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Cheri had a small flat across from the Cathedral. We were drinking Gordon’s gin and Blastaways out of long glasses. She said; ‘I’d love to brutalize that bitch. I’d love to dope her up on barbiturates and perform every kind of perversion on her flaccid body.’

‘You’re angry.’ I said.

‘Love is an angry thing,’ Cheri said.

‘That’s not love, that’s just violence.’

‘I’d do it at midnight; drive her to the golf course and stake her out on a green, under the moonlight.’

My mind flashed to golfing bags, putters and packs of shrink-wrapped balls. I shuddered and told Cheri, ‘My friend Griff has this fantasy where is he in a dungeon being tortured by Saddam Hussein. Or was it Joseph Stalin? Anyhow, after a particularly brutal session he is left lying in a bloody heap. He thinks that the pain is over for a while, but he is wrong, and the door opens again. He looks up to see Ronald MacDonald step in. Ronald is holding a large candle. The wick is still smoldering….’

‘Ah, funny that,’ Cheri said, not really listening.

‘It’s all a bit alien to me.’ I said.

Cheri stood up and looked into the mirror above the fireplace, fiddled with the crepe bandage, asked, ‘Do you think I’ll scar?’

‘Everybody scars.’ I said.

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