The Blue Book (25 page)

‘Five from
192
– that's code for almost everyone being a cunt. Or for the people who represent almost everyone being cunts.'

‘Sorry for the word – as a thing and a place, it's . . .' He lets his breath struggle in his chest for a moment. ‘You know what I mean. We are not well served by the allegedly great and the allegedly good and the powerful.

‘But I can say, Beth, I can tell them. Because of my job, I can tell the people – some of the people – who would otherwise spend their surpluses on medieval tapestries, or jade, or German armour – who would otherwise gather over-priced shit with dodgy provenance, or no provenance, or fakes – the people who want their names chiselled into everything with gold inlay because it's classy – I can say to them, “Collect lives. Why not?” – I would say
save
lives – but
collecting
, that's easier for them to understand. They can keep a running total on a collection. They can turn up in tropical gear, fresh off the Lear jet and meet kids who'll remember their names for ever, no gold inlay necessary. The kids will be able to remember and have lives, because the people with more money than sense – me included, that would include me – did something to help – did more than they thought they could to help – or just stopped doing things that harmed. I can get people to collect other people being happy because apparently their dead will come back and suggest it, demand it, because the afterlife can be merciful and civilised if we would like. It can be what this life is not. And quite possibly never will be. The dead – the ones I bring back – the ones that I say I bring back – I can get them to tell anybody you'd like the truth: that there is inexhaustibly more and more damage to undo, more pain, and I'm tired and I'm tired and I'm tired, but I'm . . . I try to do things, I . . .'

And Arthur turns to find her and she lets him cling as if they are falling, as if he is falling, as if he is angry and afraid and the bed gives and gives and gives and he is her boy, her soft, sore boy being taken into silence.

Here now.

Here now and you can sleep and everything you've said can be true and everything you've done can be acceptable, forgivable, normal and we can be together.

I can believe that.

If I believe it, then it isn't fake.

Your book doesn't understand belief, it can only tell you what it sees: a hotel lounge with a duck egg and caramel carpet, fat chairs and the quiet of hospital waiting rooms. Beth is sitting in an armchair opposite her mother and staring at a magazine filled with snapshots of people she
doesn't know having parties, and true accounts of horrible
diseases and assaults and accidents – also with snapshots. Everyone pictured appears to be having enormous fun, regardless of whether they're toasting an over-dressed table or undergoing skin grafts.

Sodding Beverley, the morning after.

There is a grandfather clock in the hallway knocking out the time and further away, in the dining room, breakfast crockery is being cleared and places are being set up ready for lunch. The meals here are both unremitting and niggardly – neither woman is sure how to wear away the hours that are left between them. Beth can't have another massage. Cath can't have her hair cut again.

Up in the rooms there is cable television, there are pay-per-view movies, but Cath would think watching a film would be wasting the day. And probably it wouldn't occupy her mind enough. Particularly not today.

Today is her wedding anniversary, but she can't be married any more.

That's why they're here. This is the first time Cath would have spent the day alone – first in more than forty years.

Beth would be relieved to go upstairs and lie down, but that would involve abandoning her mother and she's been doing that too much.

Beth is stupid with exhaustion and vaguely tearful. For little minutes she drifts into numbness and then she snaps alert, glances at her mother and, once again, wants to cry but doesn't. And Beth's clothes don't seem quite able to drown out the memory of Arthur and finding him. The rediscovery.

Sodding Beverley, the morning after.

Outside there is drizzle, so it would be unpleasant to stroll. There are tall Victorian trees in the grey distance across a lawn, planted to climb artistically up a hillside and Beth studies them, heartily admires them to prevent herself from feeling where she has been bitten and where she was most touched and how unwise it would have been to sleep with Arthur, to give him that trust, and how terrible it is that she didn't.

They parted in the small hours: phone numbers, brisk kisses, a slightly embarrassed rush.

Arthur was leaving early.

So he'll be gone now – would have headed off before she came down.

He would have walked across the entrance to the dining room, past the clock and out to his car and neatly away from any chance of her mother seeing him, recognising him, making half-right and half-wrong assumptions, shouting.

And he's neatly away from me, too.

A rising breeze makes the big windows rattle.

But there's another sound inside that.

There's a tapping – perhaps from twigs dropping, or debris, Beth can't be bothered deciding which, but her mother is standing. That's what makes Beth look up: the sudden movement, the lurch of odd hope. Her mother is standing and walking, easing, slowly, slowly towards the window and gazing straight ahead and there it is.

Tapping.

There's a magpie – large and handsome bird, dapper black and white and that special sheen along the feathers – the dash of glamour that you always get with jays. And he's tilting his head and thoughtful and considering and tilting again and he peers in and then taps. He steps, deliberate, taps once more.

And Beth is also standing, didn't quite notice how, and her mother is inching closer to the window and the magpie nods and eyes her, steps, taps. He has a circus air: costumed and tricky and unnatural – clever bird – pickpocket bird – magician bird.

The magpie is unfearful. He taps with his beak and then rests – as if he's awaiting some response.

‘He wants to come in.' Her mother's voice careful and joyful, delighted. ‘He wants to come in.' Cath brings herself all the way close to the glass and touches it with her hand, her palm pressed flat where it should surely disturb their visitor; but he remains tranquilly determined, ponders it and then taps again not far from her thumb. ‘Oh, Beth.' A girl's voice. Young and happy.

And if her father was going to visit them as a bird, come back and please his wife, give love to his wife, then a magpie would have been his choice and here is the magpie, their magpie, in a nice black suit with pantomime touches and jocular and peeking at them, familiar as family.

But it isn't him. It's a bird. It's a story her mother will tell and that will help her and will be special and will never be taken away.

‘Oh, Beth.' And the broad flare of wings when it leaps, finally takes flight, renews the loss and her mother's weeping. Tomorrow she'll say that she slept well and dreamed of her husband and the way he smiled, and of flying.

But the bird wasn't him. Beth can't believe it. The bird was just a bird.

With Arthur, she's the only one who doesn't get her consolation.

‘Arthur.'

Beth wakes in the suite before him.

‘Art.'

Panicking in case she has slept too long, because she has slept at all – the windows showing spills of shiplight on the dim balcony, rainwater glimmers across tables and chairs provided for fair-weather entertaining, elegant guests. Beyond that is a vertigo of black – it's full night.

‘Fuck.' She's been lying awkwardly, they both have.

Clothes will look as if I've gone to bed in them – because I have.

‘Fuck.'

‘Hm?' Arthur stirring, taking little sips of air and he shifts. ‘You . . .'

It's painful when she tries to move. ‘I'm here.' She must have fallen asleep and never shifted. One of his buttons has been pressing near her eye and it hurts when she lifts her head.

He swallows, ‘You're?' Voice in his chest and moving like a deep and red and dreaming thing. ‘You're . . .'

Arthur's hand briefly, muzzily patting her hair as he twists his shoulders and hips and retreats until she is lying without him, unembraced. He turns on the lamp – the small glare stings her – and checks his watch. ‘It's past seven.' Rubs his face, ‘By which I mean, it's past seven o'clock. Not any other meaning. I don't mean anything else . . . I'm sorry, it's probably late for where you want to be . . . and I'm sorry . . .' He sits up and closes his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, this is the last thing, the worst . . . this is the worst thing I could have . . .' Rubbing the back of his neck to be a comfort while he upsets himself. ‘Waking up with you . . . I think when you go, that you shouldn't come back. I think that we would just . . .' His good shirt creased. ‘I can't.'

‘It's all right.'

It isn't all right – it's us on a ludicrous boat in a blind ocean and everywhere else, they're dying – willingly, unwillingly, violently, unnecessarily, badly, well, at the limit of their natural term or long before – the world is spinning with it, ruined, and I am guilty and we are guilty and everyone still living has to be guilty because of it, but I'm not having that tonight – not tonight – and I'm not having you try to end this now because you've panicked that it's going to end later when you're in too far.

Arthur is sitting with his fists braced against the bed, thumbs rubbing his knuckles. He keeps his eyes shut.

You're in too far already.

I know it, because you're next to me.

Beth kneels on the bed and it gives, gives, gives.

But I'm not going to argue – I'll speak to your skin.

‘Arthur, I'm going to take off your shoes.' He doesn't answer and so she undoes his laces, pulls at the weight of stiff leather until it gives, gives, gives, until he lets her steal his shoe.

And again.

Gentle and warm feet and red socks, his not-at-work socks
–
' And I'm taking off your socks.' He makes a little noise when she does this, a younganimal noise. ‘I'm putting them over here, out of our way but this is me back here and I'm going to stay back.'

She stands next to the bed.

Bare feet, long toes – and he won't prevent me, but he won't assist, but he won't prevent. So we're all right and I can be doing this and reading him because it's needed, not an intrusion, not a theft.

She has the impression he is thinking of being heavy, of being sunk into the mattress, of being a man who cannot give himself to this.

But we both know he will.

And she bends to him. ‘And this is me kissing your feet, this is the feel of me kissing your feet.'

The Magdalene thing – it'll work. He's not a Catholic, but he had a funny mother, that's like being a Catholic. Mary Magdalene will reach him.

Lips on his instep, more respectful than erotic, ‘I know you'd kiss my feet, but I'm doing it for you. I have decided to.'

The complicated bones, the smooth skin.

This isn't a violation.

‘And this is my hand on your stomach where you get scared.' And slipping her fingers inside his shirt, between the buttons and there he is, alight.

Arthur sways his head to the left, as if he's trying to think something through, angling his thoughts. Obviously doesn't intend to open his eyes. He arches up in a small way to answer her, but then lowers himself again, withdraws.

Which means he'd still like his privacy, maybe his dignity, and so she removes the touch. ‘Arthur, it's where I'm scared as well. And this isn't going to be what we do – the way we've been. This is about . . .'

I think he'd be more convinced if I can't help faltering and anyway it's too late if it would have been stronger of me to roll on and make the statement, be matter-of-fact.

‘Arthur, I love you. I want you to believe that.'

And who says they love anybody without wanting to get the love back – it isn't a generous emotion.

‘And this is me unbuttoning your cuffs and this is my mouth. On the inside of your wrist, which I also love.'

Starting an inventory because that will give them a structure and a pace, ‘And the other one. Can't have favourites.' Which should make him smile, but he doesn't – he's listening too much.

He's reading me – I can feel it, taste. I can read it.

So I'd better get this right.

‘And you know I have to do this.' Kissing his palm, his too hot and too clever palm. ‘And I need to take off your shirt.' And fast with the buttons, smooth with the buttons – determined enough to make it seem inevitable and right.

And here he is – Arthur – all blue-white and tender breath – like he's hurt already.

‘We have to.'

Now, slowly, slowly – kiss his throat – him swallowing beneath you – kiss the notch in his collar bone – nipples – kissing the hair – his ribs – poor ribs – poor boy ribs.

Shadows and hollows and silk, ‘And I love this.' And Arthur the man and Arthur the boy again, too. ‘I love all of this.'

Needs someone to get him through it.

Flail of his arms as she struggles him out of the cloth, tugs it away.

Kiss where he's scared. Me, too.

‘I want to see you, Arthur, and I want you to feel me looking.'

Kiss over his heart and feel it startle.

‘I love you.'

Not a lie.

Kiss his mouth so he can't say it back – so he can't fail to say it back. Either way, it would be our problem – and a joy and a beauty and a trap.

Kiss his mouth.

And I don't want to think, not any more.

Belt buckle – tricky and sleek and tricky.

Jeans.

Clumsy.

Unfasten.

Unfasten.

Unfasten.

Unfasten.

Break him, peel him free.

‘I do love you.'

Silkhotsilk.

Crest of the hip – hummingbird tremor in the thigh – inside – under – kiss the fur – shift of the skin – shiftingundertheskin kissed balls – fleece and lovely – where he wants – round and blind and speaking and head and rim and head and shaft and this is everything and sorry and angry and sorry and perfect and tongue and mouth and needs and take him in and keep and lose and keep and play and the first taste of almost and almost and the softesthardestlostestnakedest thing in the world and he's dancing and taste the dancing and running against the tongue and taking him in and lips and taking him in and hands and taking him in and never leave him be and take him in.

Say nothing.

The idea of calling him darling.

Say nothing is best.

Arthur opens his eyes. The blue of them is terrified.

And she doesn't know what this could mean.

Please not that I've hurt him. Please not that he doesn't believe me. Please not that he didn't trust me, but let me in any case.

Please is it love?

She wants to tell him that she's sorry, but is a coward and worried that he might ask her what she's sorry for and so she lies beside him, edges her head on to his chest. ‘Can we stay like this? For a bit.' Like this, he can't look at her.

‘Of course.' Unforthcoming voice, small and private.

And she thinks about Beverley and the night when they started again and how in the grey, in the pre-dawn, he'd got out of bed and gone off to the bathroom and she'd dozed and then something had fully woken her – the electric sense of somebody's attention – and she'd sat up and found him there watching her, standing in the doorway with the light at his back, being this curious shadow – and he'd said, ‘You feel different.'

‘I am different.'

Arthur waiting, his head seeming to shift and focus on something beyond her.

Always does that – indirect.

He does see, though.

The distracted man who's looking somewhere else – that's who'll catch the trick. The ones who stare and are intent, they're not a problem – any magician
will take their careful observation and lie to it, because it is solid and therefore can be moved, aroused, betrayed.

Arthur looks away to catch the truth.

‘You
are
different?'

‘Yes.'

She seemed to feel him testing her silence, pressing
against it, but then he nodded, walked to join her, his body cooled. ‘I'm going to sleep now. If you don't mind.'

‘No. I don't mind.'

‘I have to leave early in the morning.'

‘Well, I'll . . . once you're asleep I'll get out of your way . . .'

And he rolled on to his side, stilled his breath, but he didn't sleep – she knew he was listening when she left.