The Fall of Man

Part II chapter 14

Chapter 14

Just before eight o’clock that evening, Noah skips along the corridor leading to Gwen’s room. Rover rattles along the tiled floor behind him, single wheel struggling to keep up with his long-legged charge. Noah has shaved (badly) and washed (superficially), but is still wearing the jumpsuit she gave him the day before. On top of the green outfit, he sports a knee length grey woollen coat that was hanging in his wardrobe on the day he moved into the residential complex.

The pair skid to a halt outside room 3.13 and Noah taps on the door. After some scuffling, the partition slides open and Gwen stands in the doorway. Her hair is piled up on top of her head and a white powder has been daubed across her face. The red paint on her lips creases up at the corners into a smile at the sight of her out-of-breath visitor. She is wearing a long white dress that hangs by two slender straps from her frail shoulders and trails into the bedroom behind her. Its puffy length is crisscrossed by faint stitching like a giant homemade chrysalis.

“Well?” She asks with raised eyebrows. Noah produces a bouquet with a flourish. Trussed up in a cone of newspaper, giant tulip heads of red and yellow crepe paper bob enthusiastically on drinking straw stalks.

“Thankyou!” she gushes, sweeping the colourful bundle from his outstretched hands and landing her lips for an instant on his startled cheek, before turning with a rustle and shuffling back into her room. Noah follows at a respectful distance, carefully stepping over the crumpled white caterpillar as it creeps along the floor behind her.

The Entertainment Complex is located on the sixth floor of the building. The lift doors slide open to reveal a dimly lit space beyond. Noah ushers Gwen out into the dark first, then waits for the shimmering train to depart the small spot-lit carriage before stepping through the steel doorway himself. On the other side, the couple are greeted by a stage set from another era. A Dickensian high street rambles away to their left and right. Shop windows made with small panes of thick, leaded glass are choc-a-block with bric-a-brac and framed by thick opulent folds of velvet. In the middle of the cobbled street, a young faux-marble boy urinates noisily into an oversized clam shell at his feet, and the liquid gurgles away down a discrete drain at the base of the statue. Over on the far side of the set piece, a gaudy windmill’s sails turn through the still, warm air. Beneath it, a row of box office hatches glow with the warm yellow light of gas lamps. High overhead, the finely coved plaster ceiling is almost lost in an inky midnight blue sky, and lit only by the pinpricks of light cast by not-so distant halogen stars. Somewhere in the background, the soft drone of an indistinct voice croons over a flamenco guitar, piped out into the atmosphere by concealed surround-sound speakers.

A substantial line of people has already congregated in front of the curved glass of the box office beside the Art Deco Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster. Standing side by side with Gwen in the queue for tickets, Noah racks his brain for advice on how to behave. Very little is forthcoming.

“You look nice.” He catches a glimpse of Gwen’s cleavage, trussed up in the billowing white creation she is wearing, and feels his face redden. Quickly he turns to study the billboard behind them. George Peppard’s tanned face and fluoride-bleached teeth smirk knowingly back at him.

“Thankyou,” Gwen smiles. She apparently failed to notice his inadvertent faux pas. “You look very handsome. As do you, Rover.” Rover’s LEDs blink rhythmically back at her. Noah’s heart pounds a little faster, but in silent mode.

“Two, please.” Gwen swipes her ID card across the plexiglass reader integrated into the marble-effect sales counter. A hidden machine whirrs for a moment and then spews two small tokens into a recessed dish with a tinkle. She takes them and presses one into Noah’s palm.

“Come on!” Linking her arm in his, she pulls him towards a pair of still-swinging doors. “Let’s go to the bar…”

On the other side of the saloon doors, a short staircase leads them down to a tall, glamorous foyer. There, each of the eight or nine box office lobbies coalesce into an open amphitheatre that is full of jumbled conversations and the clink of glasses on hard, reflective surfaces. Overhead, four giant chandeliers throw a flickering light over a central bar island. Looking back up the staircase, there is no sign of the quaint medieval square behind them. Instead, a series of screens mounted on the backs of the doors flash coded information in swift succession.

“Drink?” Gwen eases herself between two upholstered bar stools.

“Sure, I guess. What are you having?” Noah eases himself gingerly onto one of the tall, plump stools. Rover emits a muted bleep of annoyance but tucks obediently underneath.

“I think I’ll have a martini.”

“That sounds nice. What is it?”

“That was disgusting,” Noah shudders as he drains the glass. “And really small. I should have had a coke.”

“You should! Your face is all red.”

“Really?” He feels a little flushed, warmer than before. He reaches across the black gloss of the bar top for a menu.

“I think I’ll ha-”

He slips from the heavy stool which topples behind him and hammers into the wood-effect floor with a crash, narrowly missing Rover’s ovoid body. With a floppy guffaw, he squats and struggles to untangle their coiled umbilical from the felled chrome legs. Alongside him, Gwen slides to her feet. Her left calf brushes momentarily against his flailing arm.

“Time to go, Noah,” she smiles. “Our film’s about to start...”

Inside the auditorium, the temperature plummets and Noah raises the collar of his woollen coat protectively around his neck. The drink still burns in his stomach. They are stood in a slow-moving line two by two, and he wraps his fingers around Gwen’s small hand. He watches the breath steam from between her parted lips. Goose-pimples bloom across her shoulders and the fine hairs on her arms stand upright. He gestures to the heavy coat again, but she shrugs him away. A few steps at a time, they file in an orderly fashion down towards the middle of the hall, where they find a short row to themselves.

“Will this be ok for you?”

“Sure.” She waves him in. She is watching the screen. No previews – a well-oiled olive-skinned giant strikes a gong which chimes slightly out of time towards the back of the hall. Without turning, she rustles past his knees and settles into the arms of the generous seat next to his.

Within ten minutes of the film’s start, the popcorn is gone. The last slurp of Coke sprays from Noah’s nose when he feels cold fingers at the waistband of his trousers. He freezes. Gwen shifts in her chair and the fingers continue their exploration.

“What are you doing?” He hisses.

“What do you think?”

“Are you sure about this?” He whispers nervously down towards the shock of red hair.

“Of course – it’s the cinema.”

He looks around – sure enough, the darkened auditorium is full of bobbing bodies; human forms swaddled in coats and sweaters, hunched and gyrating. The scene reminds him of an episode of Animal Planet; a small island outcrop overcome by copulating walruses, their uneppen bodies heaving against one another like sacks of wet potatoes in the spray of the rising tide.

He peers into the darkness surrounding Gwen. In the half-light, her head and shoulders are lost to shadow, and she has hitched her copious, meringue-like gown up around her waist. She appears as a flower; her long legs extend like pale stamen from within the luxurious folds of the dress. With a mixture of fascination and terror, Noah’s eyes follow the milky curves of her thighs upwards - she was clearly prepared for this eventuality. She smiles back at his bemused expression, then looks beyond him to see whether Audrey is still flirting with George. She is.

“Hurry up and kiss me, Noah – the steroids won’t last forever.”

“Steroids?”