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just with Vi's short-limbed, shampoo'd, bodysprayed, lipsticked, varnished, stilettoed, hot and
foul-tempered little bod, but with a gallery, a slew, a
plethora, a glut, a truly appalling superabundance of fantasy
femmes, from the professional snarlers and pouters of
American porn to the unsuspecting ladies of Gunn's everyday life. You've got to hand it to my boy. It's carnage in there.
It's common knowledge 'round my way, the deadly damage
you can do to Catholics just by persuading them (and what
am I if not persuasive%) to own up in their fantasies to what
turns them on. Doesn't have to be anything drastic - no
sodomizing chickens or money-shooting thalidomide tots -
because the bare experience of being turned on is saturated
with guilt to start with. I've taken Caths all the way from
handjobs to homicides just by getting them used to doing the
thing that makes them feel guilty. My boys brought Declan's suicidal depression along nicely with regular top-ups to his
sense of his own enslavement to lust. He made it easy, not
least thanks to his own ready swallowing of my sneaky story
that surrendered-to filth was both an imaginative catalyst
(he started writing round about the time he started whacking-off) and a source of mighty self-knowledge. But that's by
the by. The point is Violet loomed large those inaugural
hours, so much so that by the morning of the second day
paying the little cracker a visit was all but at the top of my list
of Things To Do. Besides, I thought, with a sheepish-cumwolfish grin at my new reflection in the mottled mirror of
Gunn's dark wardrobe door, it really was obscene to have
spent so long indoors.
    You'll be wondering about the agenda. You've got a
month on earth: what do you do: Granted, you're trying with no intention of buying, but that's no reason not to
have some fun, no reason not to... put flesh and blood
through its paces ...

    I can now get from Gunn's front door to the tube station at
Farringdon in six minutes, but it took me rather longer that
first morning. Four hours, actually, and that's if you don't
count the forty minutes I spent in 1)enholm Mansions' stairwell - mesmerizing graffiti and rubbery echoes, one
stunning front door in canary yellow, odours of disembowelled bin bags, fried bacon, stale sweat, mossed brick, burnt
toast, marijuana, bike oil, wet newspapers, drains, cardboard,
coffee and cat piss. An ecstatic nasal dalliance it was. Funny
look from the postman when he passed me on the stairs (a
letter for Gunn from his bank manager, but more of that
later). Then I stepped outside.
    I'm not sure what I expected. Whatever it was, it was
surpassed by what I got. I remember thinking, That's air.
That's air, moving, slightly, against the exposed bits of me,
wrists, hands, throat, face ... The breath of the world, the
spirit that wanders gathering germs and flavours from
Guadalajara to Guangzhou, from Pawnee to Pizzarra, from
Zuni to Zanzibar. There are tiny hairs ... tiny hairs that ...
oh my word. I'm tickled to say that without a second's hesitation I unzipped Gunn's trousers and gently manhandled
his - sorry my - tender todge and sizzling scrote out to
where the air could caress them. Not a sexual thing. Just to
take the smart off. When I quit this carcass at the end of the
month Declan's going to have some trouble repairing his
reputation with Mrs Corey, the round-hipped, long-eyelashed and depressingly good-natured Jamaican seamstress
who lives above him and with whom he's been known to
exchange stairwell pleasantries. No such pleasantries when she caught sight of me that morning, standing with eyes
half-closed, lips and legs parted, trousers down, shirt-tails
fluttering, and throbbing goolies cupped in my tender
palms. I did smile at her as she hurried by, but she didn't
reciprocate. With great reluctance, I put myself delicately
back in order.

    The sky. For Heaven's sake the sky. I looked up at it and
had to look down