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It was a charming, if somewhat out-dated, three-up-two down in Chelsea that he'd now taken possesion of, Martin thought to himself as he poured out a large gin from the silver decanter in the corner. Off the crappy Edwardian desk - that'd be the first thing to go, he mused, although it had been in the family for generations. And then, he thought, all the other stuff too. Balls to it. It was a source of genuine rage to Martin, as he rearranged his tie in the mirror, Eton knot, Windsor knot, he couldn't really remember, that he, and in spite of the curtains, which, actually, had been out to get him since before he could remember, or even before that incident in the garden with the hosepipe - no Martin, no, fight back the memory, heroin is your friend ... ah, yes ... the ... well whatever. His father was a corpse, and it was time for Martin to be sober at the funeral.
But what were the chances, he thought. What were the bleeding chances? When his arm was already like a pin cushion, if the covering was creamy-white, and, underneath, very much like one of those ice-lollies you used to get in the Seventies, the kind of lollies that his father used to buy him, it occurred to Martin, with a cold icy surface on top and then all this red, or black or green stuff bubbling up out from under once the pressure was applied. Pressure, Martin felt, that it was basically going to be a drag for him to have to deal with at this stage. 'And who,' he thought to himself, as the white, painful delight (so 'not unlike ice cream ... Christ, not unlike ice cream,' he thought,) pumped it's way into his atrophied veins 'is going to save you, Martin, now? The minute you get anywhere near the mausoleum, they'll be at you at speed, the relations. And there is history for this sort of thing, after all. Does anyone really know what happened to Uncle Seb, Martin? Best thing to do is simply avoid.'
'Oh well,' thought Martin ' Well perhaps I can?'
But then;
'Uncle Seb ... was ... found, his remains, I guess, in the slums in Sao Paulo, Brazil, even though he'd never gone there personally, just abused the maid ... Who ... no, wait a minute, I was only thirteen ...'
Martin said. A long shadow fell on the study, on the lawn, and the trees outside. Which shouldn't have been palm trees, covered in, like, notional blood, he thought. Not covered in that, at least. With a pale hand, he called security. |
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