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Here's my head resting on your lap Here's my hand locked in yours Let me tell you let it be the truth There's blood on my hands A metaphor i couldn't write Words I couldn't speak The touch you didn't feel The devil deals the best hand Whilst you try to make sense of bad situations
You‘ve dragged me out of bed I know, I know Are you hurt? Probably. Maybe in a slight state of shock. Me too. I was quite asleep. She lied. Only just having put down her night time read. She wanted to ask him what the hell was he thinking that he could call her at such a time in the middle of the night but had heard the tremor of fear in his voice. Look I think there‘s a problem. I know I should have mentioned this on the phone. I hit a roe. It might not have died in the collision. It wasn’t my fault. It just appeared in front of the car from out of... Have you been drinking? I don’t think this is the time and the place. I’ve been in an accident. I feel shaken. The bloody thing might not be dead. You haven’t looked. No, I couldn’t look. Even although it might have damaged your car. I don’t care about the car. But I thought it was your new girlfriend. Who said that? You did. To whom? To me. You know, the last time. The last time. I don’t remember saying that. I don’t expect you do. Are you certain that it might still be alive. I told you, I didn’t look. I thought I heard it groan as I walked to the back of the car. I wasn’t sure. Whatever, it might still be in pain. It might still be suffering.She got into the car. Put on the player and looked at the lights of the instrument panel. She loved the colour. Listened for a moment and decided the music wasn’t in keeping with a rescue mission and retrieved the keys from the ignition. Returned to the warmth of her home. Went to the kitchen and poured some filtered water from a clear plastic jug into the kettle. Whilst it boiled she would decide on whether to have coffee, tea or maybe alcohol. No, she didn’t want alcohol. The mobile on the table rang. She looked at the display screen. It was him. Who else could it have been? She switched it off. The landline rang. You haven’t left. No. Millie woke up. She what. The phone rang and she woke up. I had to settle her in. She’s got school in the morning. It must be hard. You know I don’t think we really need to have this conversation. The kettle boiled. She rang a finger through the condensation gathered on the window. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Should I start walking? She spooned some instant coffee into a mug. When did it happen. How long ago? Yes. I don’t know. It seems to just have happened but maybe it happened hours ago. She opened a drawer and looked at the carton of cigarettes. Still sealed. They were for friends. She had brought them back having been on a clandestine outing with him. She hadn’t distributed them yet. She wanted to burst the seal. Look, I know that you think I owe you an explanation. It’s only good if you think you do. An explanation. She hated that. His mastery of understatement was simply astounding. She poured the coffee into the sink. More waste. She was running through motions that she knew she would cancel outFor some moments they drove along in silence. Sleet hanging in the headlights. Big flakes landing on the windscreen. Occasionally she blinked. He light a cigarette and gathered the ash in a little pile on the trouser leg of his jeans and from time to time smoothed over it with the palm of his hand, rubbing it into the material. Opened the window and tossed out the butt. Could I stay the night. She laughed making a sidelong glance. Once I would have hesitated. Once I wouldn’t have needed to think and silence would have been an affirmation. But I find myself asking what I’m doing here and why I’ve left my child alone at home. Because we’re still friends. And with his reply she saw, not for the first time, his devious mischievous grin. Should we split the roe? Why should it go to waste? I don’t know how much space I’ve got in my deep freeze but you must have lots at the hotel. There aren’t any guests at the moment. But in the season. It’s straight profit.A cold February night over a year ago. He had picked up a small stag from a neighbour which she had butchered and arranged over several cardboard boxes. The new cook for the coming season was staying over. The procession moved from the large kitchen to a drawing room. Clare wanted to dance. Drunk she always wanted to dance and she wanted her husband to join her but he wasn’t interested. She turned up the stereo and he laughed. As he always did. She undid the buttons of her blouse revealing an expensive lacy bra and slipped her hand into one of the cups and began to massage her breast in time to the music. She danced to the amusement of the others. Several times she stumbled over the rug and twice she fell onto one of the sofas. Crashing into and crushing the occupants. Everyone remained cool. They had all been there before. She danced in front of her husband again. Tell me I’m a very fuckable woman. Once you were my dear but those days have gone. One of the others jumped up and pulled her close. Made a snarling face and rubbed his crotch against her. See, see you bastard. Somebody loves me. She threw her empty glass into the fireplace. Her partner whooped.She wasn’t interested in the other woman’s antic. She was more concerned that it was getting late, that she was getting drunk and she wouldn’t be able to drive home. No, she was unconcerned. He rolls a joint and three of them go out to smoke it - how many of them are at this makeshift party. When they return Clare has passed out on the sofa. Her dancing companion is sitting on another sofa with a bottle of Pomerol between his thighs. From time to time necking a swig. Did you ravish her or was it the other way around. Both men laughed. She put the cd on repeat and we danced and danced to Dreamy Days. Swallowed down about half a bottle and minutes later it was lights out. When the fun was over and the energy drained he began to organise rooms for everyone. Pomerol announced that he wanted to sleep in his van but that idea was dismissed. Names of people.Could I stay the night? Haven’t you got a bed? Yes, but I want someone else in it? Then it’s not my bed you want but me. And since your wife is in the bed it isn’t possible. Therefore it has to be your bed. Very neat play but sorry, nothing doing.Someone I know. Someone we both know. I came to drive you home. I thought twice about coming.He reached out and held her hand on the gearshift. Don’t suppose you have a bed for the night? Is that a spare bed? Your bed would sound more inviting. A man who owns an hotel needs a bed for the night. But this man is familiar to me. Called him my lover. Though that now seems once upon a time. And thought I might be sharing my life with him and now it does all seem like a fairy tale. Nothing you can really believe. Especially not the charming prince. Or is that mendacious two face? I don’t think you like me. Hmmnn! Like you. The fucking trouble is I love you. I go on loving you because we live in an isolated region. D’you think I want to end up with someone I spent most of my childhood looking at in a playground. I need more time. She needs more time. I don’t have time. The clock is ticking against me. I want babies. Brothers or sisters for Millie. I want to be part of a relationship and a family again. She stopped the car and looked through the steering while to the clock. A quarter to four. You see I’m running out of time again. I need to be up in three hours to make breakfast for Millie and take her to school. I need to get to work and be able to function without feeling shit all day. I know. I know. I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do? Throw her out. Walk out. Forget it. It isn’t about to happen. I’ll drive you back to the alcoholic sow. Back to the bed you both made. She wanted to hit something. She needed to get out of the car. but he had beaten her to it. She looked up to see him in the headlights walking away. The figure disappeared. She reached across to turn the stereo onto tuner and flicked through the presets until she found a human voice. She saw him returning. Turned the key in the ignition and slipped the car into gear. Slowly letting the clutch engage and crawling forward towards him. She saw look up straight into the headlights and put his hand over his row. She flicked the headlight switch off and accelerated hard. She saw him momentarily on the bonnet. A hand or arm hitting the windscreen and disappear on the left. Continued forward to the nearest passing place and turned the car around. His body lay on the tarmac surface. One arm crooked, palm flat on the ground as if he was about to push himself up. But he wasn’t. His eyes open wide staring glassy. At least he was dead. Not suffering. No longer promising things. She could go home now and get a couple of hours of sleep. The traffic from the first ferry would discover his body. The police would come to ask questions and look at her car and she would confess because she was tired of issues being avoided. she knew she was no longer sick of him. It was all over. All she could really think was Poor Millie.
For several moments he watches her prepare a drink. Closely regards the actions, the movement, the use of strength and the control of the use of that strength, the impacting of the ice tray on the wooden cutting block, fingers seizing the freed ice cubes and the way in which she almost tosses them into the two Tom Collins glasses filled with gin. Then the tonic. Maybe the glasses are too big, she says noticing his gaze, but I want a long drink so we can talk. Just talk and be together for a while. She slices through a lemon and turns a twist and flicks the citrus ribbons into the two glasses. He thinks there is something positive in the manner she prepares things. Reassuring, a certain touch that wont let you down. Not everyone has that. She is tactile but doesn't need to play upon. You brought something, she said. I put it in the fridge. For later. For when we eat. We're having shell fish and salad. That's fine. I'm sure your lunch will accommodate a place for my offering.The market was near the station. Not more than four or five minutes walk. It was a Friday and in a couple of hours it would be unbearably crowded by office workers. By that time he would have sat on a train, looked at a newspaper, looked out the window, and looked back at the review section of the newspaper. He checked his phone. She had texted him three times. He read them but didn't reply. He couldn't. He had no credit on his phone. He sailed close to the wind financially but always made a show of drinking good wine or eating good food. Or the knickers he had bought her from Agent Provocateur. They had been part of a set but his wallet was light on folding and besides he didn't know her bra size. Had never asked. Wasn't interested in such details. Numbers. He stood at an olive oil stall not intending to buy but taking in the heavenly smell of scallops grilling alongside streaks of pancetta coming from the stall next to it. She said she could eat more scallops than he could. He smiled. Would you like to taste some olive oil, asked a man holding up a ramekin full of bread cubes. No, I'm fine thanks. He turned to the stall selling the scallops. He felt eating them would be a betrayal of the woman he was about to visit. He would be a fool to tell her that he had wolfed down half a dozen scallops before he had managed to get on the train. But, he thought, it is like an act that brings us closer together. Something that for a while sates an appetite. He would consume her and be hungry for her again. No, he must walk away. Not surrender. Not overindulge himself but enter into it with her. He had an objective. Inspired by something she wrote to him. There was another stall on the side of the market he must visit. She had said that her skin was soft and smooth. He had been lunching and talking to her on the computer. And as his teeth sank into the soft white flesh he closed his eyes and for a moment he was consuming her. But it wasn't flesh. It was buffalo milk. Or not. It had been. Now it was something else. Cheese. He tasted the torn basil in with it. How could he tell her that this what represented her flesh to him in an abstract way. He couldn't. He felt stupid. In front of him were two stainless steel basins in which the mozzarella were suspended. How beautiful the flesh. Soft and smooth she had said. It had to be one of the larger ones. He wanted to see her fingers tear it. A knife wouldn't do. He looked into the pool of white mounds. How could he make her understand. He couldn't. He was relying on love. A deeper understanding. It was like walking away from a coconut shy with a goldfish in plastic bag. At the moment he was big but his lack of confidence was shrinking him with every step. A little boy again.She drained the excess liquid and tore the pure white buffalo mozzarella in her hands. He watched her fingers as she laid it down on plum tomatoes and tossed shreds of basil on top, and crushed sea salt in her fingertips, and ground black pepper on it, and with a finger over the mouth of a large bottle drizzled olive oil over the salad. He transmitted the image of her hand over the neck of the bottle into his mind. And he was laying on her bed. She knelt above him laughing. One bottle was never enough. He wanted to close his eyes but didn't. He touched her smooth skin. It was tanned rather milky. It was soft but didn't peel away like the strands of cheese. He wanted to taste her breasts. He wanted them to leak buffalo milk. He thought she would never understand. But she did. She understood because she could let go. Something he couldn't do, he always had to control.
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