A dragon in winter

A Dragon in Winter Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Somehow Jess and I stumbled through Christmas and the New Year. I cooked Christmas dinner which we ate at midnight, Jess having done an eighteen hour shift because of the usual festive absenteesm of permanent staff. New Year I saw in alone for the same reason. But between us there was a lack of deep warmth. I tried, oh so hard, to pull us back together, but something held us apart and I woke in the mornings, and shaved tearstains from my face.

Damien had left us alone, but his presence was there in the mute pile of sixty seven pages of typed manuscript that Jess turned over and over, but never questioned me about. Some evenings she seemed to turn them over without reading them, a mechanical action done in a dream of whisky driven habit. I watched, tense with unshed tears, but couldn't help her.

In the middle of January the pile of papers disappeared.

But the middle of January was for the Asian community, Eide - the release from a long period of self denial and discipline. 

Accordingly both the stretched limousines Mary owned were out, and her husband Ken and I waited in Blackburn one evening for the time when we would roll forward to meet our clients in the narrow street nearby. To be early would just mean driving longer.

Damien appeared, tumbling from the sky like a glittering bright snowflake, to alight on the bonnet of the diamond white limousine. A halo circled his miniature silvery form in the fuzz of fine polish marks in the paintwork. Somehow I controlled any reaction. Ken, who was facing the car directly, saw nothing.

Damien folded his wings and said, "Sorry I have been away. Things to do - places to go - you know. What are we doing this evening?"

I said nothing.

"Now, Jeffery, do not be difficult."

"Ken," I said, "How would you describe this evening?"

Ken did not belong to the politically correct.

"Taking a bunch of Asian hoodlums to Wilmslow Road to pose and get fed. You know that anyway. Why ask?"

"Right, just trying to get your spin on it," said I.

"I suppose it'll be in one of your bloody books." 

"Maybe. But don't worry. Like the rest, it'll never get published."

Thankfully Damien seemed satisfied with the answer, for he remained silent.

"Time to go," said Ken.

I slid into the driver's seat and started the car. The green lit computer display told me the five litre engine was all A-OK and I moved off silently, following the horizontal red sliver of the neon-lit boomerang-shaped TV antenna mounted on the back of the leading limousine. Damien's form replaced the Lincoln mascot of my car, glinting in the orange streetlights.

We entered the narrow canyon of terraced stone houses with slate roofs. A bunch of young men - noisy, uninhibited youths - shouting - keen to show their power and manhood - rushed towards the cars as we drew up at the appointed address.

They piled in, and immediately probed the function of every switch and button. Between the intervals I was separated from the passenger space by the partition going up I welcomed them to the limousine, said my name was Jeff, explained we didn't have a CD player but tapes, the sun roof was disconnected for the winter so it was not left open in the rain, and the TV was a video which played American tapes and this is how it works, and the controls for the air-conditioning were their end of the car not mine. Somebody was despatched for audio cassettes. The passengers in the car swapped, as friends were shown the accommodation. I was asked how much the car was worth, was I paid well, was it something I enjoyed, and did I have to clean the car.