Blast From the Past (25 page)

‘So your wife doesn’t love you and now you’re here. In the middle of the night,’ Polly said. ‘What’s the idea? Suddenly fancied a little blast from the past?’

There. She’d said it. The thing she’d been wanting to
ask
from the beginning. Had he come here to try to fuck her?

Jack stared into his glass, nervously rotating it in his hand. The question was banging around his head. Had he come back to try to fuck her? The truth was, of course, that he hadn’t, but by Christ he fancied it all the same.

‘Well?’ Polly asked again. ‘You’re miles from home. Your wife doesn’t understand you. Did you suddenly remember me and get a little horny, Jack?’

That he could answer. ‘Not suddenly, Polly. Always.’

And he meant it. Not one day had gone by since the terrible night he’d left her when Jack had not wanted to see Polly again. To taste again the delights of sex with the only girl he had ever loved.

Polly could see that he meant it, too. It was written in his eyes. Deep inside her something was laid to rest. He had loved her after all.

‘Oh, Jack.’ She stepped forward. She knew that she shouldn’t. As a strong woman and a feminist she should spurn his selfish desires. She knew that he had only come back for a night. That he would leave again in the morning as he had done before, but she didn’t care. If anyone had a right to a bit of comfort by General Jack Kent it was her. Let the devil take tomorrow; she was opting for one less lonely night.

‘Do you know, I have never told my wife about us.’ Jack was still fighting it, still holding back.

‘I don’t want to talk about your wife.’

‘I thought you did.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

Polly shifted her weight slightly from one bare foot to the other; it was a tiny move, but sexual. A loosening of the body. Jack glanced up. She still stood that same way that she used to, relaxed, a little lazy on the hips. He felt his whole resolve dissolving.

‘Yeah, well anyway, I never told her. I never told anyone.’

‘As if anyone would care now?’ said Polly. ‘As if it matters in the slightest after all these years. Unless you’re embarrassed or something. Is that it? Are you scared that one day someone else but me might find out that you’re a craven shit?’

‘Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to share you, even in my memories.’

Polly’s emotions were on a knife edge. They could not have been more mixed if she’d run them through the washing machine. It is true that her desire for him had begun to overcome the anger she felt about his ancient betrayal. However, it did not take much to bring sixteen years of resentment back into focus.

‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Especially considering all you left either of us with is memories.’

Jack looked so crestfallen that she felt sorry for him. Something she would not have imagined possible only an hour before.

‘OK, OK,’ she put in quickly. ‘It was a long time ago. Different decade, different world order. It happened, that’s all. I suppose you’re not the only guy in history
who
did the dirty on a girl. And anyway. You did come back …’

Polly’s stance relaxed further and the room positively hummed with Jack’s longing. Her left hip dropped a little lower, pushing the knee forward. Her mouth fell slightly open. She rested her hands upon her thighs and was reminded that she was still dressed in a rather unflattering plastic rainmac.

‘Think I’ll take off this raincoat,’ she said. ‘My nightie’s probably slightly less stupid.’

Polly let the raincoat slip off as if it had been a négligé and stood before Jack dressed only in a shirt, the top couple of buttons of which were already undone. She was breathing more quickly now and her bosom was again rising and falling defiantly. Her hair, which Polly had thought a mess, might also have been described as gloriously tousled, ravishingly unkempt.

She was so beautiful, Jack could hardly bear it, yet still he hesitated.

‘It’s been a long time, Jack,’ said Polly, which was clearly a nice way of saying, ‘Come to bed.’ She took a step or two towards him.

Jack could not help but catch a momentary glimpse of Polly’s thighs as the movement of her legs parted her shirt at its hem. He was inches from the soft, pale splendour of Polly’s most private self, and he could scarcely bear it. This had been no part of his plans.

Polly bent down and took the glass from Jack’s hand. In so doing her nightshirt fell forward and Jack was almost painfully aware of her breasts as they hung
before
him inside the gaping shirt. He looked. How could he resist? He stared. For a moment he could actually see between her breasts and through to her stomach beyond and the top of her knickers, which were crimson against her skin.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Polly whispered softly, her mouth not nine inches from his ear. ‘I’ve been lonely.’

‘It’s an international epidemic.’

Polly put Jack’s glass down on the little table beside his chair. Or rather on top of the pile of magazines, books and coffee mugs already on top of the little table by his chair. Then she took Jack’s hands and drew him to his feet. Jack could now feel the warmth of Polly’s breath, the warmth of her body. Her hair smelled exactly the same as it had always done. He could see that her nipples had hardened again beneath the thin cloth of her nightshirt. She had always had such responsive nipples, he remembered. They were up and down all night, leaping into life at the slightest provocation, an infallible barometer of the state of her arousal. The current provocation was scarcely slight. They were both consumed with a taut, vibrant desire and the points of Polly’s breasts seemed almost to be straining to reach him.

‘You’re such a beautiful girl, Polly. Still just the same.’

‘Nearly the same,’ Polly replied. ‘It’s all still here, just a little closer to the ground.’

It did not seem so to Jack. She appeared to him as beautiful as the day they had first met. As the day he
had
left. Polly reached up to him and took his face in her hands.

‘Hello, old friend,’ she said and drew his lips towards hers.

And then they kissed. This time Polly did not break away as she had done when Jack first arrived. It was a kiss that spanned sixteen years, a kiss so charged and full of memory and emotion that it was a wonder that the mouths of two people could contain it all.

Now their arms were about each other, mouths working with a desperate urgency. Even through the thickness of his uniform Jack could feel the soft splendour of Polly’s body against his. If he chose he knew that he could be upon it in an instant. He had only to throw off his clothes and that divine skin would be against his, those adored breasts crushed against his chest. He clasped her even tighter to him.

‘Is that a gun in your pocket?’ Polly whispered playfully into Jack’s ear, ‘or are you pleased to see me?’

Jack loosened his grip, slightly embarrassed. ‘Actually it’s a gun in my pocket.’

Stepping back for a moment Jack reached under his jacket and took a pistol from his trousers.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said and laid it down on the table beside his glass. Then he made as if to resume their embrace, but Polly raised a hand to stop him. She could hardly believe her eyes.

‘A gun!’ she gasped. ‘You’re carrying a gun! You’re armed!’

‘Sure,’ Jack replied casually. ‘I’m a soldier. It’s what I take to work.’

‘I’m a council worker but I don’t have a file full of pointless forms and a leaky biro stuffed into my knickers! I can’t believe you’ve brought a gun into my home.’

Where Jack came from, of course, everybody had a gun in their home. People didn’t even think about it. In fact if you didn’t have one you were weird. Obviously Jack knew that things were different in Britain, but it still did not seem like a big deal to him.

‘I’m sorry, Polly, but I need it.’

‘You need a gun in Stoke Newington in the middle of the night?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Jack replied. ‘I’m a target.’

This was not the type of conversation that Polly would have chosen to conduct in the middle of making love, but she could not just let it go.

‘You do know you’re breaking the law, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I mean, this is Britain, not Dodge City! You can’t just wander around with a gun in your pocket.’

But it seemed that Jack could.

‘I’m one of America’s most senior soldiers. Quite a lot of people about the place would like me to be dead. It’s a diplomatic thing. We have an informal understanding with Special Branch.’

Polly still could not accept it. ‘You come to my house dressed like Oliver North, you have informal understandings with the Special Branch, you carry a gun! I hate people like you. I’ve spent my life protesting about people like you!’

Jack shrugged and smiled his smile.

‘So how is it …’ Polly continued, ‘how the fuck is it … that you’re the only man I’ve ever loved …?’

‘Bad luck, I guess,’ said Jack. Then he drew her back into his arms.

For a moment Polly thought about resisting. She thought about informing Jack that she was not a tap who could be turned on and off, that she did not consort with gunmen. But then he held her and she held him. Their lips met again with even greater passion, it seemed, than they had done a minute or two before. Again Jack could feel Polly’s divine form crushed against him, could feel her hands pulling at the belt of his jacket. Now he really had to see her naked once more. He stood back a little, not so far as to stop Polly from undoing his belt but far enough for him to raise his hands to the buttons of Polly’s nightshirt. Whatever his original plans might or might not have been, he simply had to see her naked again. He would die if he did not. He knew that it was wrong. He had promised himself that what was about to happen was the one thing that would not happen but he didn’t care. He had been mad to imagine that he could control it. He loved her and he wanted her. Nothing had changed.

Now his hands were at the middle buttons of her nightshirt, his eyes straining, waiting to feast themselves on what lay beneath. His face, usually so mature and assured, was suddenly like a boy’s, eager and scared. Polly, too, could hardly restrain herself. She’d opened his jacket and her hands had stolen to the fastening of
his
trousers. She neither knew nor cared what had brought Jack back to her door; she was happy to give away the past and ignore the future. Her entire life was crammed into the immediate living moment. Jack’s fingers brushed against her skin as her shirt fell open and he felt her shiver gently at his touch. He shivered also, and by no means gently. Polly’s hands tugged at his zip. His whole body felt as if it would explode. He moved his hands from one button down to the next, allowing his fingers to explore the greater freedom that the opening of Polly’s shirt now afforded. Her breasts felt smooth and firm, the skin springy and subtle. He wondered if he could ever let go now that he had them in his hands again.

‘You got rid of the nipple ring, then?’ he whispered.

‘Yeah, everybody started wearing them.’

Polly had a hold of Jack too, her hand deep in his trousers, gripping the straining erection through his shorts. Now Jack’s hands were at Polly’s waist, the final button of her shirt undone, his fingers slipping under the elastic of her knickers. Another moment and all would be revealed.

Then Polly’s phone rang.

44

PETER HAD REMAINED
in the gutter for some time, kneeling in the dirty running stream, imagining himself somehow cleansed and sanctified by the waters of the night. Water has ever had a strong hold on the spiritual side of men’s minds and it was no less the case for Peter, even though his spirit was warped and his mind ill. The rain upon his face and the stream lapping at his knees seemed somehow to lend a new courage and nobility to his resolve. In his unformed fantasies he imagined himself reborn and baptized, a martyr and a saint. He spread his arms, Christ-like, as he knelt. Like Christ he was an outcast, a man alone and, like Christ, he knew a greater love.

But that love had been betrayed.

Peter had resolved upon murder. It just remained to decide who was to die. Would he kill the American? Would he kill Polly? Perhaps he would kill them both, and then himself. But if he killed himself how would his mother cope? Perhaps he would have to kill her too.

He got up, soaked to the skin but warm and happy. He had a purpose, a goal. He could see an
end
to his emptiness and longing.

Fumbling in his pocket for a coin, he made his way back to the phonebox.

45

JACK AND POLLY
sprang apart. The ringing of the phone came as a shock, totally unexpected; they had been utterly lost in their mutual undressing.

‘Who the hell is that?’ said Jack, grabbing at his trousers to prevent them from falling down.

‘How would I know? I’m not a clairvoyant,’ Polly replied, closing her nightshirt. But she did know.

‘It’s nearly four in the morning, Polly. Who’s going to ring at such an hour?’

It seemed almost as if Jack was more anxious than she was.

‘You tell me. You did.’

After the sixth ring the answerphone kicked in and delivered Polly’s familiar message. Of course Polly knew what was coming next. It would be the Bug. He was out there and he was trying to get in. A great wave of despair swept over her, so strong and so desolate that her knees nearly gave way and caused her to fall. Would she never have any peace from this man? This thing? Was he going to spoil every joyful moment for the rest of her life?

‘You fucking whore,’ said the machine. ‘Is he in you
right
now? Is his fat Yankee dick inside you? Yes, he is. I know he is.’

There was a pause. The line crackled. Polly and Jack did not speak. Jack was too surprised and she was too upset. Then the hated voice of the Bug began again.

‘He’s got AIDS, you know. He has. All Americans have, and now he’s given it to you, or else you’ve given it to him, which is all either of you deserves, sweating and grunting like filthy pigs in your sty …’

Polly could no longer contain herself; it was all too much. She began to sob. Great, heartfelt, gulping sobs, dredged from the pit of her stomach. Why her? Why now? Why had she caught the Bug? Was she cursed? She made her way to the bed weeping as she went and sat down, burying her face in her hands, all the pent-up emotion of the evening spilling over into despair. For one joyful moment she had forgotten everything, both past and present pain, but it had been an illusion, she could see that now. She was just not meant for happiness. Even if she did sleep with Jack he would still be gone in the morning and she would be alone. Alone, that is, except for the Bug, who had infected her life and for which there was no cure.