Come Let Us Sing Anyway Read online

  ‘You going out, Miss…?’

  ‘No.’

  Nobody remembers her name: has no one at the Gleaner or the Observer or on JMTV ever noticed that?

  ‘Parker James’ favourite model…’

  ‘Parker James’ model wife considers retirement at 30…’

  The woman leans towards the river mumma, who leans towards her as the seconds thunder past and the chains around her bare feet crackle. Parker says the chains have to be heavy.

  More than anything else, she knows he will never change.

  ‘What is my name?’ she asks.

  River mumma frowns. ‘How you mean?’

  *

  She remembers Parker sitting beside her, under the poui tree, picking up her History book. He had the right kind of voice for bedtime stories. He read the first page and the second, and the third, and she found herself melting against the tree trunk. She could hardly breathe, his voice was so pretty. He still reads to her at night, fifteen years later, everything she’s ever loved: Shakespeare and Jean Binta Breeze and Naipaul and Dickens. She can lean back and lose herself in different worlds, his voice deep and sure, his hands on her waist afterwards, so gentle, hissing into her neck:

  ‘You hot inside, sweet gyal.’

  She used to hope that someone else would come along one day and read her stories. But she knew it wouldn’t happen. No one would sound like him and she didn’t have to fill in her name on the forms at the hospital because everyone there knew who she was.

  *

  She brushes her hand up and down her body; the chains jingle and she tells herself it is just like jewellery. Parker usually hides the damage in her scalp, in the cleft of her buttocks and between her thighs, but finally he can be gleeful and unrestrained. The bruises are purple and yellow and black; fist-sized lumps across her shoulders. There is a bruise on the sole of her left foot.

  All for his artistic integrity.

  Four minutes. River mumma is finishing her circuit – the woman knows by the rising claps. Has she cried enough to please Parker? He is waiting in the front row, at the foot of the stage.

  She always walks ramp as his last model, the best in show. He will mount the stage to hold her hand and take the final bow.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, when the make-up artist brought the old chains to loop around her feet and throat. His fingers trembled as he dressed and turned her, so she could see herself in the full-length mirror. His eyes were wet.

  ‘Did I make you beautiful?’

  His needy fingers on her concave belly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  She can’t leave this love. And Parker will be what he is, forever.

  The woman who is about to die remembers her mother’s stories.

  ‘You can hear it?’

  She reaches up, mimics her mother, cupping her ear.

  ‘Listen good: rolling calf a-walk.’

  She has always felt the power of the legend of the rolling calf. There are so few details, as if people have been struck dumb with the terror, but they say your head swells and lifts before the rolling calf comes in the night; that you can feel your feet rising from the floor. Clanking chain and hoarse panting in the distance. Is that a roar outside? Hooves clitter-clatter, clunk. Hiss of fire, smell of smoke. Never, ever-ever look into its burning orange eyes, and if you hear it coming, curse bad words! Curse as loud and long as you can and pray the rolling calf go on past your house. It can bruise you with its flailing chain, even with its back turned. Flame eyes, dragging broken chain, ripped free… from what?

  Hell, hell. She knows.

  She climbs the steps and parts the curtains: Aaaah, say the audience.

  Flame creeps up the cheap black fabric where her fingers cling. The orange dress he made especially for her crackles on her skin; her nostrils flare at the smell of ash. The chains are hot and violent snakes, surging down her thighs. Her belly is suffused in golden fire. She laughs at the candles. Thrusts her hand into a naked torch, up to the armpit; there is no pain anymore.

  People scream and clutch their heads; scatter and pray. A few curse rich and juicy epithets through the dark night air. Others float, inches from the steaming grass. She can hear Parker, screaming at the end of the catwalk. Screaming for his precious dress.

  ‘No, no, no!’

  Whoomph! Her hair burns. Her bruises peel away under the heat, like black paper.

  Roll your hips, she thinks.

  Her eyes burn last.

  DRAG

  Today I feel like a drag queen. Walking down Soho way through the tourists and the catcalls. My crotch is aching under the good jeans and the bad underwear, watching the freaks go by, acres of eyeliner and jangly earrings and crap t-shirts that pass for fashion, walking and making sure my hips sway in calypso circles.

  Today I feel like a drag queen. The top layer of me is a bouncin’ an’ behavin’ woman; I’m all rounded tits and a belly button so deep you could play strip poker inside it. But I feel like a boy. Eighteen years old, slim hips, shoulders so strong I could carry the world, baby-soft face and mascara eyes. The boy in me lengthens my stride and gives me attitude. He looks out from under my eyelashes. I’m working it. I’m being seen. I’m shimmying.

  ‘The only thing I want to drink more than a beer tonight is you.’

  I look up. He’s not my type. His head would bang into doorways. We couldn’t dance; I’d be stuck just above his navel. I don’t like liquorice-flavoured men. But today the boy inside me needs a fuck. From any body. He’s leaning against a porn shop; it’s the days when people still used them. I can see those plastic ribbon thingies they insist you pass through, like a time machine. I think that his face is open, that it reminds me of a child’s. He is even yummy, with a second glance.

  I look at him. Grin.

  ‘Going inside?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  He laughs.

  ‘Come inside with me.’

  We wander around the interior. It’s dark and silly and small waves of embarrassed men part before us. They pretend none of us are there. I pick up the worst of the porn, speak loudly, point out cum shots and women dressed as little girls. I even find a puzzled, swollen donkey. We discuss dick sizes at the tops of our voices, pretending to be serious. Men begin to leave. The proprietor looks indignant. I turn more pages, laugh and watch our arms, side by side, nearly identical shades of dark. His soft lips thrust through stubble.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Jo.’ I test the diminutive on my tongue. He looks amused. As if he understands my gender shenanigans just fine.

  ‘Joanna? Josephine?’

  ‘Just Jo, call me Jo.’

  ‘I’m Michael,’ he says. I like the way he says his name. Like it fits him, like he’s new. Like he’s the only Michael in the world. The proprietor grimaces and rolls his eyes. We are nearly alone in the shop. The last man is trying not to look me in the face as he wriggles past us. He wants to fuck me, but he doesn’t want me to see that. Michael moves to let him go by. I love that he doesn’t try to protect me. He stands next to me, trusting me in my own space, like I’m his equal. Like I’m strong.

  *

  Back at my flat he lays me across my bed, in between pages of my thesis. I am writing about black people in 80s British ads – like how there were none. He doesn’t care. The head of his dick is swollen and purple-red. He is watching me closely. I tighten the muscles in my stomach, flex my shoulders. I want my body to feel like concrete. I run my hands along my thighs, pretending the hair there is pepper-grains. I’m holding the bunch of roses he bought me in Leicester Square. A thorn sticks through my flesh and I can feel blood on my palm.

  Michael crouches over me and pulls the roses away slowly. Then he is ripping them apart and scattering petals, stalks, thorns, across my breasts.

  ‘Tell me how you want me to be,’ he pants.

  ‘Fuck me like I’m a boy,’ I say.

  He puts a thumb up my cunt, parting the folds. A small sword th
rough honey. I twist away, annoyed. ‘No,’ I say. My voice is shaking, I want him to understand so bad, but I don’t want to talk. ‘Like you’re fucking yourself.’

  He’s lying on top of me, his cock rubbing against my tummy. It’s wet there. He rubs himself across me, hipbone to hipbone. He’s running a bass line through me; I can feel it everywhere. He licks the blood off my palm, thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s hardly safe,’ I say.

  ‘So?’ he says, and flips me over. My clit’s rubbing against the white duvet and I can imagine it growing, swelling, tumescent, hard against my belly. He’s spitting on his fingers, rubbing them up and down my asshole. His breath is lost in my hair. He pauses against the entrance, like there’s a stop sign. Like he needs permission just one more time.

  ‘Go on,’ I say. I’ve never done this before and it needs to be now.

  He pushes gently. The head slips in. Agony. I twist, trying to accommodate.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he groans against my ear.

  I feel like a girl, about to be taken; I fight against the femininity. I don’t want it, not today. I want the abandonment, the urgency of a boy, but it’s no good. I’m afraid. Straining, anxious, I push myself onto my elbows. He’s still being tentative, he’s halfway in, but my body is groaning, rejecting it. He’s sliding into a tube of sandpaper. My whole body is shaking, my head is shaking. Maybe I’m not a boy. A million pins dance the length of my ass.

  ‘Michael, let’s stop –’

  He ignores me, thrusts a hand underneath us, begins to play with my clit, twisting, insistent, rubbing me in hard circles. I love the weight of him on top of me. I am pinned in a slow-moving dream.

  ‘No…’ I say, but it’s working. I can feel my ass melting, widening, moisture seeping.

  ‘Your name is Michael.’ He whispers it against my hair. ‘It’s Carnival. You’re up against a brick wall, and I’m fucking you in the ass. Your cock is rubbing against the wall. You’re so hard. We met five minutes ago.’

  He’s all the way inside me, a metal bar against my ass cheeks, the heel of his hand grinding into my clit, and nothing hurts anymore. I can hear myself. I’m growling and I can hear the soca in the distance and when I look up I can see shocked grannies, amused revellers. I can see a policeman cocking his head to the side: Are they really doing that? He starts up the street, ready to arrest two queer niggers.

  I have no breasts. My chest is flat. I shift, undulate. I’ve become a smooth runway that pours from the base of my arched neck, down my shoulder blades, spreads around my hips, pushes me up and into him. I’m gleaming with afternoon sweat. Michael takes a breath, pulls half way out, plunges into me, vicious.

  I howl. Delicious.

  Afterwards, he knows how to be. I tell him my full, girl name.

  *

  Today I feel like an executive. My hair is scraped off my face and the make-up is flawless. Walking into a classy restaurant, the London sun streams through the French windows, melting the clientele like individual ice cream cakes. I’m wearing a black suit and peach lingerie. My heels are sensible and expensive. Before I leave the office my boss tells me to use everything I’ve got. He winks. He thinks he’s a feminist. But he is not above pimping me out.

  Today I feel like an executive. Facts and figures flow from my fingertips. I am articulate and assertive. But underneath is so much more: an ambitious twenty-five year-old who lies in the bath and dreams of power. Rubber duck in the bath tells me I should have a flat on the Riviera, a penthouse in New York. Bubbles promise me a walk-in closet of designer clothes, three personal assistants and gleaming, lavish technology. I am a multimillion deal.

  ‘Josephine…’ I love his voice. I look up. He’s in a sharp, dark suit, impeccably tailored. Women’s heads swivel. Blond bitches, I think, and clutch my glass of water. He scoops condensation from the edge and rubs it between his fingers. I can’t stop looking. I remember his hands on me.

  ‘Long time no see,’ I say.

  ‘So?’ he says. Climbs right in next to me.

  ‘You can’t stay.’ My thighs are humming. ‘I have a business meeting.’

  He introduces himself as my colleague when the client arrives. The client orders tea and discusses cost-effectiveness, the implications of visual versus voice-over, whether we need a celebrity or normal actresses. He says there are other ad companies waiting in line. I nod and sound intelligent. Michael puts his hand up my skirt. My knees snap together. He is cupping me, like I’m an exquisite thing. I can smell myself : pussy mixed with golden lilies at the windowsill.

  He uses one long, insistent finger. Rubs just above my clitoris. I twitch, trying to edge him nearer the brink of me. Inside I’m an empty roll of wet muscles. I could play him like a flute, if only we were far from here. Another finger strokes my pubic hair. I wonder if the teasing is hesitance or deliberate, then suck in my breath as he hits the mark, just to show off. Deliberate, then. Back to the top. Then down again. Almost imperceptible circles. I try to slow my breathing.

  ‘You see, we think that speaking to women in their own language will knock the socks off the competition,’ says the client. A single crumb sits on his neat moustache. I want to lick it off. I want to grab his head and push it between my breasts and scream. I want them both to fuck me across the table.

  ‘…perhaps animation…’ says the client.

  ‘Mmm-hmmm,’ I say.

  Michael’s finger eases inside me, taking all the daylight in the room with it. I am sitting in a pool of summer. He puts a thumb back on my clit and it jumps up like its Christmas. I push my hips forward. Tiny, tight, urgent, circles.

  ‘Could you, um, order some coffee?’ I say to the client.

  He turns and signals for the waitress. Michael pulls his hand out of me and licks his fingers. One. Two. Three. I hide a groan in my napkin. The client turns back and smiles at me, clueless. My lips are stuck to my teeth. Michael asks him a question. I can’t hear him. I’ve gone deaf. The client leans forward. Michael leans towards him so he can put his fingers back under the table, twiddling me, all in one motion. I sip scalding coffee. Burn my tongue. Put my hand on top of Michael’s hand. Press him into me.

  ‘Harder…’ I say.

  ‘Pardon?’ says the client.

  ‘It must be hard to… deal with established competitors. It must get harder every day. Harder and harder.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the client.

  I want to close my eyes. I can feel my orgasm tickling the base of my spine. I’m talking and talking and the words are scrabble squares on a board: meaningless, but full of potential. I want to lean back in my chair. Tell them both that one day I’ll be able to buy them with a flick of my well-manicured hands. Michael puts his hand on my inner thigh and pushes my legs as wide as they can go. Grasps my panties and pushes them roughly aside. I can hear a rip. He pushes something small and cold up me. My hand on the table goes into involuntary spasm. Michael makes me touch myself with my other hand. Neither of us have taken our eyes off the chattering client; thank God he is the pontificating kind. Michael bites his bottom lip as our entwined fingers touch the tiny globes he’s pushed inside me. They feel as if they should be silver. We stir them around. My hand is frothy. They tinkle, I’m sure. The client is talking. Michael leans into my shoulder.

  ‘Do it,’ he says.

  My hips buck. I’m beyond speech. All I can do is breathe with the waves. My breasts are spilling out of my bra, they’re so swollen. He’s rubbing my clit the way I like it, hard and God, so dirty, and the balls are revolving, tinkling, pulling it all out of me. I surrender, lean forward into the table cloth.

  ‘Are you alright?’ the men chorus above me. The client is calling, ‘Waitress, Waitress, she’s having a fit.’ Everybody around me is looking afraid and concerned: ‘Is she choking? Someone do the Heimlich thingie’ and Michael is all the way up in my face, one arm round my shoulder. ‘Jo, you ok? Say something,’ but there’s a twinkle in his eye and I can tell what he’s thinking: Be quick, Jose
phine, be cost effective, cum for me, before the place erupts. I’m going to have to take my hand away. Cum for me and then I’m screaming. I can’t believe I’m doing it. There’s something so powerful about it all. I’m cumming in their faces and nobody knows, my nails are scraping the tablecloth and someone cries out as the coffee cup shatters on the floor and I’m trying not to laugh, my cute little ass still jerking, thank Christ for that thick table-cloth, you know those slow wave, post-cum jerks that feel like aftershocks and I’ve put my fingernails through the flesh between Michael’s neck and his shoulder and I can tell it really hurts him, but he’s trying not to laugh, and even as the waitress rushes over he coaxes out another tiny, extra orgasm, ’cause he’s greedy like that, and then it’s done and he’s wiping his hand all over his face, so cool, like all he’s been is stressed for my health and I’m like fuck, fuck, I want to laugh, that’s all I feel like doing: laughing.

  So I do. Delicious.

  Afterwards the client rings to make sure I’m alright.

  We get the deal.

  *

  Today I feel like a bride. Pacing the special room set aside for me at the back of the church. All Vera Wang class. If I could blush I’d be doing that in the mirror. There’s an hour to go. My bridesmaids – all ten of them – have floated away, leaving ‘me time’. I don’t know where they came from. None of them are my friends.

  My dress has cost twelve thousand pounds. Freshwater pearls at the hemline and the bodice. Diamonds snigger in my ear and make promises. The dress reminds me of Victoria Falls at sunset, a huge flow of everything white in the world: roaring snowflakes, pools of chalk dust, bleached frost.