Free The Woman Who Walked Into Doors by Roddy Doyle Page A

awake, lying back. He'd lifted his head.
    —Sorry, I said.
    The insides of my legs were wet; I couldn't get my knickers back.
    —No problem, he said. —Next door.
    His head fell back.
    I turned the light off.
    —Thanks, he said.
    I wouldn't make it; all I wanted now was to get onto lino. I kept my skirt right up at my waist. I got to the next door, shoved in, turned on the light, saw the bath, and I emptied. I looked down; lino.
    —Thank God.
    It was the longest piss I've ever had, and the loudest. I could hear nothing else. I'll never forget it. I didn't go again for days after; I couldn't. And I never drank cider again.
    I'd saved my skirt; it was dry. I used up most of the toilet paper wiping the floor. I left some. There was only one towel, a dirty white one. I used it to wipe the rest of the floor, then I rinsed it and hung it on the side of the bath. I flushed the toilet and prayed to Mary that it wouldn't clog. It took ages before I was convinced that all the paper was going to be taken. I rinsed my knickers. But I had nowhere to put them. I'd no pockets; my jacket had been robbed. I didn't want to chance the toilet; I could see them floating there flush after flush and me waiting for the cistern to fill again and listening for one of the brothers coming up the stairs, or the father or the mother — there was no way.
    I threw them out the window. I didn't care; I just wanted to get rid of them. They were wet and heavier than they should have been so I think they went well into the garden, maybe even over the back wall. I listened for them landing but I heard nothing. A good pair they were too. I shut the window.

16
    The first fella I ever went with, it was gas. I was only eleven. I went with him after he asked me. He had to ask me first though. It was all very formal, very proper. It was very like an engagement from the old days, only he didn't have to ask my father for my hand. That would have been really great, watching the poor little young fella — he was a little lad — knocking on the door and asking for my daddy.
    I fancied him because he was two years older than me and he had nice clothes. There was a matching corduroy trousers and waistcoat outfit that I remember, halfway between brown and orange. The waistcoat fitted him so well that the sleeves of his shirt seemed to be part of it. There wasn't a crease, except the ones that were supposed to be there. He didn't have brothers or sisters and I liked that about him too. It seemed to make him more complete and unusual. Exotic. Intelligent. Sad. He had lovely fair hair, not too white, and he went a great colour in the summer. He had a frown that I loved, a single light wrinkle that went at a slant across his forehead; it was gorgeous. I used to annoy him just to see it, or ask him hard questions or embarrass him. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to follow it with my tongue or my finger. His big toes looked at each other when he was standing still but he had a normal walk. I was only eleven but I could recognise a nice little bum when I saw one; you should have seen him in those cord trousers. He had a little tummy on him, a tummy you'd expect on a much younger boy, a milk tummy. It was strange because his face was quite old. The two parts didn't seem to fit. Then he turned around and you saw his bum and you got very confused; you began to feel guilty — even when you were only eleven. It was easier to look at him in instalments. Blue eyes, of course, with the fair hair. A lovely ridge on his top lip. A chin that stopped just before it could get pointy. His cheeks. His fringe. I remember all this. I remember all this but I can't remember his name. What is it about me and names?
    Weirder still, I can't remember which house he lived in. I can't remember the road or the garden, the colour of the front door. Just to see if I could do it, I sat for a while on my own this morning when Jack was at school and I went from house to house along our road in my head, the