Stalking Tender Prey

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘For God’s sake, Lil, it’s not that serious! Don’t be so carpy!’ Owen sat down at the table to take off his boots. Lily felt a pang of affection as she looked at his bony shoulders. He seemed vulnerable somehow. ‘Where have you been till now?’ Normally, she never questioned him about his activities.

  ‘Just out,’ he replied. His face was grubby, as if he’d been sleeping on dirt.

  Lily shook her head. ‘You’ll be caught!’ she said malevolently.

  Owen raised his brows. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whatever it is you’re up to.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Owen said. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll do the stove and make breakfast.’

  ‘Peace offering.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ Owen said. ‘I lost track of time.’

  Lily held out for a few moments, standing rigidly against the sink, then went to sit down. Owen smiled at her.

  ‘Have you been with that Cranton boy all night?’ Lily ventured.

  Owen’s smile clouded. Lily could tell she’d crossed a forbidden boundary, but refused to go back. ‘Well?’

  ‘What is that to you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno. He seems like an odd choice of friend. He’s just a kid.’

  ‘He’s bright,’ Owen said. ‘Young for his age, I’ll admit, but interesting company.’

  ‘I can’t see Ray and the others liking him much.’

  ‘Well, they do.’ Owen stood up and went to the stove.

  ‘O?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Lily had to voice an uncomfortable suspicion. ‘That boy’s too young, much too young. You should be careful.’

  Owen directed a quizzical glance at her. ‘What are you implying, sister dear.’

  Lily shrugged awkwardly. ‘I think you know. Cranton’s a good-looking lad, but his family are outsiders, O. They’re different. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Not exactly, no. If you are trying to find out whether I’m fucking Daniel, the answer is no. Thanks a lot, Lil.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lily said. ‘I just had to...’

  ‘That’s OK, forget it. Why don’t you go and get dressed. It’s cold in here. I’ll have this lit by the time you come down.’

  Lily stood up. She went to where her brother was crouched by the stove, and leaned down to hug him, kissing the top of his head. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I worry about you.’

  Owen patted her arm. ‘I like it when you’re jealous,’ he said. ‘Makes me feel wanted.’

  Lily laughed and went back upstairs. She took off her dressing-gown and night-dress and sat on her bed for a few moments. Her suspicions concerning Daniel Cranton weren’t totally allayed. She didn’t want to feel possessive of Owen, yet resented outsiders taking up his time. She and Owen hadn’t shared closeness for several months now. Was it possible they could drift apart completely, to become separate entities? She hated to think of that. ‘Owen,’ she murmured, staring at the window. Her eyes were full of tears. He was her world.

  Her quiet utterance of his name was an invocation. She heard him coming up the stairs. He came in to her room and said, sorrowfully, ‘Lily. Don’t!’

  She showed him her tear-streaked face, turning just her head to look at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t get upset.’ He sat down beside her and stroked her naked shoulder. ‘You are beautiful.’ He parted her hair and kissed her neck.

  ‘But am I enough?’

  Owen smiled. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘We don’t share so often, not like we used to. I’m scared we’re drifting apart.’

  ‘Do you want to share now?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I always do, but I wait on you, my love. It’s your temple we worship in, after all.’

  In response, Lily pulled away from him and lay down on her narrow bed. The impulse, when it came, was always hot and sudden. ‘Now,’ she said. He was her only lover.

  Barbara and Barney Eager sat up in bed together, sipping tea and sharing the Saturday newspaper. Barbara loved Saturdays; they had a certain feel, an air of excitement due to having days off work. She, of course, no longer had any days off work, but the jovial atmosphere conjured by the weekend drinkers affected her benignly. Barney, unaware he was being watched frowned at the paper, his lower lip stuck out. Barbara couldn’t help thinking of Louis Cranton’s attenuated and ravaged handsomeness, the tiredness in his dark eyes. She lived in fear of witnessing a rapid physical decline in her friend; other times she dreamed of his miraculous recovery, a return to vigour. Last night, he’d made a jovial remark about the winter cold being bad for his bones. Barbara had winced; a wing of terror brushed her face. Perhaps she didn’t do enough for him. His children were no help. Daniel was affable enough, but a sponger, whereas Verity seemed a cold, calculating creature. At first, Barbara had attempted to befriend the girl, but her efforts had been rebuffed. She felt Verity looked down on her, yet she seemed content to sit gossiping with the locals when it suited her. Strange girl. Barney appeared to have no suspicions concerning his wife’s feelings for Louis Cranton. Probably because he saw Louis as less than a man. Barbara eyed him covertly. Had he ever been handsome? It was hard to recall now. When she’d met him, he’d certainly been dashing in his uniform. They had spent the first two years of their married life stationed abroad in Cyprus. Barbara had hoped for a glamorous life with him. She’d always done her duty. Barney, however, had few expectations from life, and lacked any poetry of soul. Barbara could never really talk to him. She realised she was sitting in bed with a stranger, someone who had never wanted to know her fully, someone she knew only superficially. What would he think of his wife’s inner life, if it should be revealed to him? Shock, ridicule, perhaps even concern, would manifest. In her dreams, Barbara was strong and powerful. She did not see herself as a slim, limpid beauty, but a statuesque valkyrie, who stalked a wild fantasy landscape, making things happen and having Experiences. Barbara’s imagination was fecund. She did not read the most lurid of her fantasies aloud to the other members of her writing group. Now, she wondered: did Barney have unspoken desires, secret thoughts? It seemed unlikely. But perhaps he dreamed of a wild and dangerous military career, himself as a hero. Barbara hoped he did. Barney was no hero in reality. Never having owned a classic bone structure, his face now seemed to be falling downwards off his skull, as if some vital inner framework had been removed. His body had become soft and toneless. Barbara herself fought the advance of age, even though she sometimes felt she was holding the enemy at bay with diminishing troops. She had been the one to initiate the twice weekly work-out sessions in the mousy smelling village hall, previously home only to sporadic flower shows and drab social events. She tried to pamper her body, but, mulishly, like a sulky child, it failed to respond with the alacrity and enthusiasm she hoped to instil. This was not a condition she pondered often, because it filled her with a weary sadness. The most cruel thing about life, she thought, was not the fact that you aged and decayed, but that you appreciated youth and vitality only when it was too late. That was cruel. It was as if you possessed in ignorance some unbelievable supernatural power, which you were only told about as the gift was taken away. I could have done this, and this... Dreams. She was fifty-two now and her life seemed to have ended here in Little Moor. The things she did today, she would probably do every day until she was too infirm to carry on managing The White House. Don’t be ungrateful she scolded herself. You have money, you have health, you have friends. She could also indulge her obsessions and articulate her dreams, via her writing circle. With these more positive thoughts in mind, Barbara got out of bed. Who knows, something unexpected and thrilling might always be around the corner... Barney glanced up at her with a reflexive smile. Outside, the day was becoming unseasonably warm.

  When Verity Cranton went into the kitchen to turn down the central heating, someone else’s black cat was sitting on the outer window sill, looking in. It made Verity jump as she caught sight of its silhouette, because it was
the most enormous cat she’d ever seen. Her intention was to shoo it away, but when she opened the back door, the cat jumped down off the sill and ran into the house. Verity shrank back against the door. Was it a domestic cat? She’d never seen one that size. Its coat was long, and its tail was as bushy as a fox’s. The animal brushed against her legs as it passed her. The sensation, though brief, was pleasant. Verity watched, with mixed feelings, as the cat went directly to the ethnic mat in front of the range, stuck a back leg in the air, and began washing itself, very much at home. Verity had never owned pets. She suspected that, like people, there was a cost for caring about them. Also, she sensed kindred spirits in the most aloof examples of the feline species she had encountered, and the comparisons made her uncomfortable. ‘You can’t come in here,’ she said aloud, feeling embarrassed when the animal ignored her. She couldn’t help feeling it had understood her words completely. She approached it, but felt wary of touching it, nervous it might strike out. When she came too close it stopped washing and stared at her with enormous orange eyes. There certainly seemed to be a warning in the eyes. It was only a cat. She could fetch a mop or a broom and drive it away. The cat blinked at her and then rolled onto its back in invitation. Cautiously, Verity extended a hand and touched the long, black fur on its belly. What appeared to be smooth and groomed turned out to be a mat of feline dreadlocks. The cat wriggled, encouraging her caress. Then, it grabbed her hand firmly with its forepaws, curling its body round so it could kick with its back legs. Verity froze. She knew if she tried to pull away now, it would bite, scratch. Stupid of her to touch it, stupid. The cat stared at her for a few moments, and then its grip slackened, allowing her to remove her hand. It seemed to be saying I could have hurt you badly, but I didn’t. Verity touched its wide head and it pushed against her hand, beginning to purr.

  The houses of Little Moor surrounded a small post office and general shop, as if, the traveller thought, they had been drawn against their will to this lone node of communication with the world. Nearby, a white building protected the rise of a hill, and there was a sign to proclaim it a boarding house and inn. Shiny cars were parked outside, beneath an ancient monkey puzzle tree.

  As a preliminary investigation, the traveller went into the post office, which was also a small off-licence, to purchase a bottle of beer. The interior of the shop was stuffed with merchandise of the most unlikely variety. A mature female in powder and cardigan held court behind the old glass-topped counter, and there was a squinting crone sitting on a stool next to a bead curtain that obviously led to the living quarters. The silence which followed his entrance suggested these two had recently been involved in dispute; it was more than the cautious silence reserved for strangers. The post mistress looked at him hard, ready to purse her mouth into disapproval, so he took off his hat and smiled. She visibly smoothed herself.

  ‘Shut the door!’ said the crone. ‘Open doors let the air in.’

  ‘Mother!’ said the post mistress, in tolerant embarrassment as the traveller shut the door more firmly. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  The traveller voiced his requirements in his most velvety tone, eyeing the dusty collection of bottles on the shelf behind the counter. The post-mistress asked him whether he’d prefer one of the bottles she kept in the cellar. They had no fridge.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment,’ said the post mistress, dodging through the bead curtain, with an owlish backward glance that he guessed was meant to be sultry.

  A stillness descended into the shop and the traveller could hear the low buzz of a motorbike far away. ‘Don’t get paid for this!’ said the old woman unexpectedly. The traveller smiled at her enquiringly. ‘I count the post,’ continued the woman, ‘count it all, every one. No pay for it.’

  ‘Oh.’ The stillness became rather stiff. Did it really take this long to fetch a bottle from the cellar, he wondered? Perhaps the post mistress was applying a further layer of powder to her nose for his benefit. He felt the burning scrutiny of the crone, heard her rustle like dry leaves or ancient cloth upon her seat.

  ‘Smell the past,’ she said. ‘Smell it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He turned to glance at her.

  ‘Coming back,’ she answered.

  He could smell her age, and another half-familiar smell, like long-shuttered attics opened to the sun.

  ‘Here she comes,’ said the old woman. The traveller thought she meant her daughter, but the door opened behind him and another customer came in. ‘Hello dear!’ said the old woman, in a tone of some affection.

  It was a girl, maybe eighteen years old. She carried a large wicker basket which was hung over one arm and pressed tightly against her body. She was very tall and wore a long dress in a faded floral print and scuffed men’s work boots. Her arms were bare and, he could see, rather scratched, as if she’d been playing with a boisterous kitten.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Manden,’ she said, and put her basket on the counter. She gave the traveller only the shortest of inspections.

  Here she comes, indeed! he was thinking. This was the lure, the gem in the heart of the rock, he was sure of it. After years of practice he could sniff out items of interest very quickly. Her long, abundant hair was the most beautiful shade of dark red, probably dyed, but enchanting nonetheless. Her face, admittedly, was plain, but her eyes were wide and contained the hidden shred of ‘otherness’ he had trained himself to spot.

  The post mistress breezed through the curtain, clutching the bottle the traveller had ordered, her mouth pasted with a fresh gout of thick red lipstick. She smiled airily at the girl. ‘Hello, Lily, love,’ she said, and then redirected her attention to the traveller. ‘Staying in Lil’moor, are you?’ she enquired brightly, as he counted out his change.

  He couldn’t help smiling at the unintentional pun and was tempted to answer, ‘Well, I will if she’s amenable,’ but opted for, ‘It’s a lovely spot. I hope to stay here, yes.’

  ‘We get a lot of tourists,’ said the post mistress. ‘Where are you staying? At The White House?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘There’s no decision to it,’ said the girl, quite coldly. ‘It’s the only place for tourists around here.’

  ‘In that case, my mind is made up,’ said the traveller, putting the bottle into one of the pockets of his long coat.

  ‘Want me to open that for you?’ asked the post mistress.

  He shook his head. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘You’re not one of those people that use their teeth, are you?’ The post mistress touched her throat provocatively.

  The traveller put on his hat. ‘I always carry a bottle opener with me,’ he said. ‘Good day to you.’

  Outside, he waited for the girl, Lily, to emerge. Of course, she spent considerable time chatting to the post mistress and her mother. He sat down on a convenient boulder and opened up the bottle, swigging idly as he waited. He never wasted an opportunity. He knew, through past encounters, that it was best to act on impulse or else regret at leisure. It was his duty, while roaming the world, to cram as much experience into his life as possible. He wanted to taste every fruit there was on offer, even if it was sour. More than anything, he liked to experience the effect he had on other people.

  Eventually, the bell above the post office door made a muffled ‘ting!’ and the Lily maid walked out into the sunlight. She paused for a moment, and squinted up at the sky. Her basket was laden with tins and she had bought a couple of oranges that had the wizened appearance typical of small store produce kept long on the shelf. When she realised she was being observed, she assumed an almost guilty expression, as if she had been seen doing something shameful. She nodded curtly, hesitated with a half open mouth, as if about to speak, and then began to walk away up the road. Once, she looked back. Satisfied, the traveller stood up, threw the empty bottle into a waste bin outside the shop and headed for The White House.

  He would take a room there for a night at least. The interior of the place was all polished d
ark wood and horse brasses, with a token grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. There was an old noticeboard hung on the wall, which had once advertised church activities, it seemed, but all it displayed now were a few bright leaflets for tourists, explaining where sites of historical interest and stately homes could be found. The traveller could not remember having seen a church nearby. It was necessary to ring a counter bell for service; clearly The White House was not crammed with business at the moment.

  A man, ex-military in type, came through from a room at the back. The traveller assessed him swiftly; retired, wife somewhere else in the building, hearty group of local friends, perhaps the father of a difficult child who had grown into a difficult adult. He did not fall prey to the traveller’s charms at all, however well directed they were, and maintained a stiff, unwelcoming mien as his new guest signed the register. The traveller’s appearance was perhaps not typical of the usual White House clientele, and it was likely he’d only been permitted to stay there because trade was slack. The proprietor would undoubtedly prefer to fill his inn with family holidaymakers and respectable moor-walkers. The traveller’s attire and long hair probably suggested untold dissipations to this conventional creature, who would also scorn all males who had not enjoyed army life at some time. Enchanting delusion! The traveller envisaged many interesting encounters would be had with the landlord; his name was Mr Eager.

  ‘Dinner at six thirty!’ he said.

  The traveller imagined a peremptory gong would be rung at that time, and woe betide the listless guest who ignored its summons.

  His room was comfortable, if a little too flouncy. Mrs Eager would also be flouncy, of course, for the decor was her signature. The traveller would strike up a friendship with her, to the disgust of her husband. He wondered whether the Lily maid ever came to The White House. His first impression of her suggested she was not the type to drink out in pubs. Once he’d made the acquaintance of Mrs Eager, he might be able to find out.

  Daniel Cranton came into the kitchen where Verity was preparing a tray of coffee and sandwiches for Louis. This morning had been the first time Owen had asked to come back into the house with him after a night at the High Place. He was unsure of Owen’s motives for that — aware that Owen always had motives for everything he did. They had shared some toast in the kitchen, burned because Daniel cooked for himself very rarely.