Wednesday, 16 May 2012

In Cassidy's Care: 4. Last Monday

It had been a tense and testing week for Cassidy. 3 a.m. early last Monday, his neighbour’s latest lover (in a long line of latest lovers) had threatened him with a butter knife. Cassidy had been awoken by Monty’s screams.
“You fucker. You’ve fucking killed me Claude, you fuck
Armed with a single leather slipper (left foot) and an early morning erection, Cassidy charged upstairs into the darkness with only his dressing gown for cover. As he reached the communal landing, a hooded figure blundered past before turning on him.
“Want some? Want some?” lisped the livid stranger, apparently Claude.
Cassidy hit the light switch and his bleary eyed bravado evaporated. It might have been but a butter knife but Cassidy definitely did not want some.
“Come on big boy, you gonna frisk me or fuck me?” drawled Claude, eyeing Cassidy’s now gaping gown. His eggy eyes popped and then narrowed; there was a smell of whiskey and stale sex. Cassidy pulled himself and his gown together. He felt naked and vulnerable without his glasses.
“Just go”, he said in a voice that was an octave higher than it should have been, and stood impotent, squinting as Claude’s sorry hooded ass stumbled down the stairs. Cassidy tied a double knot in the belt of his dressing gown and tentatively pushed open the door of Monty’s apartment. Monty sat bolt upright on a sofa, clutching at his right side.
“The fucker’s killed me”, he wailed.
There was an odd gurgling sound. Cassidy thought of his boys with plastic straws, clearing their coke bottles of that last holy half-inch.
Not good.
“Hold it together Monty, I’ll call an ambulance.”
“I am holding it together. Literally. Look”
Monty raised a bloody hand from his satin pajama jacket. Even without his glasses Cassidy could see an ugly gash leering up at him, pink and frothy.
“Did you meet Claude? Isn’t he a charmer? From New York… one of yours Peter... I mix him a Manhattan and the fucker stabs me”
“He did that with a butter knife?”
“Uumphh” Monty started to roll onto his side.
“Stay with me Monty” Cassidy’s mind raced. He searched out the bathroom and returned with a towel, rolling it up into a ball.
“I want you to press this against the wound, Monty. Pressure’s the thing here.” 
Thank Christ for compulsory first aid classes he thought and reached for the phone.
“Is your phone working Monty? I’m getting nothing from 911?”
“That’s because you’re living in London you prick” guffawed Monty before dissolving once more into that ghastly gurgling.
Cassidy reddened. He always knew he’d be found wanting in an emergency. Amelia had always maintained that it was a blessing he’d led an uneventful life.
“You’ll be crap come the revolution”, she had said just before testing her theory.
I love you, goodbye…
Cassidy; crying out loud again...
“Up yours” muttered Monty.

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