Blood Kin by Ceridwen Dovey Read Free Book Online Page B

to her, the panic rising.
    Am I imagining that her face becomes tender for an instant, that she closes her eyes to stop tears? She looks up at me and then the baby kicks and the shock of its movement flits across her face. She puts her other hand on her belly too, and looks down at the unborn child, so insistent.
    ’Stop it,’ she says to me. ’Stop doing this.’ She turns and walks through the rose garden back into the Summer Residence, without looking back.
    I slump onto the railing, fighting back tears.
    ‘Her father got you the job?’ the Commander says slyly.
    ‘I don’t suppose I have the choice not to answer your questions.’
    ‘No, you don’t. How did it happen?’
    He takes me by the arm like an invalid and starts to walk me down the passage. I try to disguise my shuffle, but he picks it up and slows his steps to suit mine.
    ‘He pulled some strings. I was hired to paint the President’s family.’
    ‘Did she try to seduce you?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The President’s wife.’
    ‘Yes. He knew about it. She was too old for his liking by then anyway. He preferred younger stock.’
    ‘Like your wife.’
    ‘My wife?’
    ’Somebody of her age.’
    ‘Well, yes, I suppose…’
    ‘Did you fall for her?’
    ‘For who?’
    ‘For the President’s wife.’
    ‘Of course not. I loved my wife. I love my wife.’
    ’So she was too old for your liking too.’
    ‘That’s not the point.’
    We turn a corner in the passageway and find the barber leaning heavily on the railings, staring down into the courtyard. The Commander offers him his other arm. The barber looks at the man trailing behind us a few steps, decides it’s not worth making a fuss, and reluctantly lets the Commander hook his arm beneath his. He stands, rigid, willing himself not to be repulsed. We continue on our walk, a stiff three-legged race in slow motion, until we arrive at our bedroom door.
    The Commander turns to me. ‘I’d like you to start tomorrow on a portrait. And you’ll cut my hair tomorrow afternoon,’ he says to the barber. He drops our arms suddenly like two sacks of flour he has carried as a burden and walks briskly away.
    ‘Come,’ says the barber from inside the room. ‘I’ll show you how to unpinch that nerve.’
    I close the door behind me.
    ‘Lie down – no, on the floor, not your bed. You need a hard surface for this to work.’
    I ease myself slowly towards the floorboards. He stands above me, his beard an upside-down halo.
    ‘Now bend your right leg and pull it across your left leg. You should hear your spine click.’
    I wish it were that simple. He is young, this barber, and optimistic. He must be in his late twenties. I haven’t asked him anything about his life; all three of us have been in siege mode, thinking only of our own survival, unwilling to form a bond that might implicate us further. My mind has been full of my wife, my own pain.
    ‘There – did you hear it?’ he says hopefully. My back has clicked despite itself. ‘Now pull your knees to your chest and rock your spine against the floor, like a cradle.’
    I obey him, even though this movement forces my kidneys into impossible contortions. He sees me wince. I lie still on the floor, my legs extended.
    ‘Do you have family you left behind?’ I ask him.
    He sits on the bed, his legs dangling, and says nothing.
    I get to my feet and hobble to my own bed. ‘I haven’t asked you whether there’s a wife or child waiting for you when you get out.’
    ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not married. My mother died last year.’
    ’Siblings?’
    ‘I had a brother. Died years ago.’
    ‘Does anybody know you’ve been taken?’
    ‘My shop assistant must have figured out something happened. But if there’s been a coup nobody will be worrying about anybody but themselves.’
    I get a sudden glimpse into what it must be like for the Commander, with people not knowing anything, not knowing what was done in the President’s name.
    ‘He did awful things,