service.
‘Right, what do I need to do?’ I ask.
‘So you’d better do what I tell you.’
‘Fine. I’ll do anything.’
‘Meet me in Singleton Park on Saturday with a disposable camera and your diary.’
‘Okay. I’ll have to buy a diary,’ I say.
‘Well, buy one,’ she says, decisively.
‘I will.’
‘Or else I’ll distribute this and everyone will know how much you love Zoe,’ she says, wafting the pamphlet in the air. ‘Imagine what Chips would say if he saw this.’
Chips would probably just do his impression of having sex with Zoe: as an underwater diver, holding his breath, swimming through rolls of flesh.
‘Did Jean give it to you?’
‘Ah ha, that’s for me to know and you to find out,’ she says.
If I miss the first two buses home then I have to wait half an hour for the next one. I’ve already missed the first bus.
‘Oh. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. I’m going to catch my bus now,’ I say.
‘And if you do what I tell you then I promise to burn this document,’ she says.
‘That’s fair.’
I see the second bus through the fence at the top entrance.
‘I’ve got to run to catch this,’ I say.
It disappears behind the old people’s home.
‘Guess what?’ Jordana says.
‘I need to leg it.’
‘You were right. Jean mistook me for one of Zoe’s friends. She handed it to me in the canteen.’
‘Pardon me, but I’ve gotta run,’ I say and I turn to move off.
‘Wait. We could burn the evidence now?’ she says, holding her Zippo in the air.
I am one of those servants – butlers usually – who respectfully points out when their master is about to do something stupid: ‘You should probably only burn the document once the blackmail has been completed, m’ lady.’
I see the bus pull in at the bottom bus stop.
‘Don’t bother, you’ve missed it,’ she says.
She might be right. My only chance of catching it is if there’s already a few people at the bus stop and one of them does not have the correct change and they have to run to the Sketty Park newsagent and buy a Toffee Crisp to break a fiver.
‘You’ve missed it,’ she says.
I’m going to have to catch the third bus.
‘We could burn it now?’ she says, from behind me.
I turn around.
She is staring at me.
‘Come on, let’s burn it,’ she says.
I could tell her that she is completely undermining the idea that blackmail is one of her special skills.
She holds my gaze as she slowly lowers one leg after the other, descending the laddered steps. She is quite graceful. A breeze ripples her pleated skirt. I imagine this accompanied by big-band jazz music.
The bottom but one step wobbles as she stands on it; she panics and jumps to the ground. Her skirt parachutes up to her waist. I see some things I should not have seen.
I don’t feel so powerless anymore.
‘Alright, let’s burn it,’ I say.
Osculation
My tongue is in Jordana’s mouth. I can taste semi-skimmed milk.
I experience a sudden flash; it is a mixture of true love and a disposable camera.
She retracts her tongue and takes a step back. She’s wearing a black top with red arms and a denim skirt with pockets.
‘You better not’ve had your eyes open,’ she says, winding the camera on. The sound of the flash recharging is like a tiny plane taking off.
We are in the centre of the stone circle in Singleton Park, basically just a few uneven rocks sprinkled about the place. Fred, Jordana’s parents’ ancient sheepdog, is off his lead; he is sniffing and pissing on the boulders.
The green light starts to glow.
‘Right, now try to look a little less gay.’
We engage. Her tongue is warm and strong. I skim along her incisors. They feel enormous. I check out her premolars and have a scout around for wisdom teeth. There is a ‘cluk’ sound as light pulses on the backs of my eyelids. We disengage.
‘I thought you said you weren’t square,’ Jordana says, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. ‘You snog like a dentist.’
‘That’s my style.’
‘What – the drill?’
She expects me to have a witty reply.
‘Let’s try no tongues,’ she says, setting the camera on a nearby monolith.
She looks through the viewfinder, then points at a spot on the ground: ‘Kneel on the grass there.’
I go to ground. The grass is damp; it cools my knees.
‘Beautiful,’ she says, pressing a button on top of the camera.
She kneels down in front of me.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘No tongues.’
We go at it like fish. She puts her hand on the