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May 4th, 2005

Niki sits cross-legged like a Turk, on the dead-end landing at the top of the short flight of stairs outside Mrs Crosby’s room. He is surrounded by a massacre of plump, thick-lashed baby dolls lolling on the mince coloured carpet in various states of undress.
“What next?” I ask him.
“I lurrve to lick dawg poo,” Niki drawls deliciously. His face is the colour of milky coffee, and my eyes linger on the ivory scimitar of his smile before dipping to my jotter on the bottom step. I draw a bulge-eyed cartoon boy wrapping his tongue around a coiled turd, and offer it up for his approval.
“What now? I’ll draw anything you want. Just tell me what you like,” I dare him.

“Coarse, graphic, non-consensual torture,” he replies, in his measured, shipping-forecast purr. Precious smiles at me across the kitchen table. I had been rummaging in his temporary internet files the night before, like a groupie in a wheelie bin. I wasn’t particularly moved by what I saw, but I’m mesmerised by his candour. I feel like I’m standing outside a forest. The clock ticks.
“Okay, then. I’ll do you a painting.” There’s not much to say. He picks up his tea. His mug is yellow, with two little snouts where the handle broke off. He won’t wash the inside because its brown coating improves the flavour of his tea. Sometimes, when he leaves it in the kitchen, I dip my nose and mouth into it and breathe the kind, lingering warmth.