Sarah looked at the dentist's intense electric-blue eyes, the white hairs in his eyebrows which joined in the middle. It seemed that he was looking right into her, sharing a strange kind of intimacy with her that no man ever had. She saw her mouth in his mirror. But not the wound. She couldn't look at the wound. Nor the pliers – especially not the pliers. Something hard was digging into her thigh. It might have been a rest on the chair. The man's breathing was becoming irregular under the exertion. Ormiston was her saviour. This was the man who would liberate her from the sickening, all-pervading pain. This man, with his education, his skill and, yes, compassion, for a man capable of success in the field of dentistry could surely have chosen a more lucrative sphere. How much did they get paid? This man would sweep aside the misery and everything would be as it was. Victor would do nothing, Gavin could do nothing, but this man, he would take away the pain.
— It's got to come out now. He yanked and twisted, ripping into numbed flesh around the back of her gums. It was a shame to lose those wisdom teeth and Ormiston always mourned what he gloomily referred to as the death of a tooth, but in this case there was just no alternative. The girl simply had too many teeth for her head. The extraction of both bottom wisdom teeth was essential. He leaned into her and let his free hand rest on her hip. She squirmed a little and he apologised. — Sorry, I just need to get leverage . . .
The suction tube removed the saliva from her mouth. He moved his free hand up and pulled it languidly around inside her, poking it into every cavity, sucking all her sweet, sweet juices, oh God, her gorgeous mouth . . . he couldn't help but imagine his tongue in that mouth, the clean, sharp probing tongue of a man who used all the proven to be effective rather than gimmicky dental products on the market, and he let his hand move down, and why was she wearing that skirt, he could feel her naked thigh against his hand, the hairs on the back of it bristling and him now imagining it going between her legs and his fingers inside her wee cotton briefs and her hungry dripping pussy eating them and one more wrench and her tooth came free in his pliers as he ejaculated into his pants.
— That was a hard one, he gasped, as his cock spurted spasmodically into his trousers. He turned away as the spunk pumped into his flannels and his raw prick throbbed. — Ah . . . ah . . . a satisfactory extraction . . . he wheezed, trying to compose himself.
Sarah felt uncomfortable and went to mumble something, but he told her to keep quiet. He worked away at the second tooth and extracted it more easily than the first one.
He took great care cleaning and packing her wounds. Her mouth was numb as she spat out the wash but Sarah felt a tremendous relief.
— I thought I'd better get them both out at the same time to save you going through the same rigmarole again shortly, Ormiston explained.
— Thanks, Sarah said.
— No, the pleasure was all mine . . . I mean, you have beautiful teeth and you really should floss them. Now that those wisdom teeth are out, they shouldn't be so tightly packed together. There's no excuse now! Get that floss working!
— Aye, I will, she told him.
— Lovely teeth, Ormiston shuddered. — No wonder you have those young men fighting over you!
Sarah blushed and felt bad for blushing. It was just the man's way, however. He wasn't being creepy, he was a professional, it was just another mouth to him.
Ormiston was a professional man, and as such not wont to letting aesthetic or sexual considerations take precedence over finance, and he composed himself sufficiently to charge Sarah one hundred and twenty pounds, for which she had to write out a cheque.
— I'd like to see you again in a fortnight's time, Ormiston smiled. — Unfortunately, because it's an emergency call-out, we don't have a duty receptionist. But if you give me a note of your address and phone number, I'll arrange for an appointment to be made for you.
— Thanks, Sarah said. Even the loss of the money couldn't take away the sense of relief. — Sorry to get you out on a Sunday, I hope I didn't spoil your day.
— Not at all, my dear, not at all, Ormiston smiled. He watched her depart, and his face sank into a frown as he contemplated the mind-numbing tedium of a family Sunday afternoon at Ravelston Dykes. — Bugger it, he hissed softly, then went to the toilet to clean himself up.
Sarah heard her name being called. She looked across the road, where Victor and Gavin were standing, outside the pub. She moved towards them. They were both regarding her brightly, but they seemed oddly at peace with each other.
— How did it go? Gavin asked. — Are ye okay?
— Much better, jist a bit numb. He took ma wisdom teeth oot.
— Come in and sit doon, Victor implored.
As Sarah entered the bar and sat down Gavin gave her a full embrace. It felt a bit strange to her. For Gavin it was great to hold her and smell her hair and perfume and feel her warmth. Then he saw Victor out the corner of his eye and he felt bad that he was excluded. He pulled Victor towards them and they had a group hug with Sarah feeling awkward and self-conscious in the middle. — Sarah . . . Victor . . . Sarah . . . Victor . . . Gavin moaned, kissing their faces alternately.
She looked out across the pub at the old guy with the pint and smiled in benign embarrassment. He tetchily looked away. Two younger guys came in and looked, then shrugged and smiled.
— Sarah . . . Sarah . . . Sarah . . . Victor started in a sad mantra, — aw, doll, ah'm really sorry. Ah'm a prick, a total fuckin prick.
Sarah considered that it was a contention hard to dispute.
— Ah love ye, Sarah. Ah'm in love wi ye, Gavin was mumbling in her other ear.
For a few brief moments it seemed to her that it was like sticking a load of After Eight mints into your mouth: you were lulled by the sudden sweetness of it, until the sickness and self-loathing overwhelmed you.— Fuckin let go ay me! she snapped, pulling away and looking at Victor's raised hands and Gavin's forlorn, sad eyes. — What are yis fuckin like! Yis are E'd up!
— Ah love ye, Sarah, ah mean it, Gavin said.
— Ah love ye, but ah think it isnae workin oot. Ah want ye tae be happy and if this cunt's makin ye mair happy thin ah kin, well, that's the wey it is. Ah want tae ken though, what's the story, doll?
The story was that these things were invading her space, like huge, creepy, twisting plants wrapping around her as the comedown kicked in and her nerve ends, twisted and raw, rebelled against their insinuation. They didn't get it; it was as if she didn't exist in her own right, like she was a thing to be fought over. Territory. Land. Possession. That was Victor. That was him. When they made up, after she had went with that guy from Yip Yap, the way he had fucked her, hard, rampantly, in every orifice, as if to reclaim territory lost, devoid of any tenderness or sensuality. She'd lain there on the floor, trying to hide the tears she knew he'd seen but hadn't acknowledged. She felt like she had been beaten, punished, used; like he'd tried to fuck out of her anything the other guy may have left in. And that was just the sex. No way was Sarah going to be on the receiving end of Victor's sexual and psychological scorched-earth policy again. Him and Gavin together. Colluding now. At first, conflict over territory, but now the fraternal brothers realise that it cannot be resolved by military means. Let's get round the table and thrash this out. The only thing missing was her perspective.
It was not (a) leaves Victor and falls in love with Gavin and lives happily ever after, or (b) fucks Gavin but realises error of ways and goes back to Victor and lives happily ever after. It was (c) left Victor, fucked Gavin. Past tense in both cases. It's over, you silly wee laddies, well fuckin over, you sad, self-mythologising egotistical ratbags.
She slipped free from them, stood up and shook her head. It was too much. She looked at Victor.— You're a prick, you're right enough there. Git oot ma fuckin face. How many times dae ah huv tae tell ye? It's over! N you, she fumed to Gavin whose eyes had gone even more baleful, — we had a fuckin shag, that's aw. If it wis any mair tae you, tell me aboot it, no him, n tell ays whin yir
no aw fill ay chemicals. Now fuck off and leave ays alaine, the pair ay yis! She stood up and moved towards the exit of the pub.
— Ah'll gie ye a bell the night . . . Gavin said, hearing his voice crack like a light bulb and the 'night' part become incomprehensible.
— Jist fuck off! she fumed and sneered, and left.
— Well, Gavin said, turning to Victor with a hint of self-satisfaction, — there it is. You're bombed oot fir good, bit ah'm still in thaire. Ah jist see her whin ah'm straight n pit her in the picture.
Victor shook his head. — Ye dinnae ken Sarah but, eh. That's no what ah goat fae it at aw.
They argued for a while, punctuating their points with friendly squeezes on each other's wrists to maintain their communion.
A man entered the pub at this point, a man whom they both recognised. It was the dentist, Mr Ormiston. He bought a half-pint of heavy and sat at a table close to them reading Scotland on Sunday. He noticed them out of the corner of his eye. Gavin grinned and Victor raised his pint glass. Ormiston gave a weary smile back. It was the two young bucks. Where was the girl?
— Sorry aboot the Edinburgh, mate, Victor said. — Bet ye wir fuckin well zorba'd at that, eh?
— Pardon? Orminston looked puzzled.
— Didnae mean tae involve ye in aw that nonsense in yir surgery. Sorted her oot but, mate, eh?
— Oh yes. Pretty nasty but routine extractions. Wisdom teeth can be tricky, but it's all in a day's work.
— Victor moved closer to Ormiston. — Some joab yuv goat thaire but, mate, eh? Ah couldnae dae that. Lookin in cunts' mooths aw day. He turned to Gavin. — Widnae be me!
Gavin looked thoughtfully at the dentist. — They tell ays thit ye need as much trainin tae be a dentist as ye dae tae be a doaktir. Is that right, mate?
— Well, as a matter of fact it is, Ormiston began, in the somewhat self-justifying air of a man who regards his profession as crassly misunderstood by the lay person.
— Shite! Victor interrupted.— Youse kin fuck oot ay here, the pair ay yis! A dentist yuv jist goat the mooth tae deal wi, where the likes ay doaktirs, they cunts've goat the whole boady! Yir no tryin tae tell ays that a dentist needs the same amount ay trainin as a doaktir!
— Naw, bit it's no the same thing, Vic. By that fuckin logic, that means that a vet wid need mair trainin thin a doaktir, because they've goat tae learn no jist aboot humans, bit aboot cats n dugs, n rabbits, n cows . . . the physiology ay aw they different animals.
— Ah nivir sais that, Victor insisted, wagging his finger at Gavin.
— Ah'm jist sayin thit it's the same fuckin principles involved here, that's aw ah'm sayin. Tae tend tae a whole creature needs mair trainin than tae tend tae one part ay a creature. That's what yir sayin, right?
— Aye, right, Victor conceded, as Ormiston tried to get back to his paper.
— So by the same logic, tendin tae different creatures'll mean mair trainin than tendin tae jist the one creature, right?
— Uh-uh-uh-uh, Victor halted him. — Doesnae follow. This is human society wir talkin aboot here, right?
— So?
— So it isnae fuckin dug society or cat society –
— Wait the now. What you're sayin is thit in oor society humans are the maist valued species, so the level ay investment in the trainin ay people tae tend tae humans –
— Has goat tae exceed the level ay investment n trainin gied tae people thit tend tae animals. Hus tae be that wey, Gav. Victor turned to Ormiston. — Is that no right but, mate?
— Yes, I suppose it's a point, the dental surgeon said distractedly.
Gavin was thinking about this. There was something that was jarring him. The way people treated animals was out of order. And him too, he hadn't even fed the fuckin cat. Out for two days on one, and he'd forgotten about a promise he'd made to his ma, that he'd go round to hers and feed the cat. She was away up to her sister's at Inverness. She was mad about that cat. She often called it Gavin by mistake, which hurt him more than he let on. He felt a surge of guilt. — Listen, Vic, ah've goat tae nash. You've jist reminded ays, ah said thit ah'd go roond tae muh ma's n feed the cat. The last thing ah promised. He stood up and Victor did too. They had another hug. — Nae hard feelings, eh, mate?
— Naw, man . . . ah jist hope she comes back tae ays, Victor said wearily.
— Well, mate, ye ken ma feelins oan that yin . . . Gavin nodded.
— Aye . . . take care, Gav. We're at hame next Setirday. Aberdeen, eh, the cup.
— Aye. Which effectively means the season's over next week if ye discount the relegation battle.
— It's a tough joab, mate, bit some cunt's goat tae dae it. See ye doon the Four-in-Hand.
— Right.
Gavin turned and left the pub. He walked up the hill at Hanover Street, or Hangover Street, as they called it. The effects of the MDMA were running down in him and a shiver coursed through his body, although it wasn't cold. He pulled a flyer for a club night out of his pocket. Written on it was the name SARAH and a seven-digit phone number. He should just be able to phone that number. It was love. It was. It shouldn't have needed an ideal place and time to be expressed. It should just happen.
There was a phone box. There was an Asian woman in it. He wanted her to finish that call. More than anything. Then he became aware of his heart, thrashing in his chest. He couldn't speak to her like this; he'd fuck it up again. He wanted the woman to stay on the phone forever. Then she put the receiver down on the cradle. Gavin turned away and walked down the road. Now wasn't the time. Now was the time to get to his mother's house and feed Sparky the cat.
I Am Miami
For Dave Beer
1
Sitting in the lush garden, Albert Black's eyes glinted as he sipped his glass of iced tea. The fauna and flora of this tropical zone were alien to him; a coal-and-rouge bird chirped a belligerent warning from its vantage point in a eucalyptus tree, before springing into the air. Black wondered fleetingly about signs, though the notion of the augur was too Romanist, too pagan for his tastes, before returning to the palms that sambaed in the cool breeze. This led his line of vision out onto the electric blue of Biscayne Bay, and beyond to the skyscrapers of downtown Miami, glowing brashly in the morning sun. He found these lofty edifices distasteful. America seemed, in spite of the fervour of its daytime television evangelists, and the obligatory piety of its politicians, to be the most godless place he had visited. When he looked over at the emerging new financial district, he dimly recalled the magnesium gleam of the first Apollo spaceship as it launched from close to here, en route to the moon; all the time moving further from heaven.
Lifting the glass of tea, Black caught sight of his reflection. Despite his advanced years, his face had retained its bony, angular structure and pasty complexion. Close-cut grey stubble grew on each side of his head, the dome of which glistened leathery pink. He regarded his trademark thick, black spectacles, sitting on a hawklike beak of a nose. They covered small, dark eyes that still sparkled combatively, despite the pathos in them that seemed to invite sympathy. But he was the only person around to offer this, and that was certainly not in his nature. He crushed the weakness from his face with a tightening of his mouth, setting the glass down on the white wrought-iron garden table.
There was the problem of getting William and Christine ready for the church. Every Sunday: always the same problem; the footdragging, the procrastination. Nobody, even Marion, seemed to really grasp the issue of punctuality, and how we needed to set a good example. Rudeness to God, through late arrival at His house, could not be accepted. Lateness in general was a curse, the way in which time could be stolen, frittered away . . .
He felt the surge of a familiar malign force rising from within, and fought it down, champing on nothing but his teeth: that terrible burn inside. It was always strongest when he reluctantly woke into a new day and was sabotaged by that cruel jolt of anticipation, that hope that she'd somehow be back.
But Marion wa
s gone.
Forty-one years of marriage over and the best part of him destroyed. He'd watched powerlessly as the cancer thinned her down and hollowed her out, eating her from the inside. Albert Black looked out over the bay. He could have been cast adrift, floundering aimlessly in its waters, as he now was in the thick, warm air around him. Nothing was left; even his basic principles and his faith wavered uncertainly.
Why Marion? Why? Why, Holy Father?
But was it right to expect a just God? Was to do so not merely displaying the vanity of those who would seek to elevate themselves in the grand scheme of things? What a conceit to expect individual justice, when we were blessed by being part of something larger and immortal!
Or were we?
Yes! Forgive me my doubts, oh Father!
The bird had returned, and it cast a sharp, keen eye over Black, before trilling with increased venom.
— Yes, my friend, I hear you.
Yes. We are so slow to consider justice to members of other species on this Earth, yet we are so piteous when our mortality is tampered with by powers greater than us.
The bird seemed satisfied by this response and flew away.
But Marion . . . a world full of sinners, and He took you from me!
No matter how much Old Testament outrage Albert Black tried to summon up in his contempt of what he saw as the forlorn weakness of his species, Marion's face would always appear in his mind's eye. Even in her absence, her grace had the power to subdue his rage. But he'd been forced to recognise a painful, if bitter-sweet, lesson since her death: it was always her, not God. He saw that now. It was her love, not his own faith, which had cleansed and saved him. Redeemed him. Made sense of his life.
He always envisioned her as youthful; just as he had known her when they first met at the church back in Lewis, on that cold and squally October Sunday afternoon. And now, following her departure, he'd felt the desertion of another lifelong companion. No matter what chapters and verses of the good book he recited, or which psalms played in his head, however he tried to deflect his rage onto his fellow men, especially the non-believers, doubters, Judases and false prophets, Albert Black had to concede to himself that he was angry at the Creator for Marion's absence.