Holland Park
And another dawn breaks with the pain of blood like a red mist through fearsome night streets, a new day with all of yesterday’s newly awakened traumas and hung-over tears, banging on the door, embracing him, screeching like murder at the edge of the forest, tearing pages out of the book of sleep, dragging him from his dreams like a detective.
There’s nothing else.
What else should there be?
A negro bass-player’s double bass just before the dawn?
A sense of twilight?
What about the amok-man?
Smashing up the room with a hammer, spitting and hissing like a demon with his face horribly twisted… a terrible grimace.
Eh?
What?
Tell me about that bastard.
God.
I can see him now: sweat dripping from his nose and chin, spit foaming up like whipped snot around the wry, distorted, criminal grin of his gibbering mouth.
Look, I’m telling you it never happened. There was just this woman. Someone called her sweetheart. She couldn’t remember his name.
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