Devil in Disguise (6 page)

‘That one,’ said Simon.

‘With
the broken nose? Surely not.’

‘Yes.
Him. I simply have to have him.’

Simon
and Molly were drinking in the student-union bar, settled in a corner seat
where they could study everyone coming and going. It was eight o’clock in the
evening and they had been there since they’d decided not to bother with a
lecture on the metaphysical poets that had been scheduled to start at three.
After a couple of glasses of wine, Molly had felt rather squiffy and switched
to water, but Simon was downing the half—price cider like there was no
tomorrow. As they had become closer, it had dawned on Molly that Simon’s
drinking was excessive. They went to the pub most days between lectures and he
could easily manage two pints of lager to her modest half. In the evenings, if
he wasn’t getting pissed in the student bar, he was off to Soho, doing much the
same thing. His drinking seemed inextricably linked with his reckless pursuit
of unlikely sexual conquests. Now he was staring at the bar, where some members
of the college rugby team were having a post-training drink. He was transfixed
by one particularly rugged individual.

‘I
think he’s too rough,’ said Molly, a note of caution in her voice. ‘He looks as
if he’d beat you to a pulp as soon as look at you.’

‘Mmm …’
said Simon, shuddering with pleasure at the thought. ‘Now you’re talking.’

‘You’ll
end up like Joe Orton if you’re not careful.’

‘It
wasn’t rough trade who took a hammer to him, was it? Look. He’s having another
bottle of beer.’

‘He
just burped!’

Simon
sighed. ‘He gets better.’

‘Well,
he’s doing nothing for me.’

‘Go and
talk to him. Find out his name for me.’

‘I’m
not procuring for you! Ask him yourself. But you’re barking up the wrong tree,
honey. In fact you’re in the wrong bloody forest. Those blokes are red-blooded
heterosexuals to a man — look at them!’

‘The
boundaries of male desire are not so easily categorised. The fact that he’s
just been pumping iron or laying into a punch-bag or whatever they do in the
gym means testosterone is pumping around his gorgeous body. He’s also halfway through
his third bottle of Becks so his judgement is affected.’

‘He’ll
need more than a couple of jars to mistake you for a page-three girl, Simon.’

Simon
stared at her. ‘Believe me, I know. Everything will work out very nicely. I’m
going to the bar. Are you ready for another exciting glass of fizzy water?’

‘Yes,
please. Try and show some restraint. He’ll swing for you if you proposition
him. I don’t want to spend the rest of the evening escorting you to A and E.’

Simon
stood up, cleared his throat and sauntered his way to the bar, a foxy glint in
his eye. Molly watched her friend, drunk and reckless, as he stalked his prey.
The rugby player was sitting on a bar stool, his chunky thighs spread wide.
Simon slipped in beside him, waving his five-pound note at the barman while the
boy, oblivious, carried on laughing and joking with his friends. Molly watched
as Simon placed his order, then tapped his quarry’s shoulder. He half turned to
Simon, then swivelled round to face him and they shook hands. A friendly, animated
conversation took place. The barman then delivered Simon’s cider and Simon
clearly offered his new friend a drink, which was accepted and a further order
placed. Then Simon turned and nodded towards Molly. The rugby player looked
over. She gave a weak wave. Simon must then have said something very funny
indeed as the boy let out a loud, hard laugh, before giving Simon a slap on the
shoulder. She saw him blink slowly at this, savouring the touch as if he were a
lame man touched by the Messiah.

Molly smiled
to herself. Despite her reservations, which were not moral in any way — rather,
old-fashioned concern for Simon’s physical well-being — it was hard not to get
involved in the excitement. There was never a dull moment with Simon, and she
had a ringside seat. To anyone else watching, they were just two lads having a
drink at the bar, but she had privileged information. She knew of Simon’s
carnal desires, his determination to seduce and devour the poor broken-nosed
innocent. Her friend was completely focused, she could see. It wasn’t a whim or
a bet, this slow, calculated entrapment. It was clearly of great importance to
Simon. The longer the build-up, the greater the prize.

Her own
emotional needs were quite different. Endless one-night stands had no appeal
for her. She craved the tenderness of real lovemaking, with the emphasis on
‘love’. She wanted a partnership: the knowledge that he would be there
tomorrow, that he cared for her and would look out for her. The fireworks of
sex and lust were just part of the package.

Simon
was now talking earnestly to the boy and holding up one finger. His companion
nodded in agreement and called to the barman, as Simon tore himself away and
hurried over to Molly. He spoke quietly and urgently in her ear, like a double agent
imparting vital information: ‘Nick King. Second year geography. Hooker. We’re
going back to his to smoke a spliff.’

‘Oh.
Are we?’

‘Me and
him. You’ve got an essay to write.’

‘No, I
haven’t. Why can’t I come too?’

‘Because
I told him you have herpes.’

‘You
what?’ Molly said, outraged.

‘Only
joking. But, darling, you do understand, don’t you? I sense fire in his loins.
The gods are smiling on me.’

‘I feel
as if I’m watching some poor lamb go to the slaughter.’

‘He
smells of soap, chewing-gum and lager. A potent combination, I’m sure you’ll
agree.’

‘How do
you think he’s going to feel in the morning?’

‘Sore,
hopefully.’

With
that, Simon kissed her goodnight, pulled her to her feet and propelled her in
the direction of the door.

‘Bye-bye,
baby!’ she sang, as she left the bar.

Simon
didn’t turn up for the morning lecture. He was waiting for her in the refectory
afterwards, though, and looked disgustingly hung-over.

‘I hope
it was worth it,’ said Molly, tutting, as she looked him up and down.

‘Let’s
go to the pub,’ was Simon’s reply.

‘You’ve
got the same clothes on as yesterday.’

‘I may
never wash again. The Rosemary Branch is calling me.’

Molly
laughed and stood up. ‘Come on, then, you old lush. Let’s go and get tanked up
once again.’

But a
few drinks later, although Simon was drunk and his mood euphoric, he still
wouldn’t spill any beans about the presumed success of the previous night with
Nick.

‘So.
How was he?’ Molly asked.

‘I
never kiss and tell,’ said Simon.

‘Ah! So
you kissed him!’ declared Molly.

‘Darling,
I didn’t go back to a hail of residence in Catford to look at his etchings. My
lips are sealed, though.’

Try as
she might, Molly could get no more details from him.

‘All
too sordid for your unaccustomed ears, I’m afraid,’ Simon would say.

Occasionally
Molly would be out with Simon and, if the mood took him, he would fixate on a
random man in a crowd. It could happen in a nightclub, a crowded train or even
a supermarket queue. A predatory look came into his eyes and she only had to
follow his gaze to see a handsome off-duty soldier, unmistakeable with his
regulation army haircut and well-ironed civvies, or a gum-chewing East End
hoodie. Anything might happen in the next few moments. It was not unknown for
Simon to abandon her altogether. More often than not he would go off for a few
minutes and return sniffing indifferently, as if he was a market shopper and
the produce well below expectations. ‘Now, where were we?’ he’d ask.

Simon’s
view of Molly’s more conventional approach to romance was decidedly dismissive.
Her first boyfriend, Jezza, had also been an inmate at the care home in
Liverpool. They had been inseparable and moved into a flat together when she
was sixteen, she had told him, but Simon stifled a yawn. ‘How nice for you, ‘he
said. ‘Did you curl up together on the sofa to watch TV and eat food covered
with breadcrumbs?’

‘Well,
yes, we did, actually,’ replied Molly, rather chagrined that such a significant
relationship in her life was clearly failing to hold Simon’s interest.

‘I
thought as much. And did you sleep under a cheap Paisley duvet cover and
acquire a kitten by any chance?’

‘You’re
awful and I don’t know why I like you. We had a canary.’

‘You
were nesting. Making the home you never had. Feeling grown-up.’

‘I
loved Jezza, Simon. Why must you belittle that?’

‘I
guess convention nauseates me.’

‘It’s
your love life that’s nauseating to most right-thinking people!’

‘Let’s
not call it a love life, Molls. A series of unlikely fleeting triumphs, yes,
but I have no dealings with love.’

‘I do.’

‘I know
that.’

‘I
loved that boy. I’d have done anything for him.’

‘Aw.
I’m filling up. So where is he now?’

‘I was
at sixth-form college, studying hard for my A levels. He robbed an off-licence
with some mates of his. He got five years.’

‘So
you’d do anything for him except wait?’

‘I
would have waited, but he told me not to.’

‘So
much for love. What happened to the canary?’

‘It
flew out of the window.’

‘It all
worked out quite well, then.’

Although they were
enjoying themselves hugely at college, Simon and Molly had to face stern
reality when it came to their dismal academic performance. Their course work —
what little they did of it — was marked with withering scorn by their tutors.
Eventually, at the end of the second term, they were called in to see the head
of English, who told them that the university was not a holiday camp and unless
they concentrated their efforts he saw little point in them continuing.
Afterwards they sat in the refectory and tried unsuccessfully to jolly each
other along.

‘I’m
sure Goldsmiths will be very quick to take all the credit once we’re rich and
famous. That man’s a nasty, vindictive old fool,’ said Simon.

‘They’ll
be naming the library after us one day, mark my words,’ said Molly, less
vehemently. She was a little more worried about her future. After all, she had
come to university to get a degree so that she could make her own way in the
world. Without it, what would she do?

‘If he
thinks we’re wasting our time here maybe he’s right. Let’s take our talent
elsewhere.’

‘Really?’
Molly was wide-eyed. ‘You mean… leave?’

Simon
shrugged. ‘Why not?’

She
considered it. She knew that Simon’s approach to life was much freer than hers.
He’d arrived on a whim and perhaps he would leave on one too. The prospect of
university without him was too grim to contemplate for a second.

‘Come
on, Molly.’ Simon’s eyes were sparking. He had sensed adventure, she knew.
‘You’re fabulous and talented and you don’t need an English degree to be a
star. And I certainly don’t need one. I have other, rarer qualifications. Let’s
chuck this in. It’s been fun, but real life is waiting for us out there. Let’s
go and get it.’

‘But
where shall we go?’

‘To
Hollywood!’

‘Hollywood?’

‘All
right, then, Cricklewood.’

‘To the
pub, more like!’ Molly laughed.

‘Come
on, then. Are you game?’ Simon widened his eyes, daring her to seize the day.

‘Yes,’
she said decisively. ‘I am.’

‘Good.
Then let us offload. Amen.’

There
and then they emptied their bags of anything to do with course work, leaving
books and files and pens on the table, and hooted their way out of college for
ever. As a parting gesture, they stood on the steps by the main front door and
did a dozen Tiller-Girl high kicks. With each one, Molly gave an operatic note
full vent. Then they ran out of the gate, glad to be gone, thrilled to be free.

As
dramatic and exciting as that moment had been, reality kicked in when they had
to move out of their halls of residence and hand back their grants. But they
did their best to keep their bubble inflated. Simon contacted some pre-university
friends of his who told him of a room going in a squat at Elephant and Castle.
He and Molly moved into it together, sleeping top to tail on an old mattress in
their sleeping-bags. It was cold and squalid but they kept each other laughing,
determined as ever to triumph in the end, reminding each other through
chattering teeth that they were special, destined for greatness, sure to
succeed.

Nevertheless,
the exultation they had felt at abandoning their university education did not
last for ever. Life in the Elephant and Castle squat was no fun, and when their
fellow squatters got deeply into drugs, it was so boring that they decided to
move on. Simon found them another, better place to live, in a large Victorian
mansion in Lorrimore Square, Kennington, where they occupied adjoining rooms on
the top floor. It was an established squat, run collectively with weekly house
meetings. There was even a cleaning rota and a house kitty for toilet rolls and
tea-bags. All in all, it was a very friendly and well-organised community. Nine
other people lived in the house and the general atmosphere was one of New Age
niceness, and respect for each other and the property they were ‘looking
after’.