The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.5 – The Daughter of a Whore

Image result for tours 1910
7.4

 


Dispensing with any sort of quackery I’d simply shouted, “Get out of here. This is my home. I am an Englishman and this is England!”

After all the noise had settled and Betty had ceased whimpering I winked at Jones. He was still holding the ceremonial dagger and chalk.

“You see my man…you have to tell these things off properly…don’t treat them like bloody royalty. We are higher than the angels…do you not recall…”

The towering bundle of nerves simply extend a thin white finger.

There it was. A perfect azure sphere sitting atop a cold carpet that itself sat atop a yet colder floor.

I promptly hauled it up. Jones leapt back.

“Ah! Careful Roderick…are you mad…”

I laughed. “Perfectly so my friend. Glad for it too seeing as to the effects sanity has upon you.”

The house was shaking Rod…shaking and humming…” Betty muttered. “You should maybe be more…”

“Ooo uhhh were it now..shaking like the perfect pair of autumn shrivelled leaves I see stand before me?” I laughed.

In all honesty I’d lost all mirth. I’d just received word from France that my bastard daughter hadn’t survived the tuberculosis. Yet, in its place, in the place of levity a certain ecstatic freedom took hold. This made me quiet jolly but with a sort of thrilling chill rather than happiness.

Everything felt liquid, fluid, cool and malleable.

It is an odd thing to see yourself in the daughter of a whore. She’d called me Papa. Six years old…moving onto the seventh…I did not have the courage to take her with me…to avoid that harsh little apartment in Tours.

It is odd to see yourself in the daughter of a whore. To see your self-same hazel fire and jetty locks to see a twist of the lips so familiar….so peculiar.

“Are you afraid of eternity?” I bellowed tossing the sphere onto an armchair.

My two tenants stood dumbstruck as I unfastened my trousers.

I urinated on the pretty thing. My offal running in gold rivulets off its perfect geometry and staining the mahogany fabric of its throne.

“It is a holy thing Hamilton…have you no shame…”

“I don’t care if its God’s own eye!” I laughed again dancing a jig.

“He’s mad…” Betty murmured.

“Oh,” I said. “No, no darling I am perfectly beautifully sane. You see I did nothing wrong not one thing wrong. Was it I who bargained with the colonials? Was it I that shot Ferdinand? What was I to do with my loneliness in France….what was I to do with that shrieking image…that homage to the great god pain. Did I invent the trench or fashion the bullet that rained upon it?

…NO!…

And neither did I fashion angels, or hells, or Gods, or magick, or its implements. Why should I give fealty to that which is not my own! There is nothing holy Jones. Not a thing upon the Earth, nor below, nor above!”

Jones simply shook his head sadly wiping away the urine with a kerchief. He moved past a weeping Betty to secret the thing…perhaps make obeisance to it.

I didn’t care one wan iotalated damn.

“Eh ! Pantruchar ! C’est y qu’ tu s’rais malade
Ou que l’ cafard te rendrait tout transi ?
Ce soir, t’as pas l’ cœur à la rigolade

I began to hum.


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