[ A Tale of KEE ANN AHH ]

1

A bird is singing outside his open window. He climbs out of bed slowly. He has nothing to rush for. He walks naked to the bathroom, takes a piss. He runs hot water. He shaves. He pokes the bruise on his thigh gingerly. Back in the bedroom he pulls on faded jeans and a grey shirt. No shoes, though. Rome likes to walk barefoot.

There are eleven flights of stairs in his apartment block. He kicks his way through old newspapers and empty crisp packets. He walks in a forward-leaning slouch. He’s in no rush. China’s Café serves breakfast till noon.

2

The wireless crackles as Rome walks in. A pale girl with blue and purple dreadlocks looks up from her scrambled egg and toast and grunts at him, and China leans over the counter to adjust the aerial.

—Where’s me jacket? asks Rome. —Left it here yesterday.

China sniffs sullenly. —No you never, he says, —you were wearin’ it when you went out. And there’s thirteen quid on yer tab.

—I’ll pay at the end o’ week. Julie’s child support is due today. Get me a bacon butty.

Rome sits at the table by the window, in the sunshine. Dreadlock girl grunts again. He reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer and garlic.

—What’s your name? he asks her. She doesn’t answer. She looks down at her plate and scoops up the last of her scrambled egg with her fingers. Rome scrunches his nose and looks away. —Oh, please yerself.

He lights a cigarette. He empties the sugar from the bowl onto the floor and uses it as an ashtray.

3

China brings the bacon sandwich over on a crumpled serviette. —No plates today, mate. Dishwasher’s not workin’. Gone on holiday wiv her boyfriend, heh.

—Where’s the rind? Rome scrunches his nose again. —I like the rind.

—Well, it’s rindless, ain’t it?

—Ah, sod it. Don’t worry. ‘Sfine.

China’s foot crunches on the sugar. He swears under his breath and tries to sweep it under the table with the side of his shoe.

The bacon is undercooked, but Rome eats it anyway. Halfway through his sandwich the dreadlock girl gets up. The wireless crackles. He watches her as she walks out the door. She’s wearing a short black skirt and striped stockings. Her shirt shows her midriff and there’s a tattoo of a magpie on her back.

No rush, but she’s pretty, so he leaves the rest of his sandwich on the table, grinds out his cigarette under his bare heel in the sugar, and follows her.

—Friday! Pay by Friday, you hear? yells China, and then the wireless is crackling again.

4

Outside is summer. And more birdsong.

No rush. She’s walking quickly though, so his slouching-pace quickens.

He catches up with her just as she crosses the road opposite Kensington Gardens. —Hey love, fancy a smoke?

She doesn’t stop, but she glances at him and raises an eyebrow. —I fancy a walk, sweetie, she tells him.

She’s obviously a Yank, though she’s faking an upper-class English accent. Rome smiles. This may prove to be interesting. —Then can I walk with you?

—Yes, she says.

So they walk, and there’s no rush.

5

When she talks, he watches her face. She’s short, so he has to look down. She has a tiny nose and a wide mouth with purple gloss on her lips. There are dark blue circles painted on her cheeks and around her eyes. She fascinates him. He knows that she knows it.

As they stroll through the park she talks about things he won’t fully recollect later. (Perhaps that’s why she tells him.) There are snippets that will remain – China owes me more than complimentary breakfasts and they fret over sprites but the watchmakers are the ones to beware and the girl of the moon will call for me soon, when she loses her lover on the path – but Rome is oblivious to their meanings, if there are any.

They walk. She talks. He watches her face.