Chapter 2: Brett's Afternoon
Clarisse needed to get to Oxford Street without delay so as to ensure she got a good spot for her begging. She picked up her blanket and placard and gave Brett a quick peck on the cheek. He shut the door behind her and listened to the clatter of her shoes sounding ever more distant as she descended the stone staircase. He heard her voice wafting up from the lower stairwell. "Move out the fuckin' way, will ya? I'm already late for work!"
Brett took another swig of his lager as he pondered his lot in life. He recognised that by conventional standards he was not really successful. In fact, when he came to think about it, he was not successful by any standards. True, he had a job at the abattoir as a fire warden but in reality he was only a glorified cleaner. There was not that much job satisfaction being a cleaner. It wasn't even as if he had the opportunity to kill any of the animals; in modern abattoirs it was all done by machines. He didn't earn that much money either and once he'd done the weekly shop and bought the basic crisps, lagers and cigarettes, there was hardly anything left over for luxuries. It was just as well Clarisse had a daily income and could afford to stop off at a MacDonald's on her way home. He consoled himself in the knowledge that at least they had a balanced diet.
He lit another cigarette. What about Clarisse? He loved her in his own way. There was something about her. She was... she... well at least she was female! But what did she see in him? Perhaps it was because they had so much in common. They were both down and outs living in a squat. Neither had anything going for them, nor any reason to think their circumstances were likely to change in the foreseeable future. That had to be the reason, didn't it? Surely it wasn't because she just felt sorry for him. How humiliating if that really were the case? To have a homeless jobless person feeling sorry for him! It was all quite depressing really. And if that didn't depress him enough he recognised that on the evidence of their sexual encounter that morning he was hardly what you might call a stud, either. Admittedly she'd had her head in the racing pages but she might have done him the courtesy of acknowledging the fact that he was shagging her. She could have groaned once or twice whilst still continuing to read about form of the other runners at Epsom. It wasn't a lot to ask when all was said and done.
But then again she never ever seemed to be that excited when they were having sex. Admittedly he was a bit quick to come but in no way could it be described as immature ejaculation. He wasn't very big, he knew, but he wouldn't have described himself as small. Well, not that small, anyway. Maybe Clarisse was just large. Perhaps she was a secret lesbian. He had a flash of inspiration. He would get her a vibrator. That was bound to get her going. He had no money, of course, but that was of minor consequence; he was by now an accomplished shoplifter. There was a sex shop not too far away and he resolved to go there once he'd done the housework.
He set to this task with a relish and had a real spring in his step as he opened the sash window. He was whistling contentedly to himself as he lobbed the rubbish bags out into the garden below. For the life of him he couldn't understand why some people claimed housework was such a chore. He found it very therapeutic especially now that he could see the carpet. Or to be more precise, what had once been the carpet. All that remained of it now was the hessian backing but so much lager and tomato sauce had been spilt on it that the material had taken on a mottled and not altogether unpleasing pattern. The housework completed, he finished the last of his lager and the can followed the rubbish out of the window.
Even though it was a Saturday he decided he'd have a wash. He was going shopping after all. The secret of successful shoplifting is to blend in with the other shoppers. It is no good looking like a tramp that has just come in off the street; this only arouses the suspicion of the security staff. He went to the communal bathroom along the landing. Washing in cold water is not that much fun so he only washed what was visible. Someone had bought a room freshener aerosol and he used that as an underarm deodorant. Smelling strongly of 'Lilly of the Valley' he donned a clean shirt. And it was clean too; it was still in its original wrapping, having only been stolen from Marks and Spencer's the day before. Not that Brett was responsible for the theft in this case. It had been 'lifted' by a man who lived one floor below and had been offered to him in exchange for three cans of lager. The only downside was that it was a dress shirt with a frilly front and it was two sizes too large. He looked at his reflection in the remaining part of cracked mirror that was not covered in graffiti. He was quite pleased with his appearance; the shirt added a touch of class, although the sartorial elegance was somewhat compromised by the cufflinks made from paper clips.
It was lunchtime and he looked to see what there was to eat. Just one packet of crisps remained, but there was no cause to be concerned; there were still a dozen or so lagers and two packets of cigarettes left. He had a lager as an aperitif and another one with his cigarette after the 'meal'. Now it was time to go shopping. He secured the padlock on the door and walked down the three flights of stairs. Someone had thrown up on the lower landing. Brett stepped over it whilst holding his breath. He was briefly annoyed at this affront to the standards of civilised behaviour, but his attention was soon diverted as he negotiated the litter-strewn path to the front gate. A short while later he was entering the sex shop.
"Can I help you?" A surly character looked up from a magazine he'd been reading.
In Brett's experience it was easier to steal something if the shop assistant felt at ease with the customer. A friendly opening remark was called for. "Oh, it is really raining heavily out there."
