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A remarkable novel about the pornography of everyday life. Filthy, funny and ferocious, it imagines a world where shopping reigns supreme, sex has ceased to have anything to do with love, and pregnancy has become the final fetish.
Colin steps forward as if flames all over his body are beginning to catch, fire up and lick at his chin. His skin's melting and he's loving it, loving the heat and the feeling of finally burning down. Fuck. He feeds both his hands under the cover where it's incredibly humid. Like a rain forest, his fingers walking the terrain, the ruffles in the bedsheet, the cleanness, Jesus, the heat. A few inches in and he hits torso, wrapped in cotton. A thigh. A hip. He touches it, the thin, second-skin
cheeks. He returns his eyes to the ground, which he gouges with a stick. 'No problem,' says Rebecca, rolling the ball towards the young man's feet but not wishing to look at it, in case it starts talking again. She doesn't wish to be warned or persuaded by a football. It wouldn't be right. The boy runs the sole of his shoe over the ball and begins dribbling in the direction of his friends, hoofing it towards them after a few metres and running on. His eyes, thinks Johnny, recalling how the
like bird seed. Tired of pretending to be dead, Rebecca returns to the same spluttering sort of life she'd been leading an hour or so ago. She fires up her traction engine lungs in an attempt to prevent Justin from nodding off. 'Justin . . . Come on.' Justin shakes his head vigorously from side to side then stretches his eyes open. He expels a large lungful of air and with it the same cooing sound we heard a few moments ago. 'I'm sorry, Rebecca. It's me, isn't it?' 'Yes,' says Rebecca, her
in childbirth. It was this last piece of information that dropped a pinch of what I know to be sadness into my brain. Of course, I didn't miss her or even have an enormous desire to have known her, but it felt a little awkward that she'd died giving birth to me. I admit to feeling guilty and a little embarrassed that, in death, she had spawned such uselessness. My file contained written accounts of my behaviour on the various trial excursions I'd been taken on as a child. I didn't recognise the
imagine me laughing out loud, that's how I imagine you. If I could see a panoramic landscape, then the sun would be setting on it. Certainly, if I could love, then my lover would be dead, rigid in my arms. If I could fight, then the battle would now be won, or lost in the extreme. And, if I believed in human endeavour, then I promise someone would be doing something exceptional and hopeful by now. But instead. Acknowledgments Thanks to my family and my friends. Especially, Tony Weymouth,