The Immaculate by Mark Morris Read Free Book Online Page A

and she had simply consolidated her hatred of all that was Jack Stone: his appearance, his profession, his choice of friends and decor and restaurants and books and art and entertainment and music and politics. He was a worm, she said, a slimeball, a sick pervert who wrote and read what was nothing but pornography in disguise. That had got Jack mad, but the insult which had made him clench his fist and punch the wall was so obviously an attempt to goad him that he should have treated it with contempt. She told him he was crap in bed, that she’d always been repulsed by his sexual advances, that she had faked every orgasm she’d ever had with him and had wanted to wash herself each time he touched her skin.
    Jack got off the tube and realised that his stomach was churning unpleasantly. Carol had really screwed him up. For months afterwards he had constantly felt on the edge of fever or neurosis, had suffered from headaches and sore throats and mouth ulcers. He had never seen her again, had not called her and she had not called him. It was almost fourteen months since they had finished, yet even now Jack would sometimes see a woman in the street or on the tube who, for a split-second, looked like Carol, and his heart would leap almost in panic, his mouth would go dry, he would begin to sweat.
    Alfred’s, where Jack had suggested Frank meet him for lunch, was a small pizzeria just round the corner from Berkeley Street. As with most of Jack’s favourite restaurants, the decor was sparse, even shabby, but the food delicious. The clientele was mostly young and dressed casually. Many of them carried sports bags or folders or files, denoting their status as students. On the walls were framed black and white photographs of famous boxers. The chef, a stereotypical fat Italian with a heavy moustache, could be seen cooking in a large open-plan kitchen at the far end of the room, spinning pizza crusts with the panache of a circus performer.
    The place was crowded when Jack arrived, but fortunately a couple stood up to leave just as he came in. He sat down, placing his bag of books on the floor by his chair. He was thankful to relieve himself of the weight; the biceps of both arms were aching as a result of swapping the bag from hand to hand. When the waitress arrived Jack ordered a mineral water and asked her to leave an extra menu. He called Frank at home and on his mobile and got his voice mail both times, and then, feeling guilty but telling himself he had no reason to, he took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He’d been trying to cut down on booze, cigarettes, sugar, salt and animal fat since he’d turned thirty, nearly three years ago, but his intentions were stronger than his will power. Still, he didn’t do too badly; this was his first cigarette of the day and he’d ordered mineral water instead of beer or wine to drink. He narrowed his eyes against the smoke that drifted in front of his face and watched the chef chopping a capsicum, his knife a silver blur.
    â€œI’ll just wait another five minutes,” Jack said when the waitress came over for his order. “I kind of half-arranged to meet someone. They may not turn up, but . . . well . . . you know, they might.” He forced a smile, admonishing himself silently for feeling he had to explain. He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, and toyed with the condiments in the middle of the table. As well as pepper and salt there was a larger shaker containing dried chili seeds and a small bowl of parmesan cheese. He glanced up at the door each time it opened. It was twenty-three minutes past one.
    When the waitress next came within earshot, Jack leaned forward and said, “I’ll order now, please. I don’t think my friend is going to turn up.” She nodded, and reached for the pad and pen tucked into her belt. When she had left, Jack leaned over and rooted in his bag, pulling out four secondhand books. He had wanted