The Courage Consort by Michel Faber Read Free Book Online Page B

soprano harmonics were far short of ideal; Roger tended towards the view that these weaknesses could be improved at leisure within a binding framework woven by a clean and confident baritone line. An impasse was reached with no singing done. Julian went to the toilet, Roger went for a breath of fresh air, and Dagmar went to look in on Axel.

    Left alone with Ben, Catherine said, 'I've still got the briefs, actually. They lasted superbly. I might even have them on right now.'
    Ben rested his massive head on his hands and half closed his eyes, smiling.

    In bed that night, Roger finally allowed himself to be badly behaved.
    'You don't love me anymore,' he said, as Catherine cringed beside him, rolling herself up into a ball.
    'I don't know, I don't know,' pleaded Catherine, her voice strangled to a squeak by tears and too much singing.
    'Have you given any more thought to stopping the antidepressants,' he enquired tonelessly, tugging at the blankets to cover the parts she had exposed.
    'I've already stopped,' she said. It was true. It had been true for days. In fact, despite Roger's frequent gentle reminders, back in London, about all the items she should make sure she took with her to Belgium, she had somehow managed to leave those little pills behind. The cardboard box they lived in had got beetroot and mayonnaise soaked into it somehow, and she hadn't been up to fixing the problem. The box of pills, the spilled food, the handbag in which all this had happened: she'd left the whole caboodle under her bed at home. The bed she slept in alone, in the spare room.
    'Really?' said Roger, lying right next to her in Belgium. 'So how are you feeling?'
    She burst out laughing. She tried desperately to stop, mindful of Julian in the next room, but she couldn't; she just laughed louder, sobbing until her sides were aching.
    Later, when the fit had subsided, Roger lay with his head and one hand against her back.

    'We have a big day tomorrow,' he sighed, heavy with loneliness on the brink of sleep.
    'I won't let you down,' Catherine assured him.
    No sooner had his breathing become deep and regular than the first cry echoed eerily in the forest outside.
    ***
    'C OME FOR A CYCLE WITH ME ,' Dagmar invited her next morning after breakfast.
    Catherine blushed, her hands trembling up to her throat. She could not have been more nonplussed if she'd just been asked to go skinny-dipping in Arctic waters with a bunch of fervent Inuits.
    'Ah … it sounds lovely, Dagmar, really, but…'
    She looked to Ben for help, but he was busy spooning up the
havermout,
content as a … well, a lamb.
    'I haven't got a bicycle, for one thing,' she pointed out gratefully.
    'I found one at the back of the château,' said Dagmar. 'It's an old one, but sound construction. A good Dutch bike. But if you think you can't ride an old one, you can use mine.'
    Defeated, Catherine allowed herself to be led out of the house. The German girl's thighs and buttocks flexed like an Olympian's as she walked, the shiny aquamarine of her tights contrasting sharply with the pastel blue of Catherine's evenly faded jeans. There were the two bicycles already parked, side by side at the edge of the road, gleaming in the sun. There was no escape except to say
No, I don't want to,
which had always been impossible for Catherine.
    'They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle,' she said, approaching the machines warily, 'but I've forgotten the most amazing things, you know.'

    'It's all right, we'll take it easy,' said Dagmar, preoccupied with strapping on the Axel rucksack.
    Catherine examined the seats of the two bikes, feeling the leather curves, trying to imagine how hard or soft each might be between her legs.
    'Erm … which of these is better for someone who hasn't … you know…'
    Dagmar shrugged, quite an achievement for a woman with a six-kilo human being on her back.
    'One bike has about a hundred gears, the other has none,' she said. 'But travelling slow on a