‘Nothing,’ he says, panting, the phone gripped between his shoulder and his ear. ‘Nothing beats there.’ Roger treats his penis to a few pleasurable touches and then straightens his head, catching his mobile one-handed as it falls. ‘Right. OK . . . Right,’ says Anka Kudolski on the television screen, oblivious to the stream of semen that’s completely obscuring her tit shadow. Roger turns the television off. Roger Hart is thirty years old. He has an oversized head and curly black hair. He wears thick, square glasses, the type that would give normal people headaches. He lives in what was once Parker’s Hotel on the corner of Miller Street and Corporation Street, central Manchester. Nowadays the hotel rooms are small flats, cheap to rent. Singing one of the songs from the hit musical Les Misérables, Roger Hart goes to his kitchen and tears a few sheets of kitchen paper from a roll. Still singing, he dabs the solitary white tear from the tip of his scarlet bell-end and, returning to the living room, sets to work cleaning the semen off the television screen.
