Thongs

— 5-

Night fell early in the Glasgow slum. At half past four in the afternoon I lit the oil lamp and sat down with the News of the World in front of the fire.

The rest of the day had passed uneventfully. Old Cooper, still hurling threats at our window, had finally been led away by some of the men. But he was not to get off so lightly. Razor King never forgot an insult. One night a few weeks later, old Cooper was badly slashed by an unknown razor slasher on his way to work. Everyone knew it was my father's work, but as usual, there were no witnesses and the victim kept silent. Cooper lost his job and, half-blind and emaciated, he took to selling bootlaces in the street. I speak of this simply to emphasize the fact that it never paid to cross Razor King. The latter's position depended entirely on his reputation for the most savage brutalities. Thus, sooner or later, a man who had crossed him would find himself confronted in a quiet place by a man half-mad, more wolf than man, razors flashing and hob-nailed boots kicking. Cooper was just one of a long series of broken victims. His fate excited pity in no one, not even, I believe, in Hazel who, having been brought up in the slums with a knowledge of all their brutal conventions, looked upon her father as an old fool, just as she would have considered it foolish for a man to try to stop an avalanche with his fists. Anyway, since she had come to bear Razor King's mark, she had become his woman, and as her fate was intimately bound up with the fate of her man, her first loyalty was naturally to him.

Hazel had returned to bed immediately after the marking. She was sleeping restlessly. Johnnie and Razor King had gone out. I was therefore alone. Remembering suddenly, I put the paper aside and reached in my pocket for the little screw of newspaper. It was still there, warm from the warmth of my body. I opened it and threw the paper in the fire. I held up the little yellow rubber sack to the lamp and watched the liquid move about like crystalline sputum within. I tightened the knot at the neck to make sure that none of it escaped. Then I poured some hot water into a basin and washed the bag carefully. Clean and dry, it lay like a little sexual talisman in the palm of my hand. I laid my other hand on top of it and crushed it between them. The fluid moved about excitingly between the palms. I shuddered, aware that my own breathing had become heavier. I laid it against my cheek. All skin, with the slimy little clot within, was more than anything else like an oyster, a warm yellow oyster, a gift from an unknown man. Had it been inside a woman, a man's lust trapped within the almost transparent rubber in the hot breathing walls of some unknown woman's cunt? I shuddered with pleasure at the thought. What a wonderful find! I had seen them before, often, in doorways, hide-outs where we went to smoke cigarettes, and lying around the street, but I had never before found one which was so skillfully knotted so that not a drop of the precious ichor was lost. I raised it to my nose and smelled it. I was slightly disappointed. It smelled only of rubber. I had washed the living smells away with the dust. I held it by the knot and allowed the bag to fall like an empty sausage skin on my lap. I lifted it again and watched the slime fall like a veil within to the little nipple at the end of the condom. Imprisoning the liquid there between my forefinger and thumb I raised it to my mouth and sucked it strongly as I would have sucked a teat. That made me feel really sexy. A man's lust in my mouth. I pricked the rubber gently with my teeth, little doting pressures, little tongue jabs, ecstatically. With a furtive glance at the bed where Hazel still slept soundly, I allowed my knees to fall open and allowed the fire to strike hotly at my naked crotch. I raised my skirt above my navel and looked down at myself. There was a small mole below and to the left of my navel, a little mark which would soon be covered by my growing pubic hairs which were as yet still sparse, quite silky and not extensive. The lips of my sex showed pinkly through the meager hairs, wet or sticky like the pistil of flowers. Slowly, allowing the bag to wedge between my reddening thighs — the wave of heat from the fire struck directly — I touched it lightly against the sensitive clitoris. I was breathing heavily. But somehow this slight contact disappointed me. Once again forcing the fluid into the little bulb at the end I held it tightly to my sex and rubbed it there briskly until the exterior of the condom was again quite wet. Then, with my middle finger, I slipped it into myself up to the knot. Only the open end of the little rubber bag was now visible. I closed my legs tightly together to contain what was in and with my eyes tightly closed I enjoyed the sensation.

At that moment Hazel groaned.

Quickly I allowed my skirt to drop back into place and got up. I found that I could move around without hindrance and all the time with the luxurious feeling of having that between my legs.

"What time is it?" Hazel said. She was in a sitting position and now seemed wide awake.

"Nearly five," I said.

"Will ye make us a cup o'tea, hen?"

The big kettle was already near the boil on the stove. I moved it over until it sat directly on the fire. It began to sing at once. I was smiling to myself. I was wondering what Hazel would say if she knew what I had between my legs. It suddenly occurred to me that my father never used condoms. For all she knew, Hazel might be pregnant. I would like to have asked her what it was like to be fucked like she was the night before. Did she really want it in the same way as my father did or did she only want the reputation? She was already well-known in the dance-halls. That's where Johnnie had seen her, dancing with one of the professionals, for she had a reputation as a dancer herself. I had been a bit surprised when she came back with Razor King. There would be no more dancing for her now. Not until my father got tired of her anyway, and by that time she would probably be pregnant. And that would be the end of her. She would settle down with some man or other in a slum flat. She would become one of the hairy, gaunt, hatless women in shawls. My mother was one of those women. I suppose everyone thought I was going to be one too.

I made the tea and carried a cup over to her.

She was looking at me in an uncertain way, as though she wasn't sure whether she could talk to me.

"What age are you, Gertie?"

"Eighteen," I said. "What about you?"

"Nineteen," she said. "Nineteen last August."

"Were ye no thinkin of gettin married?"

"Me marry!" She burst out laughing. "When ah get married it'll no be tae one o'the louts in this district! No bliddy fear! Ah suppose ye think ah'l marry a hooligan like your brother Johnnie?"

"Whit's wrang wi'im!" I said angrily.

"Whit's wrang wi'im!" she mimicked. "He's all cock an bluster, your Johnnie! No brains!"

"An ah suppose Razor King's the same!" I said.

She laughed softly. Her breasts were above the blanket. She took her right nipple between her middle and forefinger and squeezed gently. "No. He's different," she said. "He's the King. That's different."

"Johnnie's only twenty."

"Who cares if he's seventy?" Hazel said. "He's no the King and no likely tae be."

"Ah widnie be too sure aboot that!" I said and went angrily over to the fireplace.

For a moment we were both silent.

Then Hazel's voice came softly across to me, coaxing.

"Ah don't want tae quarrel with ye, hen. When ye're a bit older and know a bit more aboot it, ah'll tell ye a few secrets."

My hand brushed my skirt above where the condom was embedded.

"What do ye mean?"

She laughed again.

"Ah'm no that young," I said.

She looked at me reflectively.

"Step a minute into ma shoes," she said, pointing to the patent leather high-heeled shoes which lay discarded beside the bed.

I was thrilled. I had never worn high heels. Slowly, with great excitement I crossed the room and put on the shoes. They were not much too big for me. I stood up shyly for her to see.

"Lift your skirt a bit above your knees and let's see ye," she said. "Now turn round."

I was careful not to lift the skirt too high. I didn't want her to see the projecting condom.

She seemed pleased with me.

"Ye're no half bad, hen," she said. "Razor King's daughter, eh?"

"Whit difference does that make?" I felt it was an attack on me.

"It makes a difference all right. Don't you worry!"

When I didn't reply, she said: "Ye can thank yer bliddy stars!" Her tone became confidential. "Listen, Gertie," she said, "ye don't want tae stay in the Gorbals all yer life, do ye?"

I shook my head. We all hoped that some miracle would happen, that some Prince Charming would come along and take us away. But it never happened. Deep down we all knew we were condemned. Did Hazel know a way out? Then why was she with Razor King? I looked at her mistrustfully.

"Come here an ah'll show ye something, hen."

I went slowly up to the bed.

"Now this is between you an me," Hazel said. "You breathe a word tae yer father or that precious brither o yours an we're finished. Ye can rot where ye belong, right here in the Gorbals."

I nodded breathlessly.

She opened her handbag and from out of the lining she took a small rectangular book.

"D'ye know whit that is?"

I shook my head.

"It's a bank book," Hazel said. "It tells how much money ah've got in the bank." She opened it. "Look there," she said. Her finger pointed. The deposits amounted to two hundred and fifty-three pounds.