Malice in Camden
Malice lies on the grass, outside the pub in Camden. The boys are messing around with two remote-control cars by the bar counter, so I go outside and join her. She smiles at me, her lips full and sensuous, her skin translucent underneath the black corset, her black hair cascading over the green. She props herself up with her elbows.
We talk about zaubin. "He told me you were in Camden when the place went up in flames," I say. She's surprised when I tell her I was there too. She is about to give me details of the bars she visited on the night the fire raged through Camden market when the boys come out with their remote-control cars. They give Malice one of the remotes, the one that controls the metallic green car that is as flat as a lawnmower.
Horses trot in Camden. One of them, a young mare red as wine, carries a little girl. My remote-control makes the little mare turn left or right, circle the grass enclosure. I use the control to make the little mare speed up her trot until the girl is about to fall off.