Chapter 2: Cooling off

I quaffed the whole flask off in one go and regretted it instantly. The taste, which was as foul as the smell should have led me to expect, shocked me into the realisation that in a moment's frustration and despair I had swallowed some rank concoction of unknown composition and potency. I half expected to collapse to the ground in agony like someone in a hackneyed Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation scene but, to my relief, I could sense no immediate ill effects beyond the memorably vile taste. With a slight sense of anti-climax, I drank several glasses of water, did a quick tour of the house to ensure it was secure and everything was turned off, and rang for a cab.

It was only when I sat down to wait that I became aware of a mild discomfort, like a slight stomach cramp. But by the time the cab arrived, mere minutes later, I was almost doubled up with abdominal pain, had a steadily worsening headache, and was beginning to sweat profusely. I really wanted to go to hospital but I felt embarrassed to admit what had happened and I was too proud to let Wendy think that she had driven me to attempt suicide (if she had; I do not think my motives were that clear). So I told the cabbie to take me home, assuring him that, despite appearances, I was perfectly all right. ("You OK, guv?" "Yes, I'm fine. Too much to drink, that's all." — almost the truth, really.)

At home I let myself in as quietly as possible and collapsed into the spare room bed. I was still in great discomfort and hardly expected to sleep, but in fact I dozed off at once. My night was marked, however, by a series of dreams of an extraordinarily intense eroticism. One after another, in fact often several at a time, buxom young women ripped off what little they were wearing and threw themselves upon me. One or two them I knew, notably little Connie from work who appeared more than once, and a few of them were from Uncle Albert's laboratory wall, but most of them were conjured up from my own imagination.

The next thing I remember, a hand was gently rocking me awake, sunlight was filtering through the curtain and Wendy, dressed for work, was sitting on the bed looking at me with a curious mixture of animosity and solicitude, the former predominating.

"I thought I'd better wake you up before I left," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with you. You haven't got a temperature but you're terribly flushed and you're in a cold sweat. I've rung your office and told them you won't be in because of a bereavement. Do you want me to call Dr Wyatt?"

I managed to mumble something to the effect that it must be some reaction to the trauma of the night before.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose so. I'm sorry for the bad timing, but I meant what I said. We'll talk tonight if you're feeling better. I must go now, I'm late. Goodbye."

With that she went, leaving me feeling desolate. The "Goodbye" had sounded so final.

I wanted to stay in the bed but the sheets were too damp after a night's cold sweat. When I threw them off me, I saw they were riddled with the unmistakable stain of semen — a good job Wendy had not seen that, I thought — and only then did I remember the dreams. As I recalled them, especially the ones involving Connie, I felt myself getting aroused. I was surprised, judging by the state of the sheets, that I had any more spunk to offer, but after only a few moments' pounding the bed was even messier.

After a shower and some breakfast I felt much better — remarkably fit, in fact — and spent the rest of the day washing the sheets, making arrangements about poor Uncle Albert, and generally getting on with things. It was strange to be at home on a working day. I heard the commotion next door as our neighbour got her kids off to school, then her door slammed again as she left for work herself.

It may be snobbish but I had always found these neighbours rather common. Betty Rico had three kids; I gathered that she got financial support from some man but he never appeared so I presume he was married (tut tut). It is not that they were bad people as such, but they were loud and vulgar. Currently, they all sported glorious tans having just returned from a fortnight in Grancanaria (during term time — tut tut again). The two boys were notorious tearaways and their elder sister, Kylie, sixteen last month, was just blooming into womanhood. And "blooming", believe me, was the operative word. The boys and the mother had the generous build conferred by the family's love of fast food, but over the last year or two Kylie had outdone them all. She had simply exploded in every possible direction. I know I like a few curves but Kylie's curves had curves; she was barely five feet tall but must have weighed at least twelve stone and every time I saw her she had somehow found space for a few extra pounds. However, this did not stop her from being bright, brash and confident; nor did it prevent her from wearing the skimpiest outfits she possibly could (tut tut again). I mention Kylie because about ten minutes after Betty had left for work I heard next door's gate and saw Kylie, looking round cautiously, sneak back up her front path and let herself in. A few minutes later I could hear her favourite music through the party wall. Tut tut yet again.

But I had no time to waste disapproving of the neighbours. There was a lot I had to do and I was surprised how well all this activity distracted me from moping about the break-up of my marriage. Another thing that surprised me was the frequency with which improper thoughts entered my head; for instance when I was at the undertaker's discussing Uncle Albert's funeral I found myself distracted by another type of stiff. Twice during the day I had to find relief. I also looked in at Uncle Albert's to check all was in order. I had hoped to start tidying it up, look for his will and other important documents, and maybe even find some notes about FUCK, but I was running out of time so I went home to face the music when Wendy got back from work.