It was a weekend out of time, those few days, and it scared me how easy it was to slip back into that place, with its drop in centres, with its drink and its drugs and its churches. Wars and missions parade the streets, and here you pick your weapons quickly, the liberating �God of love�, to those who chose to be victims, and �God of harsh, flaming punishment� to his aggressors. Bible or gun, friend to aggressor, foe to victim. There was never any real need to stress which was winning the war. You picked your side, and you rarely deviated, you were damned whichever side, only death came quicker from the guns. Only those with hope picked the lofty goals, those that cared where their next hit came from picked the violence. Inaugurated eschatology was little comfort really. I ended up walking a delicious line between the two. I was copying my footsteps again now, not intimately tracing I note, but merely walking a parallel line for a few days. My story and I�m sticking to it.

I went walking the first evening there, as night slunk into the sky, the balmy summer evening was fresh after the heat of the desert and I wound my way through the park, settling myself on steps at the north end to watch this part of the world fall asleep. I turned myself to the east, and watched the reflection of the sunset on the ribbed sky, a myriad of menacing colours which I find strangely comforting and taking a deep breath, I taste the sweet scent of turbulence, flown in with the red winds and feel my own tension flow out, away from me, into the land. There is a children�s playground in the distance, and I can see the gentle lurch of the swings as the breeze plays it own games. A group of young teens are perched on the perimeter fence, bored and restless, and a mother with two young kids trudges past them, her gait familiar with the slow progress of her young. On the edge of the teenagers is a tall, lanky boy, with well pressed trousers and clean shirt, only his grey trainers, scuffed with his own unique brand of dirt betray him as one of these. He reaches out suddenly to snatch at some kind of toy the eldest is letting loll at its side. He tosses it to his left, letting it swoop into the hands of one of his playmates. Instantly the soft night is scattered as at once the child is brought out of its stilled shock and begins a fearsome wail, mingling with the siren-song of a city night just staring up in the distance, and this fierce bobcat of a mother turns to harangue the gaggle. I can hear them, on the edge of my thoughts, but my eyes are still with the quiet, well presented boy. He is staring at the child, utterly oblivious to the noise next to him, not ignoring like I. His focus is the child and the child alone, intense eyes, which I imagine to be ebony brown, unassuming, quiet and deep. It is a strange tableaux, the mother unaware of the scrutiny of her babe, the child unaware of anything but it�s loss, the boy unaware of all but his instinct and his friends unaware of anything but the expression of disenfranchisement and frustration he has tossed to them. Even I am not watching all, transfixed by the boy and the child, and in a strangely objective moment I pause to wonder who is conducting this exchange, all so perfectly choreographed, almost as though a dramatist with a subtle sense of irony is laying out a chilling narrative. Some could claim it is the boy, but even he has been caught unawares by the power of his desire. The scene ends just as abruptly as its started, and the little family jolts away, progress uneven as an irate feral being marches, immune to the stumblings of her womb offerings, and behind them all, outside their world, the boy adjusts his trousers.

***

I traced an indirect route homeward, needing to feel these streets surge up and through me, and as I walked I could feel my energy returning, the passions and the power I thought I had long ago left behind mulled in my chest. I drew in a shaky breath and stalled slightly as my stomach flipped and then knotted itself around the remains of my dinner. I could feel her again and I shut my eyes against the knowledge. I didn�t believe it was possible but these streets were harder than I left them, the old neighbourhood was slowly being buried, city hall believed it was tidied away, folded between the cracks and brushed into alleys, observed only by the bright eyed rat and her companions of the night. A new life now, disturbed only by the shuddering of a bin lid onto cold concrete, knocked by a cat on its rovings, yet alley cat or fat cat it was hard to discern. And that was the problem, money had been ploughed into these people and we were all scrubbed and dressed in our Sunday best. But like any congregation we were tapping our feet against a well trodden floor, glancing furtively at out watches, waiting until we were released back into daily existence. That�s the problem I find with the Sabbath, it�s duration is short and it�s effects shorter. The money had soon leaked its way back onto the sidewalk, trickled though the grubby hands of bribed truants or the oily, mescaline skin of the addict as he is paid by the hour to smudge gaudy colour onto a playground wall. It didn�t need a cynic to tell you it was now rushing back up into the private possession of the orchestraters of this life. About now he would be knocking back the last swill of whisky, stubbing his not quite Cuban cigar out on the ashtray engraved with the golf-club emblem, to heave up to his plump bed and canny, svelte wife, who endures the jerking thrusts and pungent breath in order to believe she is loved and needed. As he sleeps fitfully she is consciously aware that any of her sorority could have played the part with equal grace, but she locks the knowledge away in the rifle cupboard, and too turns to slumber, dreaming of a time when all she would have needed to lock away was the tea, her in a flowing floral gown with gusset, him smarter than the clothes today, and it would have been the politics of a new world, an expanding world, not of one we cant control. And through it all our streets are meaner, its characters leaner, guns quicker and alleys darker, but the needles are cleaner so it�s okay really...

***

I completed that path on the Sunday. I changed into my smart black trousers and donned a white jumper. I put on clean underwear and stepped onto the subway, gradually rumbling away into town. I was comfortable in the encased metal carriages, shuttling underneath a city. I could see I was drawing undue attention, the drunk in the corner was mumbling into my breasts and a girl to the side of me had her eyes on my cross and my wallet. I caught her eye, and raised my arms and stretched gently letting her see the gun tucked into my trousers and the switchblade in my sock. Sometimes I like to live my life as though it were a movie. We shuttled into ? at 9.30 and I ambled along the wide open plan streets into the Mass. It was too low for my taste, no robes, and processions, but the choir boys were pretty. And as I knelt at the communion rail, my palms outstretched to salvation I could feel my white shirt stretched across my shoulder, stretching and pressing into her claw marks. The contrite amen, and amen again, make the sign of the cross, peace be with you, blessing of the Father, and out into the new day. My heart was so full, I could feel me again, coursing through my veins was life, I was home again. It had been too long with out that gold wine, and for that brief rattle back into the North city I was whole, happy and hearty. I was walking the path of my god, all the days of my life, my skin was buzzing, my mouth twisted into a smile, and I felt calm. It was strange, all these last few months I had been almost numb, I could talk emotions, express them, roll them around my mouth like a new lover, but never feel them. Almost as though my centre were encased somehow, a barrier between head and heart. It was often necessary for my survival, thinking too much always brought me pain, but sometimes my head never stopped thinking. It whirred away above me, beyond me, incessant. Even in sleep I could feel it, and the dreams only came then, or perhaps it was only then I caused to recall. Ticking over, steadily, constantly, edging on my conscious, no matter what I did, where I did it, with whom, it was there. Nagging. Until I gave in, fell, let her swamp me. But not now. Now I was strong.

I reached the tenement as my stomach proclaimed it mid-day. I climbed the dirty stairs, weaving between the needles, rather than risk the elevator, with its rusted grate and resident drunk. She was still in bed when I arrived, sobbing to herself, and I could feel my nose turn up at the sight. I retrieved the razor from the coffee crusted cabinet by her head and cleaned the crusted surface with my nail. I could feel the tension in my hands, willing me to clench them, but I kept my centre and instead shrugged the black jacket off my shoulders and onto the form on the bed. She had stilled now, and thankfully stopped snivelling, occasionally her breath caught and she would sniff the tears back into her body, but I chose to ignore it. I would leave her alone unless she called her attention to me, but I had faith she was smarter than that. I held the razor in my right hand and hoicked the blouse above my breasts, catching it between my teeth when it slipped gently over the flesh. I grasped my nipple and watched it harden with detached disinterest, pulling the flesh away from me I pressed the blade to the taut skin. I paused, the moment of indecision, and felt the pressure slacken. I breathed, and took it away. And then I pressed again and jerked my hand, slashing with uneven pressure. It didn�t hurt. Not enough. Not still. The wound was little more than a scratch, its thin line of red, dotting barely with blood. I cut again, and then again, neat parallel lines, arching gracefully around the curve of my breast when I released it. I ran my nail over the drying blood and scraped the cuts clean, licking the flecks from my finger I glanced down at the result and smiled. Bella was watching me, her eyes big and round, disgust flickering barely hidden beneath her coquettish lashes. I smiled lazily and selected the longest cut. My sharp hiss of breath ripped through the Sunday morning air as I slashed it deeper, longer, wider, and giddy with the rush I dropped my shirt back over my throbbing body. Sinking to the bed I yanked the blanket from her, exposing my night�s work to the baby day. I picked up the discarded handcuffs and trussed her, catching the rope encasing her ankles in the chain, forcing her to arch her hips forward, breasts and cunt straining perfectly. I left the room and picked up my luggage and walked deliberately to the door. I placed the bags on the floor and unlatched the door and then my conscience kicked in. I stepped back to her, slung my keys onto the bed, a near perfect arch, and the plopped reluctantly with a jarred clink next to her stomach, the cool metal teasing her.

�The car keys are on there. Don�t say I never give you anything.�

She glowered up at me, with a dignity I�d never thought she would find, and flicked her tongue over the deep lips, and my mind reeled as I saw Victoria in that first night innocence.

�I hate you.� Her tone was flat, devoid of anything but brute fact, I knew that tone, it spoke in my head most days.

�Oh, I know�, my voice rippled along the walls as I paced to the bed, and grasped her chin between thumb and forefinger and she flinched backwards, trying to break my hold, �But at least I�ve given you that much.�

She was still now, and I watched, just like I had all those years ago, as her mind registered the comment. Her features settled in comprehension, and then swamped with anger again and I simply raised my hand slapping those near perfect features back on to the soiled pillow, hearing with satisfaction the crack of her head against the bed post. Those were the last words she said to me. And as I rode out of town on the East bound train they warmed me as I contemplated idly just how long it would take skinny to realise I was gone.

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