I don’t feel that’s entirely my fault: I was called into work unexpectedly and have only just, fighting through post-work, food and shower drowsiness found the time to make the final edits of this story, which I fear might not actually stand up to any hyperbolic statements I may or may not have made about it (I’m really too tired to remember what I said about it, if anything). Regardless, it is a good story, possibly a great one, and I think there’s a fair bit going on in it, which I hope will come across in subsequent re-readings of the story, if not the first time through.

So, yes, I am proud to have this as my one hundredth post, and I hope you all enjoy it,

Henry.

The New House

“Hey,” said Kate, “hey, stranger.”

She grabbed Jay’s arm, brought him to a stop in the cloying heat of an August Saturday as he picked his way through the crowd. People continued to push past, making little, if any, concession.

“Hey,” he said, looking at her, surprised.

“You nearly walked right past me,” she said.

Large sunglasses obscured her eyes, and she had cut her hair into a neat bob since the last time he had seen her, a few weeks ago, just after the start of the summer holidays.

“I didn’t know you were back yet,” he said.

“The weather wasn’t great, so we came back a few days early.”

“Didn’t you enjoy it much then?”

“It was okay, but we just ended up going in the arcades and stuff every day. It was too rainy and miserable to go on the beach.”

She pulled off her sunglasses, revealing blue eyes. Jay grimaced sympathetically.

“It rained here last week too,” he said.

He paused awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck, which was slick with sweat.

“Hot today though,” he continued, “stuffy.”

“Yeah, it is kinda. Anyway, how are you?”

She reached up to rub the side of his arm.

“I’m okay. Sick of town; too many people and I couldn’t find -”

A man bumped into him and carried on walking, but did not say anything. Jay watched the man disappear back into the crowd, shook his head.

“We should probably get out the way,” Kate said.

The two moved aside, against the white stone wall of a bank.

“What were you looking for?” Kate asked.

“A desk,” said Jay, “for my new room.

“Doesn’t it come with one? I thought student rooms always came with desks.”

“Yeah, well it does, but it’s not a nice one. I don’t like it.”

Kate nodded, then squinted as a momentary break in the clouds illuminated the wall behind Jay.

“Have you moved in yet?” she asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

“No, not yet, I picked the keys up yesterday, but I’m just moving my stuff across bit by bit at the moment.”

He reached up to brush his hair away from his forehead.

“So what you up to now?” Kate asked.

Jay shrugged.

“Nothing really, I was just going home.”

“Shall we go get a cup of tea somewhere?”

Jay looked around, felt sweat in the lines of his palms. He liked Kate’s eyes.

“Okay,” he said.

In the café, cold drinks stood in neat lines on the shelves of a glass and metal cooler, condensation clinging to their slender-necked bodies. Jay grabbed a bottle of sparkling pear juice. Kate ordered a latte. All the outside tables were taken, so they sat opposite each other at a small round table by the window, and their knees brushed against each other as Kate told Jay about her family holiday in Cornwall. When she had finished they both took a sip of their drinks and there was silence between them. Jay looked around, thinking of something to say. He could feel his t-shirt sticking to his back with every movement he made.

“It really is hot today,” he said.

“Yeah,” Kate said.

Jay scratched at a scab on his elbow, his fingers curled into claws.

“How’d you do that?” Kate asked.

“Basketball,” said Jay, “I tripped.”

Kate leaned in close to examine the wound. It was only small, but stood out vividly against his pale skin, accentuated by a salmon-pink halo. Jay watched her, felt too hot. Once outside, he pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. Kate looked at him.

“Wanna see my new house?” he said, finally.

“Sure,” Kate said.

The cloud-bank shifted uneasily in the sky and let out a few drops of rain. Jay felt their coolness on his skin and smiled. Kate was looking at him, smiled.

“I hope it rains,” Jay said.

Kate frowned.

“I’m sick of rain after last week.”

“I love summer rain,” Jay continued, “it’s so refreshing.”

“I like summer to be hot and sunny,” Kate said.

Jay looked at her. He still felt sticky with sweat. He wondered if she had noticed.

“Here it is.”

They stood outside a terraced house with a blue front door and a gated alleyway leading up the side. Dirt clung to the walls, clumped together in irregular veins on the white-painted walls. At the back there was a concrete yard, divided by four timber steps halfway along its length, which ran up to a gravelled rectangle with regularly placed slabs like uniform islands in a gravel-sea. A couple of small trees with sharp yellowish leaves brought colour to the yard.

“Nice garden,” Kate said.

Jay was flicking through the unfamiliar keys to find the one for the back door. He raised a gold-coloured key and tried it in the lock, but it did not fit. The keys jangled. He tried another and the door came open. They stepped into a small kitchen which had black and red tiles across the floor and faux-marble worktops. He was not used to the smell of the place, did not yet identify the smell of dust on the static air with home. He felt like an intruder, a stranger.

Next to the kitchen was the bathroom.

“I need to go wash my face,” Jay said.

He closed the bathroom door behind him and took his t-shirt off. In the mirror he saw himself, skinny, nervous. He had always thought Kate beautiful. The water ran off his face, dripped into the basin. The sky looked washed-out through the frosted glass. Jay wondered if it would rain more as he reached for a towel, dabbed at his face and under his arms. He put his t-shirt back on. It smelled of sweat.

He opened the bathroom door. Kate had walked through to the living room.

“Have your house-mates moved in yet?” she asked.

“No, Andy’s home this weekend and Neil’s working so they’re moving in on Monday, and Tom’s gone home for a few weeks, so I’m not sure when he’s moving in.”

Kate nodded.

“You going to give me the tour then?” she asked.

Jay showed her round all the rooms, mentioning who would be taking each one, finally ending with his own, which was furthest along the corridor at the top of the stairs. The room was smaller than the rest, though not by much. Against one wall stood a small computer desk with a silver-grey plastic covering. In a corner was a chest of drawers, opposite which was a wardrobe. On the same wall as the wardrobe were some shelves, which had a few books and DVDs piled haphazardly across them. The bed stood by the wall with the window in it. Kate went over to this first, and knelt on the bed so she could see through the glass.

“It’s a good view,” she said, pulling off her shoes so she wouldn’t get them on the bare mattress.

She turned back round to see Jay at the wardrobe changing into a clean t-shirt. Jay was conscious of her watching him.

“It’s so quiet here,” she said.

Jay turned round.

“Yeah,” he said.

They looked at each other across the room.

“Come here,” said Kate.

Jay sat down on the bed next to her and she kissed him on the mouth. She drew back, smiled, and kissed him again. Their tongues met and moved against each other. She put her arms around him and held him close, then their lips parted and she pressed her cheek against his neck. She began to kiss his neck, but felt his shoulders tense beneath her palms. She pulled back and looked at him.

“I must stink of sweat,” he said.

“No, you’re fine,” she said, moving close to him again, kissing his neck, his cheek, his lips.

She swung her legs up over his knees so she could move closer to him and continued to kiss him passionately, almost desperately. Instinctively Jay’s hand moved to her waist and then up her back as they kissed, then it began to move around the front, pushing her away almost, even as he pulled her closer. Her lips smiled against his, and so he continued, rubbing gently at first, then grasping her breast more firmly, with the same awkward desperation of their kissing. Apart from her bra, he could feel nothing through her t-shirt, so he pushed his hand up under the cloth and pulled down the cup. He reached back up and felt beneath his open palm her nipple, hard and round and firm as a blackcurrant. He continued to massage the warm flesh.

In response she moved her hand down from his waist to his crotch, where the head of his penis strained against the thick denim. As with her breast through the t-shirt, the sensation was muted. Still, Jay felt a twinge of raw physical pleasure with every movement she made, but he did not smile: his expression remained serious, almost pained with concentration. Kate did not notice; her eyes closed as her lips moved between his neck, his cheeks and his mouth, her fingers dancing towards the zipper on his jeans.

“Wait,” he said, pulling his hand out from her top.

“What?”

Their eyes locked, stayed locked as a second passed.

“The bed’s not made… it doesn’t feel right.”

Kate looked down at the bare mattress.

“Really?” she asked, adjusting her bra.

Jay shrugged and stood. There was still a ridge in his jeans and his heart pounded as he moved towards the chest of drawers to pull out some sheets. Kate got off the bed too and watched Jay spread a bottom-sheet over the mattress. He took a long time smoothing the sheet out, so she began to stuff the duvet into its cover. He helped her, and their hands brushed against each other, then she pulled him close, wrapped him up in the duvet and pushed him back onto the bed.

“Happy now?” she asked.

Jay shrugged. She lay down on top of him and kissed him again, then rolled under the duvet herself and pulled off his shirt. She kissed his stomach and Jay felt again, inevitably, the tightness in his jeans. Kate felt it too and, covered by the duvet, pulled off her own top. She lay back on top of him again. Jay felt her breasts against his chest and her crotch against his. The heat of her body was irresistible. He pushed her onto her side, unhooked her bra and kissed her breasts as his hand slid into her pants. His fingertips came against the short-trimmed pubic hair, at once familiar and alien, and then pushed further down, following the curve, closing around a warmth that was delicate and internal, distinct in the dirty, muggy heat of the air.

Meanwhile, Kate was already fiddling with his belt, pulling his waist-band apart so she could reach inside. He felt her fingers close around the shaft and pull once towards her, as if trying to take it for herself, and then push down, pulling the skin back. He bit his lip, felt his heart race, felt sick with excitement. There was a pause, a momentary lull balanced on a knife-edge, as they both looked into each other’s eyes and lay perfectly still, her hand closed tightly around his penis, his fingers inside her pants cupping the soft flesh of her labia, before he suddenly pulled his hand away and yanked her jeans and her pants down to her ankles in one feverish movement. She kicked them the rest of the way off and sat up to pull down his jeans and boxer shorts.

Then he was on top of her, kissing her all over, pressing against her even as she pulled him close and dug her fingers into his back. She had to fight against herself to push him away even for one moment, just to ask in a rapid whisper,

“Do you have any condoms?”

Concern clouded Jay’s face, made him pause.

“No,” he said, “they’re back at the old house.”

The passion in his body, the erection of his penis, began to ebb. He felt oppressed by the stark walls, by the haphazard books on the shelves and a crumpled plastic bag on the floor. The silence of the small room, like the heat of the day, was all around, inescapable, smothering. Jay pushed himself up on his hands and Kate leaned up to kiss him once on the chest, before falling back to the pillow and staring at his troubled face.

“I don’t care,” she said, “I can’t wait, I’ll get a pill later, I want you.”

She tried to pull him back down, but he resisted, as if teasing her. He had suddenly become again concious of the ugly computer desk that loomed by the bedside on its skeletal silver legs. Kate mirrored his concern in her own features and shifted her feet against his under the duvet. A question trembled at her lips, but was held back by a shapeless fear. She squeezed his arms and he looked down at her, at her eyes, at her nipples, offset by the weight of her breasts like two cherries on swirls of melting cream. Whatever the internal conflict that had raged inside his brain during those seconds of hesitation, lust had emerged dominant, and now gorged itself on the sensation of her breath on his cheek, of her thigh against his penis, of the sapphire shine in her eyes.

When Jay pushed inside her, Kate gasped and pulled him closer and further up as if she wanted the entry to go on forever. It could not and so, reaching the apex of his thrust, he stopped and pulled back slowly, savouring each second, each minute tingle of sensation. The fear that had been embodied a moment before in the ugliness of the computer desk now hovered ghost-like beyond the moment of ejaculation, obscured by distance but drawing ever closer as Jay pulled down, down, almost until he came free, and then again up inside of her. Kate gasped, kissed him, rubbed her breasts, jerked her hips, and he gradually went faster and faster, until his loins burned with the strain of holding back the release. In a final attempt to avert the cataclysm of his climax, to outwit the nameless dark spectre, Jay pulled out and his semen sprayed over the bed-sheet and the inside of Kate’s thigh.

For several seconds, Kate was oblivious to the warm liquid running down her leg, and continued to crush Jay against her, aching to have him back inside her, demanding that it would not end like this, so soon, that she would not be denied the final wrenches of pleasure when she was so close to orgasm. But he was spent, hollowed out, and, as the waves of ecstasy rippled away into nothing, she became aware of the semen cooling on her skin. It did not disgust her, as she lay beneath Jay’s hot body, but he felt sticky and wanted to shower. Both of them were panting, and could feel the other’s hot breath, but they did not kiss. Jay’s fingers clenched the loose cover on the pillow. He wondered how many people had had sex on this bed before, wondered if it mattered. Slowly he allowed his muscles to relax and slid down by her side.

“I hope nobody saw us,” Kate said, remembering the window.

“Mm,” said Jay.

He realised that his elbow was raw, so he propped himself up to inspect it. At some point in the throes of passion, Kate had caught the scab, and now an edge of it had been separated from the skin beneath. He picked at it gingerly.

“Did I do that?” Kate asked, “sorry.”

Jay nodded absently and continued to pick.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Kate said, “it doesn’t look ready to come off.”

She put a hand up to his, but too late: Jay yanked off the crystalline skin with a grimace. A crescent sliver of blood shot to the surface, but did not pool up enough to run down. They both looked at the irregular circle of taut pink skin that had been revealed, then Kate lay back down to look out the window at the first heavy drops of rain which had begun to fall. Jay lay down behind her and wrapped his arm across her chest, so that his hand rested across her collar-bone. Past the side of her head he could see the indifferent backs of the houses opposite, which rose high above his bedroom window and stretched up towards the low grey sky. He wondered who his neighbours were and felt the wet patch on the sheet against his leg, the curve of her buttocks against his hip, the weight of her breast across his arm.

“I love you,” she said suddenly, after several minutes of silence.

She took his hand and kissed it and waited for a reply. Jay said nothing, but stopped thinking about the neighbours.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, twisting round to look at him.

Jay shrugged and did not look at her eyes for a long time. Eventually he did look, and she was still watching him, so he said,

“I was wondering if we should break up.”

Kate’s face went pale and she looked away.

“Why? Because I…?” she paused, “that was months ago.”

Jay moved so he was not lying on the semen patch any more.

“I told you about it straight away, said I was sorry.”

Kate waited for him to respond, but Jay continued to stare at the backs of the motionless houses opposite.

“It was one time. We were both drunk,” she pleaded, wide-eyed, “you said you forgave me.”

Jay looked at her, felt a pang of guilt, thought he was stupid, knew he had gone too far, shrugged. He had never asked her about her past lovers, and she had not told him.

“You never did, did you?”

When he did not answer, she hit his shoulder with her palm and drew the duvet tight around herself, then she started to cry, silently, and rubbed her leg. Jay watched her. She had taken most of the duvet and he began to feel cold and disgusted.

“So what was this?” Kate demanded, semen cold and sticky against her fingers, “one last fuck before you dumped me?”

“I don’t know,” Jay said, “I didn’t expect to see you today, I thought you were still in Cornwall.”

“Maybe if you texted me once in a while you’d have known. I missed you, you know, even though… I felt guilty about our fight, but it was your fault, you started it. You. Oh, just fuck you. Give me my clothes.”

Sheepishly Jay gathered up her bra and t-shirt, and then dragged up the crumpled pair of jeans with her pants still inside them from the bottom of the bed where she had kicked them off. They both got dressed, lying sideways under the same duvet, in silence, then Kate crawled awkwardly past Jay, who drew in his legs to let her pass. She stood.

“Why didn’t you just say you couldn’t forgive me, instead of pretending everything was fine and never talking to me about it?”

“I didn’t want to keep making you feel guilty since there was nothing you could do about it.”

“Yeah, well I did feel guilty about it, for ages, but I thought we were getting over it. I thought I’d go away and come back and everything would be like it was before, better even, we’d be stronger for it.”

Jay shrugged apologetically.

“Fine,” Kate said, “I’m going. I hope you’re happy here.”

She opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” Jay said before she walked through, “I couldn’t help it.”

Kate turned round and looked at him hard for several seconds, still sat on his bed. She could still feel the warm wetness inside her and the way it made the cotton of her pants sticky and tingling when she moved. She shook her head.

“You weren’t even drunk.”

She turned away and Jay watched her leave, heard her close the back door, which was below his window. He rubbed his elbow. For a while afterwards he lay there, looking at the rain, and at his new room. It was bare, almost stark, and very silent. Jay breathed in. The air was fresh and cool from the rain. He closed his eyes and saw the room with a new desk, with his books and films all neatly on the shelves, with posters on the wall. This room belonged to him now. It was his room. He stood up and stretched out, then went downstairs to shower. He could have been anyone.

“Rachael.”

“What?” She uncrossed her legs, hopped off the pink My Little Pony sheets of her bed and went over to the door frame where she hung off the door, letting it swing with her body-weight and felt the smooth white paint under her fingers. “What?” she repeated.

“Come downstairs,” her mother said. Rachael sighed, flicked her head back towards the TV. The adverts were on now anyway: blonde girls dancing with glittering plastic hoops in the sunshine, spiky-haired boys in sunglasses chewing gum, blowing bubbles. Rachael slumped downstairs, letting her bare feet fall heavily on each step, while, in the cramped kitchen her mother tried to comfort Michael, Rachael’s baby brother, and unpacked shopping from white and green Asda bags. Entering the kitchen Rachael began to root into one of the bags, searching for sweets and chocolate, making the thin plastic crinkle as her slender hands moved over a packet of mince, a bag of carrots, some folded up magazines.

“There’s nothing for you in there,” her mother said, gently slapping her arms away.

“What’d you shout me for then?” Rachael asked.

“Because I have a job for you,” she replied, bouncing Michael up and down in the crook of her arm and rattling a colourful little Humpty Dumpty with a bell inside its stomach for him. Rachael sighed. For a few seconds the toy quieted the chubby little boy, then his wailing began anew.

“I want you to take this bag over to your Nan’s” her mother said, abandoning the toy and raising her voice above the noise, “she rang me up earlier and asked me to pick up some Lemsip and a couple of other things for her because she felt ill. I meant to drop it off on my way home, but what with Michael and all the traffic I forgot.”

“Why don’t you just take it now?”

“Rachael, please, I’ve been working all morning, then I had to go shopping and pick Mike up from nursery, and the traffic was bad, and he’s been crying ever since because he’s teething. And what have you done all day? Sat in your bedroom watching cartoons. It’s not healthy. So you can do this for me and get some fresh air while you’re at it.”

“Fine,” Rachael said. Argument being futile; mother, stressed, being absolute. She scampered upstairs and pulled on some socks, then searched through her drawers and the piles of clothes on her bed and chair and desk for her favourite jacket, a denim one that was once upon a time a violent, strawberry red, but had since faded to a lusty salmon pink.

After switching off her TV she ran back downstairs and slipped into her battered trainers, the ones with the red LEDs in the soles that lit up with every step. They flashed their way to the kitchen where Rachael’s mother handed her the bag and gave her a pound to buy some sweets on the way back.

“I’ve just rang Nan, and told her to expect you knocking at her door, so don’t dawdle your way there.”

“K, Mum. Bye.” Rachael said, leaving.

Outside the sunlight was bright, brighter than the primary-coloured cartoons, as it reflected off the pavement and the windows of the surrounding semi-detached houses. Rachael turned away from the glare momentarily, sun-spots in her eyes, to bid her mother goodbye and close the door. Instantly the wail of her brother was muted and now came those myriad suburban sounds to her ears: the shouts of children playing, the hum of traffic, the car alarm somewhere, the lawnmower somewhere else. Into this world of light and sound Rachael had now stepped, and would have to walk about a half mile to reach her grandmother’s flat.

Halfway down her own boring street, Rachael glanced into the shopping bag she was carrying. In it was a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, a packet of Lemsip, some cakes (Cadbury’s) and, beneath the purple cake packaging, a pair of apples in a transparent plastic bag. Apples reminded Rachael of Snow White. They were always showing Snow White on the Disney Channel. Rachael, impatient for sugar, decided to buy the sweets before going to her grandmother’s, and so turned left, instead of right, at the bottom of her road, so she could walk to the Newsagent. Walking the other way down this road was a man, Rachael noticed, with greying hair and a large gut hidden under a dark blue polo-neck shirt. As she neared him he stopped abruptly and began to speak to her.

“Oh, hello,” he said, “how are you? How’s your mother?”

“Uh, do I know you?” Rachael asked, looking at him, at his thick brows that perched wolfishly over his dark eyes.

“We’ve met before, yes?” he said, “I’m a friend of your mother’s. She introduced you to me, but it was a while ago. What was your name? Uh, L…Lucy, yes?” His smile encouraged her to speak, so genuine it was, and so Rachael shook her head and spoke her name, even as she noticed the yellowed teeth, the hairy arms.

“Ah yes, Rachael, that was it, yes” he had been leaning in close to her, she hadn’t even noticed, but now he straightened up. “And where are you off to, Rachael?”

“To see my Nan,” she said, “I’ve got to take her this food.”

“Ah, of course. And how is your Nan? It’s quite a while since I’ve seen her.”

“Well, she’s a little ill at the moment, that’s why I’m taking her this food and some medicine too.” Rachael was a friendly and talkative girl, in spite of her better instincts.

“Oh,” the man said, his thick brows sinking down over his eyes “I’m sorry to hear that. I shall have to go see her sometime. Yes. though I can never remember what number she lives at, my memory not being quite what it used to.” He smiled again: a practised charm.

“Twenty-seven B,” Rachael said.

“Ah, yes, Twenty-seven B, at, ah…oh now I can picture the place but I just can’t remember the name of the road…twenty-seven B at…”

“Hansel Court.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have said that, she thought as soon as the words left her mouth.

“Yes, that’s it, of course. Yes, I might pay her a visit later. I really ought to be on my way now, though,” the man said, “tell your grandmother I said hello and shall see her later. Yes?”

“Uh, yes, I mean, okay, Bye,” Rachael said, glad he was leaving. The man turned away and carried on walking, a slight spring in his step. Rachael watched him but he never turned back, and then he disappeared around the corner. Rachael put him out of her mind: sweets, now.

Soon a Sherbet Dip Dab and a Milky Way joined her grandmother’s groceries in the Asda bag. She ate the Dip Dab first, awkwardly holding the yellow packet in the hand that held the carrier bag while she used the other to plunge in the scarlet lolly, like a cat’s tongue lapping up the tingling sherbet. Eating in such a manner, stop-starting so she didn’t spill sherbet, wiping the white powder off her red jacket when she did, meant that it took her twice as long to reach her grandmother’s as it ought to have done. Eventually she was climbing the stairs in Hansel Court to knock on her grandmother’s front door.

“It’s unlocked,” a man’s voice said from within. Unsurely Rachael opened the door and took a single step inside to see the man she had spoken to earlier sat, one leg across the other, on her grandmother’s settee. “Come in, come in,” he said, “close the door, you’ll let all the heat out, and your nan’ll be getting cold, yes.”

“Where is she?” Rachael asked, still hovering apprehensively in the door frame.

“Ah, she’s asleep. I came over to see her, a little earlier than I’d planned, and we talked for just a little while, then she said she was tired and went for a lie down. I made sure she was alright, and was about to let myself out, when I remembered that you’d be coming. I thought it’d be a shame for you to knock and wake her up when she was feeling so rotten, yes? So I decided to wait for you and let you in myself.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Rachael said, slowly stepping inside, into the musty smell of static dust, and the stuffy warmth of the electric fire, closing the door behind her. “I’ll just go check on her, see if she’s awake.” She felt awkward.

“I really don’t think you should disturb her,” the man said, standing, “she needs her rest, yes? Why don’t you go put some of those groceries away for her? It’ll be a nice surprise when she opens up her cupboards, yes?”

“Uh, okay.” Rachael said. She noticed that the man was moving incrementally towards the door, but felt all she could do right now was as he suggested, so she went into the kitchen, put the bag down on the counter. In the other room she heard the rattle and click of a chain. She leant towards open door to see what the sound was, but was greeted by the man, stood now at the entrance to the kitchen.

“You didn’t put the door chain back on. You should always put the door chain on, because you never know when there might be a wolf at the door, yes?”

“Oh, right,” Rachael said. It wasn’t the unfamiliar turn of phrase that made her uncomfortable: it was the eyes she could feel moving over her body, making her skin tingle, even through the red jacket, like the sherbet had made her tongue tingle. She would have to look soon. Glancing up quickly she met dark, hungry eyes. She did not look again.

From outside drifted in the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves as a light breeze blew through them, insulating the oppressive silence of the kitchen. Rachael had never remembered Nan’s house to be this quiet; always Nan would be talking, usually to Rachael’s mother, usually with the TV on in the background. Even when she nodded off on the settee she would snore loudly. Where were her snores now, the comforting rumble of musty air through ancient nasal passages?

“You’re a very pretty girl, Rachael.” The man said, “very pretty. So pretty I could just…eat you up.” A pink tongue poked out between his thin lips as he said this, ran across them, leaving a saliva trail like an agitated slug, and then he shuffled ever so slightly towards her, making her body tense and her mind freeze, like a doe cornered by a wolf. Rachael took a step back, watching him warily. “I bet you have all the boys chasing after you at school, yes?” He smiled, chuckled slightly. The afternoon sunlight sparkled in his eyes, bright like the sun in children’s adverts. Rachael felt sick.

“Why don’t you, uh, why don’t you come here and show me why, yes?” he said, taking a very deliberate step towards her. It was enough to make her run, though since he stood at the only exit, it was towards him that she ran, and he grabbed her by the collar of her red jacket. “Now, Rachael, don’t cause a commotion, yes, don’t make a lot of fuss and noise; you’ll wake your Gran up. Why don’t you and I sit on the sofa and have a little chat, yes? It’ll be all the better for everyone if we just do that.”

Rachael screamed and slipped out of her red jacket and made for the front door. Grabbing the handle she wrenched at it with her slender, skinny arms, pulling it only a few inches before the chain pulled taut. She reached to unhook it, but already the man stood over her, a hand on the door, so she ducked under his reaching, grasping fingers, and ran, tear-blurred, to her grandmother’s room where she slammed the door behind her.

“Nan. Nan!” she screamed, shaking the old lady in her bed, wrenching the white-sheeted duvet from the fully-clothed figure, revealing the lolly-pop red stains in the window-blind-dappled light. “Nan,” Rachael sobbed, slumping down from the bed onto the floor.

“Don’t cry, Rachael,” the man said, having casually crossed the sitting room and entered the bedroom, “I’m here. I’m here for you. Yes I am.”

Rachael screamed again, and tried to pull herself under the bed, kicking the bedside table as she did so, causing something fall off: her grandmother’s little panic button with its long white neck-cord. Quickly, she snatched it up, and jabbed the smooth plastic again and again as she wriggled further under the bed. A light lit up on it, but it made no sound, then Rachael felt a hand around her ankle as the man, having gone around the other side of the bed, tried to pull her out from under it. She kicked at his hand, her trainers flashing wildly through the air as they connected again and again with flesh and bone. After the fourth or fifth hit he let go.

“You little bitch,” he shouted, momentarily losing his temper. “But I know you’re upset, yes. Don’t worry; I still want you. And I can wait for you to come out. Yes. Yes.”

“Go away go away go away,” Rachael sobbed, curling up into a ball under the bed, hugging her skinny knees to her chest and feeling still the grip of fingers at her ankle.

“I-” the man began, when he was interrupted by a sharp rapping at the door.

“Mrs. Hudson?” a concerned woman’s voice called through the door, then the letter box, “Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?” The woman called twice more, then tried the door handle. The door opened a little way before it was stopped by the chain. “Mrs. Hudson, it’s Linda, are you home? You pressed your panic button. I…I’m going to try and get in now.”

The man was silent. Rachael thought she heard him move, but any sound he made was drowned out almost immediately by the social services worker throwing her weight against the door. Eventually the chain was pulled from its fixture, or snapped, and the door flew open. Linda stumbled in and went to the bedroom. She screamed when she saw the old lady, and gasped when the little girl crawled out from under the bed. The man who had attacked them both, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen, having escaped through the bedroom window and disappeared like a wolf into a forest, leaving behind only the red-stained sheets of a dead woman and a mark the colour of a faded red jacket on the ankle of a terrified girl.

The man walked through to the first room on the left, which had once been the living room. As he entered he saw a spider dash across the floral white settee that looked as if it had been worn-out for a long time. It must have been comfortable though, must have been sat in hundreds of times as the family gathered around the TV that now sat impotently against the wall to the side of the fireplace. The man put down his backpack on the sofa as he went to inspect the TV, his body distorted along with the room as he moved closer to the reflection on the lifeless grey glass of the screen. For a second he fancied he could see reflected behind him the family who had lived here, sat together on the settee and its two satellite floral armchairs, but he knew no one was there, so he did not turn round. Instead, he continued staring into the dull grey screen.

It reminded him suddenly of a time many years ago when he had been twenty or so and he had walked through a large graveyard on a summer’s evening. He had stopped now and then to read the names or the eulogies inscribed on the headstones, but had not lingered long at any one until he came to a stone in an older part of the graveyard. Tall grass had grown up around it and an old tree extended a single drooping branch above it as if to shelter the rock from the pitiless onslaught of sun and rain. The man stood inert as he deciphered the eroded letters.

It was the grave of a fifteen-year-old girl dead for a hundred years. The man looked down at the tall grass and thought about the small corpse that lay beneath, probably no more than bones and tattered fragments of cloth by then. The thought had made him sad, the thought that this girl, shorn of life on the cusp of expectation, was never able to grow up and marry, as she might have dreamed of doing, and even love had been nothing more than an intangible ghost to her; a feeling half-promised on the whisper of the wind and in the stirrings of her own body. And yet had she lived she might have had children, and they might have had children, and her grandchildren might have come to visit from time to time, and stood over her as the young man had. Instead, passing by on a summer evening’s walk, he was the only one who stopped to mourn for her, for she had no one else. But that did not matter now, just as it did not really matter who had lived in this house before; all that mattered was if the house could be lived in again.

The man left the living room and walked around the rest of the house. There were not many rooms: three bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom, a toilet-room and a kitchen with dining area besides the living room downstairs; and all were the same beginning stages of creeping decay, but certainly with some care and some time this house could be quite habitable again. The beds upstairs still held their springiness, and there were some books on the shelves in the master bedroom that had not yet succumbed to mildew, not that he would have been unable to get those from a bookshop or library in the city, but it was somehow reassuring to know that the people who had lived here before had kept them. The man stood now in the garden, which was overgrown but running wild in the best possible way, with snowdrops and daffodils poking their bright heads up through the tangle of grass. Since there were no other houses around for quite a way, the garden seemed to stretch out all around, apart from a fence that suggested its border, until it disappeared into some trees thirty or so metres from the house. Like the house, the garden would again be nice with some work. The man could see it now, if he cut himself a patch of lawn amidst the wilderness: himself sitting there in the summer, reading. Winters were less agreeable, but at least there was that fireplace in the living room.

He looked back at the house with its cracked once-white roughcast walls. He would paint those sometime, but the inside needed doing first, before he could worry about that. He decided to make a list of everything he needed, and then he would drive into the city. He went back in and walked around the house, going through each room again meticulously noting down everything he could need, like cleaning products and new sheets, some furniture for the garden, more books, food, candles, fuels, buckets, paint, brushes, and bottles of water. His list complete he left the house and walked back down the hill, looking for a car. Eventually he found a Volvo parked on the drive of a semi-detached house. He walked into the house and found the keys on a table by the front door. From the keyring there hung a minute photograph taken at a theme park of a young couple on a roller coaster, both screaming with exhilaration. The photograph was held in a transparent plastic case sealed from time’s encroachment like those insects that are preserved in amber for millions of years. The man removed the photograph-keyring and left the house, closing the door behind him.

When the man first turned the key in the ignition, the car choked with the wheezing strain of disuse, but rather than slipping into a smooth rhythm, the radio came on, blaring static at full volume. The sudden hissing sound made the man jump, since he was unaccustomed to loud noises now that the world was almost silent. He recovered himself and switched the radio off, then tried the ignition again. This time the engine came on and the man was able to pull out onto the road and head towards the city. As he drove he wondered how long it had been since he had been in a car. At first he had driven everywhere, just because he could, but when he had realised he was not going anywhere and driving had taken on a hollow feeling of futility, he had started to walk. Now that he was anchored to a place to live, he felt safe driving again.

He pulled into a petrol station and filled the car’s tank. Petrol pumps seemed to be one of the few things that still worked. The man pulled away again and continued his drive towards the city. He did not miss the traffic, but even now he did not like cities. Still, he stopped outside each shop and took what he needed until that car was full and he had everything he needed, then he headed back to the house, his house. He worked for days, and then weeks, until the house inside and out, seemed to have had life breathed back into it. Even still he continued working, digging out a vegetable garden through the wild grass so that he would have something other than canned food to eat when summer came, and when he was not working, he painted, or taught himself the violin, or read, these being things he had never had time for before.

And so his life fell into a pattern: he would wake early, when the first light of day streamed through the windows; he would wash in the cold water he collected from a stream in the forest; he would work most of the morning and sometimes the afternoon, and in the evenings he would read or walk or drive or some other entertainment until bed. Sometimes, at night especially, he would feel lonely, though he had often been alone when he was younger, and then he would masturbate to the remembrance of women he had known. Otherwise he rarely thought of the past, and in the timelessness of those days he often felt inconceivably ancient, as if he had always existed like this and always would.

There was a change to this pattern however, that was both significant and minor, which occurred on what his watch told him was the twenty-first day of what must be either July or August, but might have been as late as September of the first year he lived in that house: a girl appeared in the garden while the man sat reading. He stood when he saw her and they looked at each other for a long while before either spoke.

“I used to live here,” the girl said.

“Oh,” said the man.

He was unaccustomed to speaking out loud, or hearing any voice other than the almost wordless thoughts in his head. Again they looked at each other silently.

“Is -” the girl began.

“Yes?”

“Is my room still the same?”

The man looked up at the house, its windows silver and impenetrable as the sun reflected from them.

“I redecorated,” the man said.

The girl nodded slowly and looked at the house, then they both spoke at the same time.

“Do you want to -” the man said.

“How are you -”

They both stopped. Neither smiled.

“There’s not -”

The man interrupted her again.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The girl looked up at the house again, then slumped to her knees in the grass. Tears began to run from her eyes. The man walked over to her and looked down at her.

“I’m hungry,” she said quietly.

“Come inside,” the man said.

The girl stood and followed him into the kitchen. Where the oven had once been he had put a barbecue with a brightly coloured gas tank attached to it by an orange tube. Sometimes it reminded him of his grandmother who, before she died many years before, had lost a lung through smoking and had to have an oxygen tank attached to the back of her wheelchair. It had been difficult for her to speak, so she had never said much to him, but the tank had kept her alive. Now the man lit the grill and put an open can of soup on it. Both the man and the girl were silent as the soup slowly came to the boil.

When the soup was bubbling, the man removed it with an oven glove and poured it into a bowl. He put the bowl on the table in front of the girl along with a spoon, but she ignored the spoon and picked up the hot bowl. The first sips burnt her lips, so she put the bowl back down and used the spoon. After a few minutes of tentative sipping however, she again picked up the bowl and drank the whole lot down in a couple of big gulps. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then began to breathe heavily as if she were about to cry again. Instead she looked up at the man, who had watched her eat in the same way that he might have once watched a squirrel bound across a park and dart up a tree.

“Can I see my room?” she asked.

The man nodded. The girl stood, walked past him and began to ascend the stairs. The man followed her, all the way up to the room at the far end of the landing.

“I didn’t like pink,” she said when she stepped through the door and looked at the white-yellow walls.

“There was mould in the corners,” said the man.

“There used to be…” said the girl pointing vaguely at the wall by the bed.

“Sorry,” the man said, “a lot of it was no good any more.”

The girl nodded.

“What about my clothes?” she asked.

“I threw them away.”

The man could not see the girl’s face.

“This doesn’t smell like my room,” she said.

“There’s clean sheets in the wardrobe,” the man said, “and there’s some shops in the city that still have clothes. We can go tomorrow.”

The girl sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yes,” she said.

She looked out the window. The man looked at her.

“I think I’d like to alone for a little while now,” the girl said.

The man nodded and went back out into the garden.

* * *

Weeks passed and autumn established itself in the air and the earth as it always had and the man’s vegetables became full and ready to pick. Against his expectations when he planted them however, he now had someone with which to share them, for the girl had remained in the house, living in her old room, working and reading as he had learned to do to pass the time. She had also taken to running, and was no longer so scrawny as she had been when she first appeared in the garden a couple of months before.

Often they would sit together, in the garden when it was fine, inside otherwise, usually in silence for there seemed little new each day to talk about and there was an unvoiced but apparent rule between that they never speak about the past. Neither of them even thought about the past much any more as it was painful to remember and easier to forget. Yet one day, sat in the garden, the girl was suddenly reminded of a morning several years before. She was wearing a dress at the time, and it was the coolness of the autumn breeze on her bare legs that triggered the memory.

In the memory she was sitting in this very garden eating breakfast at an old wooden table and watching her sister get ready for school. Her sister had had an exam that day, her last one, the girl supposed, and she knew that her sister planned to meet the boyfriend her parents knew nothing about afterwards. She had seemed so grown-up then, the girl had thought, as she slipped the lipstick which her parents forbade her to wear into her school-bag, though she had only been the age the girl was now. Then her sister had had to wait around for a lift to school from her father, and the girl had drawn up her legs onto the wooden seat because they were bare beneath her shorts and a cool May breeze had blown through the fine blond hairs that covered them, bringing with it the scent of dewy grass. Her sister noticed and said,

“You’ll have to start shaving your legs soon.”

“Does it hurt?” The girl had asked, drawing her legs in tighter.

Her sister laughed.

“No, it feels nice, at least afterwards it does.”

Their father had come out then and her sister had left with him.

The girl sighed and looked over at the man, who looked nothing like her father. She looked at his hands, which were rough.

“Were you married?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence that stretched out all around.

The man looked up from his book.

“No,” he said.

He started reading again.

“I had a boyfriend once,” the girl said.

The man nodded slightly, but continued reading.

“But not any more,” the girl continued. She looked at him. “I don’t remember what it was like.”

“Don’t remember then,” the man said quietly so she almost did not hear.

“We never -”

The man put down his book.

“Of course not,” he said.

They looked at each other for a minute or so, then the man picked his book back up and began reading again. The girl was still staring at him, thinking intently. She came to a decision and stood up. She walked over to him and stood in front of him with her legs either side of his knee. He looked up and she bent down towards his face. He put his hands on her shoulders and stopped her.

“What are you, fifteen, sixteen?” he asked, “I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

“I’m older than that,” she said.

“Not much.”

“Old enough.”

Her shoulders still pressed into his hands. With outstretched fingers she clasped his arms.

“What do you expect will happen?” the man said, almost flinching at her contact, “That we’ll repopulate the world, that we’ll bring anything back? It won’t make anything any better.”

“I don’t want that, I just want to try it.”

“Do you think there’s any contraception around that’s still any good? Do you think there’s any doctors to fix any mistakes? This is no world to bring a child into.”

“We’ll be careful.”

She was beginning to feel desperate now and the corners of her eyes became moist.

“We are being careful, we never were before, but we are now,” the man said.

Slowly the grip of her fingers on his arms loosened and she became a dead weight against his hands. The man supported her weight as best he could from the awkward angle as he sat her on the grass, then he leaned forward and pressed his elbows into his knees. With a small, choked voice the girl asked,

“How old are you?”

The man did not answer so she looked up at him. He shrugged.

“I suppose we’re all a lot older now. I feel old,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘all’?” she asked, “are there others?”

“Oh, no, I suppose I meant us, or perhaps I meant me. We are all now.”

The girl breathed in and held herself against his knee. The man looked down and began to stroke her hair. When he had put his hands on her shoulders a moment before, it had been the first time they had touched since she arrived. He thought about this as he watched his fingers move across the yellow strands of her hair. He thought too how she would ask again sometime, and, though he would refuse her again, she would never forget about it and one day, amidst those long seasons that stretched out before them, she would ask and he would not resist. For now though, in the failing light and cool air of this autumn evening, she would hold herself against his knee, and he would stroke her hair, which felt like straw beneath his rough fingers, and she would cry if she needed to, and neither of them would speak.

Queue long in the supermarket, was lunchtime though, and it’s sunny. Supermarkets always so much busier when it’s sunny, don’t people eat when it’s cloudy? Felt bad letting Sam pay for everything, but he insisted, he’s sweet like that. How much was it though? Twenty-something, most of that was the Malibu. I said “get the cheap one,” but “no,” he said, “the cheap one’s nasty.” What else? French sticks, yes, and olives and Greek cheese, well he likes those more than I do, beef jerky too, I’ve never had it so I don’t know, but he likes that, said he hadn’t had it since he went to America with his dad years ago. Think he misses his dad sometimes, especially the way things often are between him and Jake, and the other house-mate never around, always out or working or sleeping, I’ve only spoken to him about twice. Still, he’s got me. Squeeze his arm, there. He’s smiling at me. It always seems to be sunny when I’m with you.

Yes, there’s the park, at the end of this road. The food’s in Sam’s backpack, the blanket and the Malibu are in mine. Not a blanket: the cover from the sofa in the living room. Jake was sitting on it when we got in, playing Nintendo games, but when we started making the picnic in the kitchen next door, talking and laughing, he disappeared. There were no blankets: we stole the cover. Mm. This is happiness, this, the park, the picnic in our backpacks. What else? Coca Cola to mix with the Malibu, and plastic cups to mix it in, cheese and pineapple on sticks, picked up a whole pineapple at first, that’s what gave me the idea, then saw a tin of chunks and remembered the last time I tried to carve a pineapple, that was back, when?, November, me and the girls not long moved in, like a fruity murder scene Lou had said, so I left it in the bread aisle. It looked ridiculous, all leafy and ridgy in amongst the Hovis and the Warburtons, had to laugh, and then one of the staff was looking at me so I ran away.

Oh, in the shade of this leafy tree: a chill breeze. Always sunny with Sam except here, makes me think of autumn, reminds me of those days when Sam seemed an eternity away, the girls and I walking to those parties with bare legs, or with legs as good as bare in black tights, our glittering dresses sparkling in the street-lights, thinking about Sam, looking for him in the crowd, wondering where he was if I didn’t see him, if he’d found someone else before I’d had my chance. Silly, I suppose, to fall in love so quickly, so determinedly, though I’d only known him since September, but I couldn’t help it, even in the clubs, when guys used to flirt with us, and Lou would go off with them and grind up against them on the dance-floor, and Frances, though she got picked less often, even she found a boyfriend, for a while, amongst the flashing lights and the loud music, and they asked why I hadn’t, but I didn’t dare tell them about Sam, because I wanted it so much, I was scared that saying it would make it not happen. He seemed so far away.

But then there was that afternoon in the Student Union bar, and though he hurt me without knowing, he brought me closer to him, because then I came round his house, to see Jake of course, but it was still his house. And it was that one afternoon when I was round and Jake went out, he had a lecture or something and said he’d be back in a couple of hours, and I could wait there for him if I wanted. He must’ve thought something was going to happen between us, always reaching for my hand like that, but I never lead him on. I never.

Sam was in, so of course I said I’d stay and I’d wait for Jake. Sam was reading on the sofa downstairs at the time, what was it then?, something big, Proust, I think. He said it was a classic, but then he says that about everything he reads. So I got the book I had with me out of my bag and it was Harry Potter and sat with it in the arm chair. We read together and I kept looking at him and then I asked what he was reading. “Proust,” he said, and then “Remembrance of Things Past.” “Oh,” I said. He told me it was French, and that it was a classic. Then we both read a bit more, and then I said “swap.” He said “what,” and I said again “swap, let’s swap books.” He thought about it a moment, then “okay,” he said. I started reading the first pages of Remembrance of Things Past and Proust was going on and on about going to bed early and then not being able to sleep and all the things he heard and the things he thought about, and I suppose it was interesting, in a way, but not if the whole book was like that, and the sentences were all so long you had to read them twice.

“You really like this stuff?” I asked. He said he did. I told him I thought he was just showing off. He smiled at that and said maybe he was. I still wonder sometimes if he really enjoys reading, or if he just does it because he feels he has to, because it’s good for him somehow. I asked then, “so what did you think of my book?” sitting on the sofa now so we could swap back. “Well it’s a kids’ story isn’t it?” he said. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said, “it was alright, easy-going anyway, perhaps I’ll read it when I’m done with this.” He tapped Proust with his fingers and I thought I saw a slight shake in his hand. He wasn’t looking at me. Then he looked up and he saw me and it felt like he was seeing me for the first time. We kissed and then. And then we had to keep it from Jake for a little while and break it to him gently.

Sam told it to him a few days later, and then they didn’t speak for about a week I think. The first time I came round after that, and Jake saw me, he stared me down all accusative. I had to look away, and then Sam glared at him, “back off,” he said with his eyes, or “don’t.” I felt bad for Jake, of course, I thought he was okay, perhaps if Sam wasn’t there, if things had been. No, maybe I just feel sorry for him; it hurts, that. Perhaps I should introduce Frances and he, maybe that would work. Oh, another shady tree: it’s warm now, but it’ll be cold later, maybe should’ve worn tights, brought a cardie, no, we won’t be out that long, and you’ll keep me warm, won’t you? Even in autumn we’ll walk through this park again, my arm around yours like now, and you’ll still keep me warm.

“Over there, by the lake?” Sam says, pointing.

I nod.

~ ~ ~

Feel the grass on my elbows through the sofa-cover, tummy full with food, sun on me, I am happy. And drowsy again, like this morning. The Malibu is warm, the Coca Cola too, though we put them in the shade to keep cool, still, another glass, to sip. The lake looks nice, dreamy.

“Do you want to go for a swim later?” I say, jokey.

I smile. I look at him, we’ve been quiet, he’s not smiling. For a moment I’m back in the Student Union bar, coming towards him and he’s not looking up from his book.

“What’s wrong?”

Now he looks, hollow smile.

“I liked the pineapple chunks with the cheese on the sticks,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve had them before.”

Mum used to make them at my childhood birthday parties, but that’s not what he’s thinking about.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks away, what’s he looking at now? Not me; some ducks.

“Is this love?” He says.

“What?” Off-guard, didn’t expect that.

“This: going to the park together, watching TV, sharing baths. Is this what love is?”

“What else would it be?”

Not now drowsy, not now dreamy and happy. I sit up.

“Don’t you love me?”

Rum and cola in my stomach all sickly now. I wait, I wait. Speak.

“Why haven’t we had sex yet?” He says like the question is choking him and he has to spit it out.

He looks down and starts playing with some grass.

“Is that what this is about?” I ask.

I can fix that, I want to, ready now, ready now, wasn’t before, but last night, this morning, ready now, haven’t left it too long without, haven’t made him lose interest, can fix it, ready now.

“No, not really,” he says

“What then?” Breathe in, not a little girl any more, just words, he’ll tell me, we’ll fix it.

He shrugs, looks away like he’s trying to read the lake.

“I think I might go home for a few days next week some time,” he says suddenly, “I miss watching films with my dad and my nan’s baking.”

“Okay,” I say.

Let him change the subject, nothing wrong. Move closer, afraid, he can see that, I don’t need to say. Hold his arm, he won’t slip away. Look at me.

“I do love you,” he says.

There, except there’s something else.

“But?” I say.

“Nothing. I love you. I want to look after you.”

I don’t know what he means, I don’t know if he knows what he means, but this is love, he reads too much, he’s close, his arm is warm and shakes as he coughs. There are no shadows across the flat lake. We’ll walk here again in the autumn.

All.

Awake now, open eyes, bright!, scrunch into warmy pillow. What’s that against my ankle? His leg, all hairy and bony. Still asleep? In this light? Not facing it like I am though. Cotton all blurry in my eye, seeming to stretch out for miles before it reaches him. Is he dreaming? So peaceful. He always looks so serious when awake, even when he’s not, but now he looks carefree, like a little boy. Little cherub. Was that a frown? I’ll kiss him. Oh, his hands are in the way, stuck out in front of him, one on top of the other, like he’s praying, or pleading. They’re warm. I can reach his neck now. There; where he’s tender, between his Adam’s apple and his tendons. Felt the cartilage of it against my lips, and his stubble against my nose. Hope he shaves today, otherwise he’s all scratchy when we kiss. He hasn’t moved. Is he dreaming? Wonder why he sleeps like that; foetal position: I like to stretch out. Oh, he wrapped around me in the night, I wonder if he remembers. Don’t think he woke up, but he certainly woke me. Thought I was being crushed! One arm around my neck and the other across my chest. Had to prise him off. Perhaps he was in a dream.

Wonder what he’s dreaming now, if he is. The way his head’s against the pillow makes me think of that day in the Student Union bar. When was that? February I think; five months ago now. He had his head against the back of the sofa then, just like that, though he hadn’t been there long (I knew he hadn’t been there long because his mug was nearly full and still steaming). He’d invited me so I’d come. I was only five minutes late but already he was reading; he’s always reading. What was it? Something I would never read. And then I thought he didn’t want me there, because he didn’t look up from his book, right up until I was nearly in front of him, though he knew I was there because he’d waved to me when I came in. But then I sat down next to him on the sofa and he put a bookmark in and I supposed he’d only been reading to the end of the page and not deliberately ignoring me.

Well we talked and we drank tea and most of the time he was looking forward, at the people coming and going I suppose, but every so often he’d ask me a question or he’d answer one, and he’d twist his head round to look at me, and the sun fell across his face through the window as it’s doing now and there was the warm smell of incense on the air. I was looking at him the whole time of course, my head lolled against the back of the sofa and my leg drawn up on the cushion, kind of twirling my hair around my finger because I was nervous. I can’t remember what we talked about, but then he asked me if I’d met Jake. I hadn’t so I said no, and he asked if I wanted to, so I said sure, why not.

Then Sam said that Jake was looking for a girlfriend, knowing that I was single, and I’d like him if I met him. I did like him, well enough, but not like I liked Sam. But he didn’t realise at the time, being a boy, being always in his books, striding around so seriously, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me. It hurt me. It hurt me. I thought he wasn’t interested in me and that was his way of telling me, and then I’d said I’d meet Jake so I couldn’t suddenly back out, then Sam would ask why, and I’d have to say because he was trying to set us up, and Sam would ask why not, and I’d have to tell him; give the game away. I couldn’t do that: too nervous of what he’d say, how he’d change towards me. He should’ve just known really, without my saying anything, would’ve saved some trouble. Still, together now, aren’t we? Oh, why’s he still sleeping! he’s had as long as I have, and without being woken. Perhaps another kiss, on the lips, will wake him, sleeping beautiful.
Move my hand to his waist, got a brush of. There, now he’s waking too.

“Mrnah,” he says, drawing in his shoulders, friction as his hairy leg brushes mine. Smile; he’s still dreamish.

“What were you dreaming?” I ask.

“Mrah?”

Skin tightens on his waist as he shrugs. I shake gently his ribs: encourage.

“My name was Santiago, like in, like in.”

His voice is crackly then he trails into a yawn.

“Hemingway.” (like that makes a difference to me) “I was fishing on a beach, I caught a fish, started to eat it – ”

“Raw?”

“Yeah, then a bone’s in my throat and I fall onto the sand and I look up and there’s a, a lighthouse on a cliff and I’m in its shadow, ’cause the sun’s,” he yawns again, “the sun’s behind it and then I was scared. That’s it.”

“Aw.”

I pull closer, palm against his back, kiss closemouthed his lips, feel brush against my legs the tip of his. He pulls away to cough, twists round for his bedside glass. He lies back on his other side. His shoulder-blades push against the white cotton of his t-shirt. I pull myself close again so my breasts press flat against his back and I push my knees into the backs of his so there’s no space between us. I kiss the back of his neck, where his hair is fine and feels fuzzy like that white fluff some plants have. The black hairs under his belly-button are like that too and I slip my fingers under his shirt to stroke them. I kiss his neck again. Almost, now, almost ready, since the bath, if he’ll just.

“I need the toilet,” he says, getting out of bed.

I feel a breeze on my arm. Why’s he got his back to me as he puts on his dressing gown? I know what he’s hiding, felt it just now, and last night when I leaned back. Hrmpf. Perhaps we’re not ready, perhaps it’s just my. When was it last? Three weeks already? Must be. Well, that’s more reason to then, if I have to wait another week, it always makes me so. But it’ll be our first time so want it to feel right. Last night would have been good, but he was tired. I was too, but not so tired. He never does sleep well though, says he’s not used to sharing, as if I was, but you get used to it, and I like someone else there, him, a warm body.

Again, he should know without me saying, and make it feel right, ’cause if I ask then I feel like I’m begging, can’t do that, have to let it happen. Oh, he’s back. Perhaps he’ll come back to bed, no, he’s going to stand by the window. What’s he looking at? He knows what’s out there, same as ever; the concrete and the dandelions, the barbecue with rusty legs, the old shed behind it. With that light against him he looks more like an angel now than a cherub. What’s he looking at? Must be some way of telling him I think I’m ready without actually telling him. Like before, should have been some way of telling him, but then, no, I never did tell him, I had to show him, that afternoon when we read together. He’s turning. I’m waiting.

“Looks like a nice day,” he says.

“Yeah?”

I suppose he doesn’t really go for it in the morning, only at night, but I wouldn’t mind, all snug and sleepy under the duvet.

“We should go to the park later.”

Park nice.

“Okay.”

“You want some breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“Want me to bring it to you?”

“No, I’ll come.”

He drops his dressing gown on the chair, I see for a moment his boxers hanging loose before he pulls up his jeans. Hrmpf, rather stay in bed, but not alone. Least the air’s not cold. Take his gown though, in case anyone else’s up. It’s furry and smells of him. Music is that? Coming from Jake’s room. Could hear it last night in the bathroom too. Sam says he’s always listening to music, or doing something noisy, singing to himself if there’s nothing else, though he can’t sing, says he thinks it’s because he had brothers so he isn’t used to the silence. Sam likes the quiet though, gets annoyed sometimes. He asked me before what it was like having a sister, if it made me always need noise. I said I wasn’t sure, that I didn’t mind it but I didn’t need it. Then he said sometimes Jake felt like a brother to him, because they’re forced together by sharing the same house and sometimes they get on really well and sometimes they fight. It must be hard to know what brothers and sisters are like if you don’t have them, like me thinking what it would’ve been like without Claire, but I imagine it gets lonely, especially for Sam, parents divorced, his mum not around much.

Oh, the floorboards in here are cold, except where the sun’s been. Tiles in the kitchen cold too, water sloshing against the sides of the kettle.

“You want cereal?” he asks.

Nod. Can I help? Tea, yes. He likes the mug with the tiger on, I’ll have. Oh, not in the cupboard, dirty, or in someone’s room, the stripy one then. Teabags, there. Hold him now, press against him again from behind. Water in the kettle: a lake. Why’d I think of that? The dream, yes, that was it: a lake flat like a mirror. Now it begins to boil: the bath last night. Splash. Oh, his hands moving across me, gliding with the soap, stopping where my breast begins, something about that spot makes me. I almost couldn’t take it, had to lean back and kiss him, felt him pressing against the base of my spine all hard, that turned me on more. Almost could’ve turned round there and then, if there’d been more space, felt almost right, thought we might’ve afterwards.

Sam. His back’s against my cheek, cotton like the pillow. Kiss your neck again if I could reach easily, without going on tippy-toes, feel your ribs under my fingers. Suppose it’s not the same for boys there though: only sensitive in one place. Most of them anyway. Something different about Sam, way he doesn’t react always to that. Click of the kettle. He’s pouring now, but I won’t let go, not yet. He might’ve taken advantage last night when I exposed myself like that, might’ve slipped his hand down, been all fingers and forgetting about the rest of me, but not he; he carried on massaging me, soaping me all over. Not had a bath like that before, not even shared one since I was a kid, Claire in there with me, waving plastic ducks in front of me so I wouldn’t cry when Mum washed my hair.

Through to the next room mug and bowl in hand, cold milk sloshing with chocolate rings, turning pure white to marbled brown. Sam’s turning on the TV, what’s on at this time? Weekday so, Trisha I suppose, or some other talk-show. Nintendo 64 next to the screen, gathering dust as the TV whines and flashes on. Sam plays it sometimes, but Jake owns it. Talk-shows, thought so, horse racing and an old movie too. Don’t get Channel 5 so well round here. Why’s he standing up there to do it? Oh, no batteries in the remote.

“Any preference?” he asks.

Weetos in my mouth, I shake my head. He leaves Trisha on, comes to sit next to me. The sofa sinks where he sits and the tie-dye cover stretches. Who’s this now? Some love triangle: he cheated on her and got her pregnant but wants the first one? Hope I never end up on this show, no, why would I? Have to want to go on. English ones aren’t so good as the American ones, not funny like Jerry Springer. Maybe just because of the yokel accents. Perhaps they think the same about. Whose that coming downstairs, through the door? Jake. Best not look at him, he makes it too awkward. Snuggle down into dressing gown, make it tight around me, look at Sam. Sam’s looking at him. Couldn’t imagine them as brothers: too dissimilar. Neither’s speaking, just a quick nod from each at the other. Jake, he’s not looking at me, he’s going through to the kitchen. Sam’s looking at me though. Smile. He’s not always like that, Sam says, just when. I don’t think he finished but he was going to say when I was around.

Well I never led him on. We hung out. What did we do? We watched movies, he cooked for me once. I didn’t ask him to, he said, “you wanna stay for dinner?” and I said “sure,” being hungry, thinking he’d pull a pizza out the freezer, perhaps some garlic bread, then he goes and starts making some pasta dish with cheese sauce and chopped bacon, garlic bread too, and he opens a bottle of wine which, “sure, I’ll have a glass,” since he’d already opened it. I didn’t flirt; we were friends, and it was a way to spend time with Sam, since he was there with us more often than not. Did he begin to suspect then that I was in love with him? Perhaps, he said he liked it when I came over and then he said I was like a sister to him, which was an odd thing to say, but he says things like that sometimes, probably ’cause of the books he reads, maybe.

Sometimes, when Sam wasn’t there, Jake would reach for my hand as we watched a movie and I’d pull away. Well what do you say? “No, don’t do that, I don’t like you like that?” It’s just a hand, and he’d never say anything, or properly ask me out, then I could’ve said, “no,” or “I like you, but really I’m in love with Sam.” Awkward that one time when he reached once and I folded my arms, then he reached again, my hand tucked under my elbow, and started stroking my fingers. Didn’t do it long at least, but afterwards, looking at the screen, could still feel his eyes on me, wanting me to turn. Perhaps he’d have tried to kiss me then if I had, and then I could have rejected him straight, rather than just hinting. Oh, he’s coming back with tea and biscuits, biscuits for breakfast?, look at the TV. Sam’s looking at him though. They say nothing. Now he leaves, alone again, Sam, I.

It hurts him, I think, but he doesn’t say it. I wonder if they talk about me ever. Do I want them to? Depends what they say. “Got a good view of Abby’s tits in the bath last night, rubbing them down with soap.” Ugh. No, Sam’s not like that. I hope he does talk about me in a good way though. Hope he thinks about me. Do you think about me? His brow’s furrowed, he’s still thinking about Jake. Lean over and kiss him. Quick, not passionate, loving. Comfortable. He tastes of tea and milk. No, hope he doesn’t talk about me with Jake actually, Jake hates me enough already, doesn’t need to hear more from Sam. Hmm, last Weeto always so hard to get, have to chase it round the bowl with the spoon. There.

“I should get dressed,” I say now, white-brown milk emptied of Weetos.

“Yes,” he says, “then we could go to the park.”

“Mm hmm,” I say, “and take a picnic?”

“Sure, if you want, but we’ll have to go buy some stuff for it.”

~ ~ ~

Read Part Two

“Is Elle in?” I asked.

“Rob, right?”

I nodded.

“No, she’s not in,” Nick said, “I think she went to college.”

“Oh,” I said, “she doesn’t usually today.”

“No,” Nick said, “she had to hand something in or something.”

“Oh.”

I rocked back on my heels, pushed my thumbs into my jeans pockets, looked at the door-frame.

“I think she said she wouldn’t be long. Have you tried texting her?”

“I don’t have any credit.”

Nick looked past me for a moment. I turned to see a lady in a brown coat walking a long-haired dog. I turned back round.

“Do you want to come in and wait for her?” Nick asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Nick stood to the side and let me pass. He closed the door behind me. I stood in the hallway not knowing where to go. Looking down I saw a pair of Elle’s high-heeled shoes, not the ones she wore every day, in between pairs of trainers, some worn-out converse and some slippers. I bent down to untie my own shoes. Nick walked past me and stood on the stairs. I looked up at him. He was skinny. I put my shoes with the pile and followed him upstairs.

“Do you want to sit in my room?” He asked.

“I don’t mind waiting in Elle’s,” I said.

“She might. I don’t know. You can if you want.”

He shrugged and walked into his own room where I could hear a TV playing. I looked through the open door into Elle’s darkened room. Some clothes lay on the bed, a bra among them. I walked into Nick’s room.

He sat on his bed with a laptop across his legs and his back against the wall. On the TV there was a cooking programme. He looked up when I came in and patted the bed next to him. I looked at the office chair by his desk. It was piled with clothes. I sat next to him on the edge of the bed and looked at the TV. I didn’t know Nick that well, only that he went to university in Nottingham and he was older than Elle. I’d met him a couple of times before, but he usually wasn’t around.

“Check this out,” he said, suddenly picking up the remote and turning the volume down on the TV. He nodded towards his laptop. I moved back on the bed and closer to him. He tilted the laptop towards me and hit the play button on a movie-editing program. Our shoulders touched as I leaned in to look. A video started playing: an animation of a cartoon dinosaur going to a supermarket. Some jaunty music played in the background. It only lasted half a minute.

“Did you make that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said, “it’s part of my project for this semester.”

“What course do you do?”

“Film and Animation.”

I looked at his hands, gripping the sides of the laptop. They too were skinny. On his wrist he wore a music festival bracelet and some brightly coloured beads. He smelled of shower gel.

“What’s uni like?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“It’s good,” he said, “you meet new people, you go out and get drunk with them, you do some work. Are you in the same year as my sister?”

He looked at me.

“Yeah,” I said.

I looked at him. There was something delicate about him, like plasticine moulded over wire. He continued to look at me. He had the same eyes as Elle. I looked down at the laptop again.

“You want to see another of my videos?” He asked.

“Okay,” I said.

He brought up a folder and clicked on a file. This time it was a stop-motion video of a wooden man running and jumping over hurdles. It was about the same length as the last.

“How long did that take?” I asked.

“A couple of weeks,” he replied. “That was when I was just learning how to do it.”

“Oh,” I said.

I looked at the silent TV, still showing people in coloured aprons running around a kitchen, mixing things in bowls. I could feel Nick looking at me again. I turned to face him. He leaned towards me with the slightest motion. His breath smelt of toothpaste. I nearly pulled away. I had never kissed a boy before. His tongue felt slimy against mine, but tasted of mint. I was a little repulsed, a little excited. I thought about Elle.

Nick pulled away. He put the laptop down on the floor, then kind of pulled me down so we were lying on the bed, facing each other. I didn’t resist. He kissed me again, briefly, without tongues this time. I looked at his eyes, the same eyes as Elle.

“I’m not gay,” I said, after a few minutes passed in silence.

“No,” he said.

He started to play with my hair, then stroked my head gently, like you would a cat. His hips were only a few inches from mine. I barely felt anything. I sat up and looked at him. He looked comfortable. I was going to say ‘sorry’, instead I asked

“Do you think I have a chance with your sister?”

“I really couldn’t say,” he replied.

He sat up, picked his laptop up from the floor and began working again. I looked at him. Without looking away from the screen he reached for the remote and passed it to me. I took it and continued to watch him. He turned to smile at me, then looked back at the screen. I looked past him. Elle stood in the doorway.

“I thought those were your shoes I saw in the hallway,” she said, her dark eyes on me.

She was wearing that navy blue double-breasted coat of hers. I put the remote down and stood up. I could taste mint.

“Hi,” she said with a smile.

“Hi,” he repeated, reflecting the smile with a quick honest tightening of his own dimples. Their eyes met, momentarily. Blue. Brown. Did she smile like that for all the customers, he wondered. Perhaps that was why they hired her: that smile. A smile like that brightens someone’s day. A girl like that brightens someone’s day.

No, she didn’t smile like that for everyone who passed by, certainly not for the old drunkards smelling of fags, buying own-brand vodka and whisky, in whose eyes glinted a little semi-concious letch; nor for the shaven-headed twenty-something males in tracksuits nonchalantly dropping packs of Carlsberg onto the conveyor belt; nor even for the haughty middle-aged, middle-class women buying pre-packed, adjective laden, fillets of salmon: for these stereotypes, the basis of which had been one or two regulars, but the labelling of which had been applied whole groups that had all blended into that single entity known as ‘customer’, her smile always felt forced, strained. Not that they noticed.

For the young mothers, their children looking up at her either from prams or on tip-toes over the sweets they are desperate for her to scan, her smile was always genuine, as it was for any of the customers who took the short seconds to look her in the eye, smile back and say “hello” or “hi”. But the smile she gave them, her ordinary, every-day smile, was different in quality to the smile she gave now to the young man in front of her now: It was a reinvigorated smile, sweeping away in a moment the endless hours at the checkout, the unbearable monotone beeps of the scanner. She supposed, looking at him, that he was quite handsome. Perhaps he smiled at all the checkout girls. Perhaps not. For a moment she didn’t care: she was glad he had chosen her checkout.

Why? She looked again, the right angles of a pizza box passing between her slender hands. It wasn’t so much him; he wasn’t so unusually good-looking. Sure, there was a pleasing curve to his jaw-line, his nose was well-formed and the slight prominence of his cheek-bones added character to his features, but it was really a very ordinary attractiveness. His hair, to an extent, added interest, with messy irregular spikes and sweeps. She read in his hair an easy-going nature, saw someone who moved easily from place to place, laughing easily at whatever they find. What else? She looked lower and saw a fleece-lined hooded sweat-shirt, hanging open across his skinny chest. That compounded her attraction, more than any of his physical features, for she saw herself in a moment wrapped up in the warmth of that top, her breathing in its scent of him while he walked her home from a party. Their alcohol breath would crystallise in the winter air…

She asked if he needed a bag, but he had brought his own. It was common now for people to do that, but she felt a little sorry, as if she had been denied the small privilege of giving him something, even something so small as a plastic bag. It strengthened her half-formed feelings of admiration for him though: yes it was only that he had brought his rucksack with him, but the independence that this represented might stretch further in his life to the point that he was not so aloof as to be inaccessible, but that if she could get him to notice her she would feel she had achieved something special.

He already had noticed her. On her finger there was a ring with a butterfly on it; cheap no doubt, but she kept it shiny. On the opposite wrist there was a canvas festival bracelet but nothing else. Unadorned, natural: He liked that. He packed the last of his shopping into his bag. She told him the price.

She regretted that the few things she said to him had become so robotic through their repetition. She wanted to say something different, something exciting and interesting, but what? What could she possibly say that might interest him, that might bring his attention to her as a person rather than as a function? There was nothing. People couldn’t just say things to each other in the everyday situations like serving someone at a checkout, couldn’t transcend the exact parameters, the predetermined script of the customer-server bond: That’s what the nightclubs were for, even if the shouted pick-up lines were borne of intoxication and not feeling, even if the music drowned them out anyway. She tried to inject a little life into her sentences by following each one with a smile, but it had been a long day. She watched him pull a leather wallet from his pocket.

From the wallet he removed a loyalty card, grateful for his foresight in obtaining one as it allowed him just a few more seconds at the checkout of this girl whose name-tag said “Sam”. As he passed it to her her fingers might have brushed against his slightly. If they had, she too was aware of the contact. She passed him the card back as he put his debit card into the reader. So impersonal, paying by card. He wished he had brought real money so that she might pass the change, the real physical metal change, from her hand to his, but he only had his debit card. The transaction was complete.

“Bye,” he said.

“Goodbye” she said. Another smile passed between them. Perhaps both their hearts beat a couple of times more than usual. Then he was gone, looking back once, twice, to see that she already had her head turned away to serve the next customer. He wished he had said something, even if he still couldn’t think of what, or if it would have been appropriate. Perhaps he would see her again. Certainly he would come back here to shop, and he could make it the same time another week, but that would be in at least another week, and would he be able to say anything then? No, probably not, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be the same: No longer spontaneous, instead a pre-considered pick-up line stumbled awkwardly over while the next customer waits under fluorescent supermarket strip-lighting.

12

“Mark, sorry about Friday night, just leaving like that. And sorry that I’ve not been in touch. I really owe you an explanation, and here it is: a couple of months ago, I got really involved with this guy, and it was all going well. Apart from his children, and though we got on really well, his kids just hated me for some reason, and it was like no matter what I did, I could not get them to like me. And eventually they kind of just broke up our relationship. Like even though we were getting along really well, he told me it just wasn’t working out, and it was all because of his kids. And it really hurt me.

I’m not saying that I don’t like kids, I wouldn’t even mind a couple of my own some day, maybe, but I just had the bad experience and it’s made me wary of guys with kids. But y’know, what the hell? I really did have a good time on Friday, with you, and I shouldn’t let the fact that you have children already put me off, I mean I’m sure your kid is very nice if I got to know her. If you still want to know me that is. I’m a little afraid that you won’t, and that’s why I’m sending you this email rather than ringing you. But please get in touch if you do, we can go for coffee again, nothing fancy, and it’s not like we have to rush into anything,

Love, Angela xx”

]]> http://hbenjaminpetrie.com/2009/02/03/fiction-father-pt12/feed/ 0 http://hbenjaminpetrie.com/2009/02/03/fiction-father-pt11/ http://hbenjaminpetrie.com/2009/02/03/fiction-father-pt11/#comments Tue, 03 Feb 2009 10:32:12 +0000 Henry http://hbenjaminpetrie.com/?p=300 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10

11

“Hi, Mum, I can come pick the girls up today.” It was Sunday.

“Mark, I tried to ring you yesterday.”

“I wasn’t in.” When I got back, I had been overcome with tiredness and had gone to bed and fallen asleep almost instantly.

“I know, but I tried ringing your mobile.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little telephone. It was switched off.

“I think the battery must have run out, I didn’t notice. What were you ringing me for anyway?” My mother hushed her voice when she next spoke, and I could imagine her looking around the hallway where I knew she stood to check she was alone.

“It’s about Gemma. Son, she doesn’t feel she can talk to you.”

“She doesn’t try to talk to me. She locks herself in her room,” I said, almost immediately blaming her.

“That’s because she doesn’t feel she can. It’s not easy being a teenage girl, y’know, son, and sometimes they need a bit of encouragement.”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not her fault. It’s mine. I…I can’t be a good father.”

“Son, you are a good father; they’re good girls, and I know you’re always there for them, but sometimes I don’t think they know that.”

“Gemma locks herself in her room all the time though, I took that as a sign that she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Sometimes hiding is what we do to protect ourselves, because we are afraid to reach out to people.” This simple straight-forward advice was one of the reasons that I loved my mother, and one of the reasons why I felt it was such a shame for my children to not have their own mother in their lives. “So your daughters, Gemma particularly, really need you to reach out to them. You left her here with a black eye and I asked her about it. Do you know how she got it?”

“I…I was afraid to,” I said, a child again before my mother.

“You were afraid to?”

“I…how did she…what happened?”

“Mark, she’s being bullied at school. She said that you didn’t know, and she said you never even asked her about it.”

“Bullied?”

“Yes. Why were you afraid to ask? Why are you afraid to talk to your own daughter?”

“I…I thought I’d done it.”

“You? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know, I…had a dream, and then I my epilepsy kicked in and I couldn’t remember what I’d done that day, and then I saw her with the black eye, and I thought I must have done and that she was afraid to say because she was afraid of me and didn’t want to talk to me.” For a second I thought I was going to cry, like I did when I was child, until I was protected in my mother’s lap, cocooned against the world by her enclosing arms, but I was no longer a child, and my mother was not here, she was on the other end of a telephone line.

“Oh, Mark” she said.

“Why?” I asked, “Why is she getting bullied? She’s got lots of friends, and she’s pretty and nice, why would she get bullied?”

“Well she told me about it, but it seemed very complex and she was crying it all out while she was telling me” For a moment I could picture the scene in my head, Gemma against my mother’s shoulders, soaking her soft wool jumper with her tears, and my mother’s arms, a little more wrinkled now, but still soft, enclosing, comforting, around her back, stroking her hair. “From what I could understand, it was over some boy. Apparently Gemma had liked this boy and had been ‘going out’ with him. But then she slept over at his one night and they had a fight, he was being too pushy or something and she thought that he didn’t really care about her, but just wanted her for how she looked. She wasn’t too clear on that bit. Personally, I think she’s too young to be sleeping over at boy’s houses.”

“I never said she could. When was this?”

“She didn’t say, but surely you must have noticed she wasn’t there. Anyway, so she fell out with this boy and came home. Only, you weren’t in, and so she was in the house alone and upset. And then apparently you came home at some late hour with some woman, which Gemma knew nothing about. Do none of you ever talk in your house?”

“It’s complicated and it’s difficult. I’d only met Angela a couple of times, and that’s why I hadn’t told the girls about her, I… I remember now, Gemma said she was sleeping over at her friend’s house, her friend Marisa, she never said she was going to see her boyfriend.” I wondered how I had not worked that out sooner.

“Well, apparently this boy was quite popular, and a few other girls liked him. These girls were apparently jealous of Gemma for being liked at him, and then she fell out with him. So he started being nasty to her, and this prompted these girls to do the same, and that’s when they started bullying her. First they were calling her names, and throwing things at her in the classroom, then they started attacking her after a few days. That’s how she got the black eye.”

“Oh shit,” I said, “how is she now?”

“She’s okay now. I rang up the school yesterday, talked to the headmaster. He’s said that all the girls in question shall be suspended from school and that he will sort the whole thing out, though I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Can I talk to her now?”

“Yes, I think you should.” I heard my mother call Gemma, her voice distant and echoing as she held the phone away from herself. There were a few noises as the phone changed hands, and then Gemma’s voice, a little small-sounding, came out through the headset.

“Hey, Dad,” she said.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said, “How are you?”

“I’m okay now; Grandma’s been looking after me. How are you? How was your trip?”

“I think I’m okay now too. Yes, my trip was good; it felt good to get out. And it gave me some time to think on the journey, and I missed you both while I was gone, even though it was only a couple of days.”

“I missed you too, Dad.” I smiled when she said this. It brought her closer, though she was a few miles away, on the other end of a telephones, she was closer now than she had been on the other side of her bedroom door.

“I’m coming to pick you up in a bit.”

“Grandma’s cooking Sunday dinner. She’s done enough for you.” I smiled again; my mother was an excellent cook, as all mothers should be. “It should be ready in about an hour.”

“I’ll be there in a little less than an hour then.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.” There was a pause, I thought she was about to put the phone down, but she had not yet, so before she did I said,

“Gemma,”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Read Final Part

10

“Mum,”

“Mark, hi, how are things?”

“Uh, not too bad, I guess,”

“How are the girls?”

“They’re fine. Look, I have a big favour to ask, I mean, I don’t want to put upon you, but could you maybe look after the girls for a few days, three or four? I’ve, uh, I’ve got to go on a business trip thing.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, and I really don’t like to put upon you, but it’s important.” I felt bad about lying to my mother. Well, it was important, but the business trip bit was a lie.

“Well, it is short notice, but I understand. Okay, I’ll look after them.”

“Thank you, Mum,” I said, “I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”

“I know, Mark.”

Thursday evening. The three of us were in the car. Gemma sat in the back seat, leaning against the window, silent and moody. I saw her sad face in the rear view mirror reflected on the glass, her eye still bruised. I thought she might appreciate getting away from me for a little while, but she had protested at first, and asked that I let her stay at home on her own; she would be alright. I told her to pack some stuff for the few days.

Lucy had been more obedient than Gemma in the packing, and I knew she liked her grandmother. Though as I sat on her bed, watching her pack, telling her what to bring, I wondered if I should be doing this; removing my children for my own convenience. But then, maybe they were better off away from me.

No one said anything, and instead the radio supplied the conversation. Soon I pulled the car into my mother’s drive. The gravel crunched under the car wheels and we got out. I went round the back and opened the boot, pulled out Lucy’s Barbie rucksack and Gemma’s hold-all.

“Now you be good girls for Grandma,” I said as we walked towards the front door, “she’s doing me a big favour.” My voice sounded hollow, I thought, even to myself.

“Where is it you’re going, Dad?” Gemma asked.

“On a business trip.”

“I mean where, location.”

“Oh, um, London,” I said, it being the first place that came to mind.

“Couldn’t we come too?” asked Lucy.

“You have school, and besides, I’ll be too busy to look after you, that’s why you’re staying with Grandma.”

When my mother answered the door and invited us in, I stayed only for a cup of tea and a little conversation, for politeness’ sake. Then I left. Before leaving I hugged Lucy and told both the girls that I loved them. Lucy said it cheerily back and told me that she would miss me. Gemma just said,

“Are you…” and then stopped.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. As she turned away I noticed a fragility in her slim frame.

I drove home.

Once I had opened the door, I inhaled deeply, as if waking from a deep sleep. I imagined for a moment that I could smell everyone that had ever been in that room, as if they were there now as ghosts in the little dust motes that floated and eddied around the air. I exhaled slowly, then breathed in again, breathed in the remnants of the ghosts, of Angela, of her perfume, of Lucy, her innocence, the shampoo in her hair, of Gemma, her complicated, hormonal teenage scent, of that boy she brought in that time a few weeks ago, of Rachel too, of her beauty, her life, her skin, and even of myself, of Mark, a man now wanting to no longer exist as a ghost, but wanting to seize back life, and be free of the ghosts.

Beyond this thin veil of floating memories, the house was empty, a hollow shell again, as it had been after Rachel. For a second, I held my keys over the glass dish by the door, then I let them drop by slowly releasing my fingers until the last resistance from the plastic fobs slipped away. The sound as they landed was loud in the silent house. Then I untied my shoes and put my slippers on. I stood up and wondered what to do now.

In the end I cleaned every room in the house over the next two days, meticulously going over every surface with a duster, vacuuming every carpet, straightening everything out. Not that I really know why, but it seemed to help somehow. Gemma’s room was the last I went into; the room I was usually restricted from accessing. It was messy, as usual; lived in. But I did not feel compelled to clean this one, I just looked around.

On the desk stood her computer, an old CRT monitor with dust on top. A few small items were scattered around the desk as well: pens, pencils, a little cat ornament that had been Rachel’s, a pair of glass dolphins jumping through a glass wave, and a couple of small stuffed animals. A desk lamp stood there as well, but it did not work when I flicked the switched; the bulb had gone.

I briefly considered turning on the computer, seeing what she got up to on there, but resisted, knowing that I was already trespassing too much. I went over and sat on the bed, stared out the window. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows over the room. I lay down onto the bed, sinking into the slept-in sheets. Lying on my side I could smell the fabric conditioner on the cotton, mixed with the scent of Gemma.

Twenty years ago, it would have been my ambition to get into a teenage girl’s bed, but now the experience felt tainted and I again felt like a ghost, existing in my own separate world while everyone else existed in another. Had I been in here on Tuesday, conscious or not? Had I attacked Gemma? The questions flowed through my head like a tidal sea as I stared at Gemma’s partially open wardrobe, its pine frame being highlighted in the orange sun.

I must have fallen asleep like that, my head on Gemma’s pillow, my knees tucked up in my arms, because I was not aware again until it was completely dark. Of course I could have had another attack and actually lain there perfectly conscious for the whole time.

I fumbled in the darkness for Gemma’s bedside light. It instantly cast both light and shadow over the room. I lifted my watch up to my face. It told me it was four-thirty a.m. Moving my head slightly I realised that the pillow, and my eyes were both a little damp. I rubbed the stickiness from them, then I sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. The beard that had started to grow made my chin and my cheeks feel rough.

I yawned then, and stretched, and felt completely unrested, but I also knew that I would not get back to sleep so I stood up, a little too quickly perhaps, for I felt a little dizzy for a minute or so. Then I went downstairs and put on the coffee machine. I felt like I needed to do something today, I just did not know what. I went into the front room and put on the television while I decided what to do. For some reason I flicked to Cartoon Network and began to watch that. At this time of morning they always seemed to show the old cartoons, and right then Danger Mouse was on. I used to watch that show when I was a kid.

I watched to the end of the episode that was part way through when I turned it on, and then watched another one after. It made me smile, sat there in yesterday’s clothes, unshaven and watching cartoons from my youth. And that was when I decided that I would go to Brighton. I went back upstairs almost immediately after deciding to act on this impulse and packed a few clothes into my bag.

By 7 a.m. I was on the road to Brighton. The roads were clear and the sun was shining; it would be a great day. After about three quarters of an hour I stopped at a petrol station to refuel. Stepping out the car I felt a sea-breeze on my skin, and thought I could smell the salt-water, the fish and chips, the grassy dunes, over the petroleum smell that lingered in the air.

Inside the petrol station, when I was paying for the petrol, I glanced at the cigarettes behind the girl that was serving me. On an impulse I said,

“And ten Lucky Strikes, please.” The girl handed me the little red and white packet and I paid and left. Just another twenty minutes to Brighton.

It was just as I remembered it, almost. The sea was there of course, eternally, and the beach had not changed, nor the iconic pier. The arcades were still there, though they seemed to have become louder, brighter, more obnoxious. And everything seemed to have been coated in a plastic sheen, rather than the peeling wooden displays I remembered from my youth. But it was still the place where I had formed so many fond memories of summer.

I pulled up in a car park over looking the beach and got out. As soon as I got out I opened the cigarette pack and lit one up. Lucky Strike used to be my brand, but it was years since I had smoked. I had not even wanted one in years, and I suppose I did not really need one now, but it was an impulse decision that I stood by, in the same way that coming here had been an impulse decision.

I inhaled, perhaps a little too deeply, and coughed a little, but beyond the temporary discomfort of the cough came that once familiar little rush that filled my lungs and spread outwards. It really had been a long time.

By this time it was eight o’ clock; still early, too early for all but the early morning jogger, or even the early morning swimmer who felt compelled to brave the cold water at this time of morning, before anyone else got a chance. It would be a fine day though, and a Saturday too, so soon all the beaches would be crowded. But for now I had the beaches to myself. I took advantage of this privilege by stepping out onto the beach and walking along it.

The stones and pebbles crunched under my feet as I walked along, and the sound made me think of the gravel outside my mother’s house, of my children inside, safe and protected by the woman that brought me up. And I knew they were safe with her, for she had brought me up single-handedly, after my father died of cancer when I was four. Though I was never old enough to really get to know my father, I always felt that I would have chosen to have been brought up by my mother rather than my father.

I must have walked at least a mile or so down the beach, for I reached, after a while, the Brighton Marina village. I spent a while here looking at the boats, at the way some were kept immaculately, shiny and white with a plastic veneer as if they had just come out of a cellophane wrapper, while others had been left, neglected, and the algae had built up in layers along the underside of the boat, turning them a decaying green.

I am not really sure how I spent most of that day; it seemed to drift by, blurred like a dream. Most of it I spent walking, up and down streets, wherever I felt like going. Around one I stopped for lunch at a pub with windows facing the sea. I had a steak there, with chips and peas and an obligatory slightly limp salad on the side: a real pub lunch.

I ate that meal voraciously, as if I had not eaten for days, devouring the whole lot until I was satisfied. I realised after I finished that all I had had that day before the meal was a cigarette. After I was finished I went outside and had another Lucky Strike. It was good, satisfying, though not as much so as the meal I had just eaten. And then I began to walk again.

It was like I was looking for something, somewhere, but I know not what. I was thinking all this time as well, perhaps that is why I cannot fix definitely in my mind the details of everything I saw, everywhere I went, beyond the image of the crowds of people that surged around me; holidaymakers perusing the shops, teenagers killing time on the streets, and the people that lived in the city, going to work, to shops, and about their daily business.

The subjects of my thoughts were mostly Gemma, though Angela crept in every now and then. I was still wondering about Gemma’s black eye, about what I had done to her. I should have asked before I left, but I could not face it. And so now I would have to ask when I saw her again, get everything in the open. Maybe she would even forgive me and love me again.

As for Angela, I wondered about what I could do about her, should I want to pursue her, and if she was worth pursuing, or just a lost cause. Maybe she hated me now too. But then maybe it had just been the shock of finding someone neither of us expected in my house. Maybe I should call her. Maybe I should wait and see if she called me. But she was nice, and she had seemed fairly keen, especially on that date. And I really needed someone, especially now that the prospect of being with someone had rekindled within me my old repressed desires.

When I got back, I decided, when I got back, I would sort everything out.

Somehow, I managed to just wander until the evening, by which time I had returned most of the way back to the car, and was hungry again. I went to the nearest fish and chip bar, and then sat facing the sea eating fish and chips, real fish and chips, from the ocean in front of me. I closed my eyes putting a chunk of fish onto my tongue and I was nine again, my mother sat beside me and my sister on her other side, all of us eating fish and chips staring out to the sea we had spent the day beside and within.

But that was just one facet of the memory the taste, the experience, was bringing back to my consciousness, for the summers I spent here were not single memories but a feeling, a complex tapestry of multiple experiences, layered upon one another, and in their too was Rachel, leaning against my shoulder as we ate fish and chips and sat on this very beach, watching the sun set.

When I had finished eating the little bundle wrapped in plain white paper, I continued to sit there, silent, watching the last few families leave the beach. As the sun began to set, the only remaining occupants of the beach were a few couples, sat together watching the big orange ball of gas disappear over the horizon. I lit another cigarette, my eighth of the day, and wondered if they were as happy as Rachel and I had been.

When the sun had disappeared completely I stood up. A cold wind swept through my hair, over my neck; it was the sea-breeze I imagined I could feel from my bedroom window. The Lucky Strike pack was in my hand, two cigarettes remaining in it. I clenched my fingers and the packet slowly crumpled into my palm, then I turned away and walked back to the car, tossing the broken cigarettes and crushed red and white pack into a bin as I passed. It was time to go home.

Read Part Eleven