of its tongue. Its wingtips raised like the arms of some nightmare conductor priming his orchestra. The squeal of bone grinding against metal. The best that you can be is not the same as the best that you once were.
I came out of this breathless. I had not fallen asleep. My eyes had remained open throughout it. The doctor had warned me about flashbacks. The trauma had been purged, to some extent, from my body, but it would be a while before I felt mentally healed.
I heard footsteps outside, voices murmuring, edged with sharpness in the crisp night air. Two people, returning from the pub. Slightly breathy, a little tipsy. A her and a him. I heard her say Don't believe the truth.
Sudden, site specific heat: I lifted my fingers (any number of muscles and nerves jangling as I did so) and dabbled my fingers in the bauble of blood sliding from my left nostril. The footsteps paused, gritted around for a few moments - him kissing her? her kissing him? - before moving on. I suddenly felt exhausted, as if I'd been reading for too long something I didn't quite understand. I wiped and rewiped my nose with my forearm until it had stopped and I looked as though I had tried to open the old Median Basilic and end it all.
I rinsed the blood off and elbowed the lever that opened the plughole. Pink water sank around me, returned to me my weight and discomfort. I dried and applied. I flinched my way into the bathrobe. Sweat greased me; ghosts of copper had settled against my skin: I could have done with another bath. Instead I moved to my bed and lay down, using the hand-held controls to dent the bed so it cradled me just the way I needed.
I closed my eyes and there was Tamara. She was wearing a grey wool duffel coat, floral print top and pale Diesel jeans. Her hood was up and her hair was down and the wind was striping her face with it. I tilted my face to better hear what she was trying to say but the wind was messing with that too. I couldn't read the message on her lips. Hair whipped across the dark red of her mouth.
I heard a sound like a horse's hooves at a gallop on hard earth. I felt it in my bones. But, I realised quickly, there was more than one horse; another was behind it, at distance, catching up. Fast, faster. The percussive sounds tumbled against and over one another, and it reminded me of something I couldn't put into words or pictures. I felt the back of my neck tighten and knew that it wasn't horses. I don't know how, but I knew that it was the worst sound in the world and that if I turned around, whatever it was would destroy me.
I opened my eyes and waited for it to pass.
I cooked dinner in Ruth's kitchen, a surprise for her, while she was sorting books downstairs. I marinated some salmon in lemon juice and soy sauce and made mashed potatoes and French beans in garlic. I slapped the fish on a hot griddle as she came up, pushing the scent of old books in before her. She took a glass of wine with only the slightest grimace and I led her into the living room. She was pale. She fidgeted on the armchair, unable to get comfortable.
'Is it kicking?' I asked.
'A little,' she said, with a pained smile. 'Sometimes he gets hiccups. Sometimes I can feel him flinch when a door slams or a car horn sounds.'
'It's a boy, then?'
'I think so, yes.'
'You don't know for sure?'
She shook her head. 'I don't want to know. I want it to be a surprise. But I feel it's a boy. Burly. Throwing his weight around.'
'Can I feel?'
Another shake. 'I don't want be touched,' she said. 'I don't... it just doesn't feel right. No matter how gentle you... it would feel like an assault.'
I digested this, keeping quiet despite wanting to protest. I thought we were friends. She'd saved my life. We were closer than friends because of that. But here she was, putting up a shield. I knew what had happened to her, but it didn't make it easier to deal with. I was a man, but I wasn't a threat.
I said, 'Have you thought of any names?'
Again, a shake of
I came out of this breathless. I had not fallen asleep. My eyes had remained open throughout it. The doctor had warned me about flashbacks. The trauma had been purged, to some extent, from my body, but it would be a while before I felt mentally healed.
I heard footsteps outside, voices murmuring, edged with sharpness in the crisp night air. Two people, returning from the pub. Slightly breathy, a little tipsy. A her and a him. I heard her say Don't believe the truth.
Sudden, site specific heat: I lifted my fingers (any number of muscles and nerves jangling as I did so) and dabbled my fingers in the bauble of blood sliding from my left nostril. The footsteps paused, gritted around for a few moments - him kissing her? her kissing him? - before moving on. I suddenly felt exhausted, as if I'd been reading for too long something I didn't quite understand. I wiped and rewiped my nose with my forearm until it had stopped and I looked as though I had tried to open the old Median Basilic and end it all.
I rinsed the blood off and elbowed the lever that opened the plughole. Pink water sank around me, returned to me my weight and discomfort. I dried and applied. I flinched my way into the bathrobe. Sweat greased me; ghosts of copper had settled against my skin: I could have done with another bath. Instead I moved to my bed and lay down, using the hand-held controls to dent the bed so it cradled me just the way I needed.
I closed my eyes and there was Tamara. She was wearing a grey wool duffel coat, floral print top and pale Diesel jeans. Her hood was up and her hair was down and the wind was striping her face with it. I tilted my face to better hear what she was trying to say but the wind was messing with that too. I couldn't read the message on her lips. Hair whipped across the dark red of her mouth.
I heard a sound like a horse's hooves at a gallop on hard earth. I felt it in my bones. But, I realised quickly, there was more than one horse; another was behind it, at distance, catching up. Fast, faster. The percussive sounds tumbled against and over one another, and it reminded me of something I couldn't put into words or pictures. I felt the back of my neck tighten and knew that it wasn't horses. I don't know how, but I knew that it was the worst sound in the world and that if I turned around, whatever it was would destroy me.
I opened my eyes and waited for it to pass.
I cooked dinner in Ruth's kitchen, a surprise for her, while she was sorting books downstairs. I marinated some salmon in lemon juice and soy sauce and made mashed potatoes and French beans in garlic. I slapped the fish on a hot griddle as she came up, pushing the scent of old books in before her. She took a glass of wine with only the slightest grimace and I led her into the living room. She was pale. She fidgeted on the armchair, unable to get comfortable.
'Is it kicking?' I asked.
'A little,' she said, with a pained smile. 'Sometimes he gets hiccups. Sometimes I can feel him flinch when a door slams or a car horn sounds.'
'It's a boy, then?'
'I think so, yes.'
'You don't know for sure?'
She shook her head. 'I don't want to know. I want it to be a surprise. But I feel it's a boy. Burly. Throwing his weight around.'
'Can I feel?'
Another shake. 'I don't want be touched,' she said. 'I don't... it just doesn't feel right. No matter how gentle you... it would feel like an assault.'
I digested this, keeping quiet despite wanting to protest. I thought we were friends. She'd saved my life. We were closer than friends because of that. But here she was, putting up a shield. I knew what had happened to her, but it didn't make it easier to deal with. I was a man, but I wasn't a threat.
I said, 'Have you thought of any names?'
Again, a shake of
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