Part 25 (1/2)

ASHES TO ASHES.

Raymond Land set down the food bowl and sneezed violently.'What I want to know,' he demanded *is how come I end up having to look after Crippen when I'm the one who's allergic to cats. Are you listening to me, Leanne?'

'No, darling,' said his wife, who was licking a lipstick pencil and straightening her decolletage in the bathroom, readying herself for a night of sin and self-deception with a Spanish toy-boy she had picked up in the Madeira Tapas Bar, Streatham.

Land searched forlornly for the litter tray. 'You always seem to be refurbis.h.i.+ng yourself these days. Where are you going?'

'I'm off to rumple some hotel sheets and have cheap champagne dribbled over my naked body,' she answered through mas.h.i.+ng lips.

'I thought you were visiting your mother. It's raining so hard, the cat can't go out. What have you done with its litter?'

'I wouldn't touch the stuff, and if you knew what my nails cost you wouldn't let me either. Don't you remember? Sergeant Longbright gave you the tray and the bag when she brought the cat over.'

Land located the litter bag, unfolded it and removed a clear plastic envelope filled with grey powder. Tearing the top with his teeth, he tipped it into the yellow plastic tray as a cloud of dust blossomed and penetrated his nasal membranes. 'This stuff is awful,' he complained. 'It smells like Oswald's mortuary.'

'The only thing Oswald's mortuary smelled of was Oswald,' said Leanne, pouting her lips in the mirror and wondering about their effect on Hispanic gentlemen under the age of twenty-five.

How could you begin to explain London?

A city once the colour of tobacco and carrots, now chalky stone and angled steel, but vivid chimney pots can still be glimpsed between slivers of rain-specked gla.s.s. Nine billion pounds' worth of Christmas bonuses have just been spent in the city's square mile. In the great financial inst.i.tutions, whirlpools of money are stirred until the ripples splash all but those on the farthest reaches of society. To accommodate this expenditure, the insurance offices and banks of Holborn have reopened as opulent restaurants and bars. At night, drunken merriment splits the capital's seams, and daybreak arrives more silently than midnight.