come on me
, she hisses, positioning him across her, his slick cock sliding over her breasts. She takes him and strokes and pulls and then he comes.
Oh yes
, she says and slides his cock into her mouth again and Frank feels the pleasure and the pain and the familiar Catholic guilt.
    She holds him in her mouth too long, until he has to pull out, and they lie spent in a puddled tangle of sheets and come and sweat.
    Later, he's not sure when, they fuck once more and then it's dark.
    When his eyes open there's grey morning leaking in from somewhere.
    Frank's more worried about the hangover he knows is coming. By all rights he should be a broken man. He rolls over in bed and sees the s-shape of Em under a sheet, her back to him, one smooth arm draped over her hip.
    He watches enough to check she's breathing and rolls onto his back.
    'You'd better go.' Her voice is heavy with sleep but clear. Frank waits but there's nothing else.
    'Sure.' He collects his clothes and leaves the bedroom. He dressesin the small living room, the air thick with stale wine. On the coffee table two bottles and a couple of glasses look like props from a play. The blinds are closed and Frank leaves them that way. He registers that the room is pleasant, unremarkable – no easy psychological readings to be gained.
    He takes a glass of water from the tap in the open-plan kitchen and drains it in one. In the bathroom he squeezes some of Harris's toothpaste onto his finger and runs it over his teeth. His tongue looks like roadkill and there's a redness to one side of his face, the trace memory of last night's slap.
    In the bathroom cabinet –
thank you, God –
paracetamol, and Frank takes three. He can't help but notice the bottle of blonde hair dye, the two toothbrushes in the glass. Harris's partner, Linda, location unknown (by Frank), relationship status uncertain.
    This was a mistake.
    He closes the cabinet and steps out into the hall of the flat. He waits a few seconds for something from Em but there's nothing. He shrugs his jacket on and silently leaves, his spirits sinking as the door closes behind him.
    Falkner Street is cold and empty, Harris's flat a short stumble from The Phil. The distance, Frank considers, may have been a contributing factor. If Harris had lived a taxi away they may have had a chance to consider.
    Fuck it.
    It happened and it was good. He'll deal with the consequences later. Frank looks at his watch. Four-thirty am.
    He walks down Falkner to Hope and turns towards a cathedral; the Catholic one, fittingly. Anxious to postpone any soul-searching until completely necessary, he hurries towards Hardman Street and drops down the hill towards the city centre. On the opposite side of the sloping street the looming Dutch gothic roof of The Phil blocks out the disapproving cathedral. Frank is watched by a passing patrol car, which slows to a crawl as it approaches. Close up, the uniform at the wheel raises a hand in recognition, but Frank, intent on invisibility, ignores him.
    A street-cleaning crew is at work mopping up last night's debris outside The Fly In The Loaf. Four men in fluoro jackets hose downthe pavements, all of them smoking. A straggle of