Son of Heaven

by Wingrove, David

  She laughed, then drew her face back slightly, looking up into his face. She was about to say something more, then changed her mind. She looked down, away from him.

  He slowed, then stopped. ‘What?’ he asked gently. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing…’ She met his eyes again and smiled, as if to reassure him, but there was a shadow now behind the smile.

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Really. Just hold me, Jake. Just dance with me.’

  Peter drew his face back, away from Meg’s, then gave a little shiver. Her mouth was so soft, so sweetly moist, so deliciously yielding to his own. And her eyes…

  He squeezed her hands, which lay in his, and smiled.

  They were leaning against the castle wall, at the top of the great slope, the ruins of the King’s Tower silhouetted against the sky at their backs. Below them and to the left, they could see the inn, its long, walled garden seeming to glow like a broad gash of gold against the darkness of the surrounding countryside. From where they were they could see people coming and going, hear the music drifting up from below.

  ‘Do you think we’re always gonna live here?’

  ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I s’pose so. Unless we get our own place…’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah… I s’pose so. Only…’

  He looked away, across the dark countryside towards the sea.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Only what?’

  ‘Only I’d like to see things. You know…’

  She smiled then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t, silly. Tell me. What kind of things?’

  ‘Oh… things. Places, I guess. I mean, it’s daft. I’ve never even been to Dorchester!’

  ‘You will. When you’re older.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I want to see lots of different places. London, for instance…’

  ‘Lunnun?’ She gave him a look of horror. ‘What d’you wanna go see that for? It’s a horrible place. A place of living corpses.’

  ‘So they say. But what if they’re wrong?’

  ‘They ain’t wrong. They’ve spoken to people who’ve been there. There’s cannibals there… yeah, and worse things!’

  He looked away, impatient with her suddenly, then relented. It wasn’t her fault. It was this place. It was like his dad said, the locals devoured rumours, and the more garish the rumour the more gullible they seemed. But he wasn’t going to argue with Meg over it.

  He stood, putting his fingers to his teeth to whistle. ‘Here, Boy!’

  Almost at once, Boy came bounding out of the darkness, prostrating himself at Peter’s feet to be stroked and fussed over.

  He looked to her again. She was watching him, contrite now.

  ‘Sorry…’

  ‘No, it’s me.’ He straightened up, then, moving closer, gently placed his hands upon her shoulders. Once more they kissed, a long, slow kiss.

  Drawing back from her, he smiled. ‘I’d best get you home. It’s late.’

  Her smile mirrored his own. ‘Race you down the hill…’

  He laughed, then nodded. ‘No cheating, mind…’

  And off they ran, whooping as they did, down into the dark bowl of the inner courtyard and on, through the ancient gate, running full tilt, Boy barking excitedly as he ran, the sound of their childish laughter echoing up into the dark.

  One dance had become a dozen. Slowly the villagers had gone home, until now it was just he and she, unwatched, unnoticed on the dance floor.

  Now, as Old Josh announced the last song of the night, Jake sighed deeply then kissed her on the tip of her nose.

  ‘Tha’s nice,’ she said, nuzzling in to him. ‘You sha…’

  ‘You’re drunk, Mary Hubbard.’

  She giggled. ‘I know. I…’

  He put a finger to her lips. ‘One more dance and I’ll take you home. Tom’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘Tom knows where I’ve got to. I’m wi’ you.’

  It was said slurringly. But she wasn’t falling down drunk yet. Nor did he intend to let her be.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked her gently, as the first bars of the song rang out. ‘What’s the matter, my pretty girl?’

  She laughed huskily, then pressed closer. ‘I like it when you say that. And this song…’

  Old Josh had done them proud, classic after classic, but this was the best of the lot. ‘Nights In White Satin’.

  Jake closed his eyes. Normally he didn’t dance. Even when Annie had been alive he’d been a reluctant partner. But with Mary…

  Perhaps it was because he’d been so long without a woman, but this last hour had been magical. Her closeness had robbed him of his senses. The scent of her, the warmth of her all too female body against his own, had been intoxicating.

  He squeezed her gently, feeling a real tenderness for her at that moment. ‘Thank you, Mary. You don’t know how pleasant it’s been.’

  She met his eyes again. ‘You’re welcome, my love. Any time.’

  He laughed. ‘You really are drunk, aren’t you?’

  She nodded exaggeratedly. ‘Really, really drunk.’

  ‘But thank you, anyway. You and Tom. For being such good friends. For…’

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘Nuff…’ She smiled at him again. ‘You’re a good dancer, you know. You have the feel for it.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You do. And I bet you’re a good kisser, too.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Only when she smiled this time he had to look away, because he really wanted to kiss her. She was Tom’s, yes, and he would never hurt his friend, only he so wanted to kiss her. Wanted it more than anything. Only, if he kissed her, what then?

  ‘Jake? Are you okay?’

  She drew his face back with her fingers. Made him look at her again.

  He studied her face, seeing both how like and unlike Annie she was. In some ways more beautiful, in others…

  ‘I miss her, Mary. Every fucking day.’

  Her face creased in sympathy. ‘I know. I miss her too.’

  ‘Yeah… but that’s not what I meant. In my bed. You were right.’

  ‘Ah…’ She looked down, suddenly less drunk.

  ‘Tonight…’ He took a long, shivering breath. ‘Tonight’s been magical. I’m glad you were here with me. I…’

  She pushed her face up into his and kissed him, full on the lips, a soft, warm, welcoming kiss that, after dancing with her so long, he had no power to resist. In an instant he was kissing her back, passionately, the two of them locked in an embrace, her body pressed against his own.

  He broke from it, gasping. He wanted to take her, right there and then. And he knew for a fact that she would let him – that she wanted him. He had only to take her. Only it wasn’t right. She was Tom’s. She had always been Tom’s. And he owed Tom everything.

  ‘Mary… I…’

  Mary stood there a moment, staring at him wildly, then took a step back. She looked away, up into the sky, then back at him. ‘You’d better go…’

  He took a step towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I…’

  ‘Jake! For fuck’s sake go!’

  It had a sobering effect. He stared at her, seeing how troubled she was, how agitated, then turned and fled. Away from her, as fast as he could run. Yet as he ran, out along the curving, chalk-lined path and left onto the Knowle road, he could still see her in his mind, could feel her lips, moist yet burning against his own, her breasts pressed softly against his chest, and knew he would not sleep.

  ‘Oh god… Oh Jesus Christ, Tom… forgive me…’

  Worst of all he kept seeing her eyes – eyes that were like his own sweet Annie’s eyes.

  ‘Oh Christ… oh, Jesus no.’

  Too late, he thought. Too fucking late.

  Chapter 2

  THE NATURE OF THE CATASTROPHE

  Jake slept badly. He woke before
first light and, unable to lie there, went down and lit a fire in the kitchen grate. Then he sat and cleaned his gun, his mind returning again and again to the events of the previous night.

  Until now he’d been all right, or, if not, then he’d at least been able to cope. Much of that was down to Tom and Mary. When he’d been at his most desperate, in those awful first few months after Annie’s death, it was they who had helped get him through.

  One kiss and it had all changed.

  The thing that nagged at him was this: that he didn’t know why. It clearly wasn’t because Mary was unhappy. He had only to think of her last night, hanging on Tom’s arm, laughing at his awful, corny jokes, to know that she was still in love with him. That much was self-evident. Why, then, tilt her cap at him? Or was that Tom’s doing? Was Tom’s friendship that unselfish, that he’d offer up his wife? If so, then why now? What had changed to make him suddenly so generous?

  Only that was it. Jake just couldn’t imagine how, were he in Tom’s place, he could even think of sharing the woman he loved. It went against nature.

  What then? What had made Mary come on to him? Why, when she had never asked before, had she asked him to dance with her last night? Was it the drink?

  He knew it wasn’t. He’d seen her much more drunk than that. Falling over drunk. But she had never made a pass at him; never given the slightest hint that she harboured any hidden feelings. Until last night.

  Jake sighed, then set the gun down.

  So what now? Did he pretend it had never happened? Greet Tom with a cheery welcome? Slap Tom’s back and ignore the feelings Mary had woken in him?

  It was that which disturbed him most. That he had liked it. That he had wanted it. And much more than just a kiss. In the secrecy of his thoughts he could admit it now. Feeling her against him, kissing her, had affected him profoundly. In the darkness he had dreamed of her. Dreamed of lying naked with her. Of kissing her neck and breasts. Of fucking her.

  He closed his eyes. In the corner, sprawled out in his basket, Boy shifted, gave a low growl and then a bark.

  Peter stood in the doorway.

  ‘You didn’t have to get up yet, lad.’

  Peter knuckled his eyes and yawned. ‘It’s still dark out. You all right?’

  Jake smiled. ‘Just a bit hung over. Did you have a good evening?’

  Peter grinned. ‘Yeah. We hung about a bit, up on the battlements.’

  ‘All of you?’ But Jake knew the answer even before he asked. In any case, Peter, accustomed to his father’s teasing, dodged the issue expertly.

  ‘Shall I make breakfast?’

  ‘You don’t have to, lad. We’ll stop off at Wareham and have something there.’

  ‘Tea, then?’

  ‘Coffee, if you’re doing it.’

  Peter looked at him, surprised. Coffee was a luxury item. It was rare for them to have it. He nodded, then, filling the kettle, set it on the grid above the fire, whistling to himself all the while.

  ‘You like that tune, son?’

  Peter turned his head. ‘What tune’s that?’

  ‘The one you’re whistling. Josh played it last night.’

  ‘Oh… right. Did he?’

  Again it was a game they played. Peter pretended that he didn’t like any of the old stuff. But he did. He was humming or whistling it all the time.

  ‘You packed, lad?’

  Peter nodded, then reached up to get the coffee tin down from the shelf above the sink. Whenever Jake went on one of his trips to market, Peter – and Boy – went to stay with the Hubbard women. So it had been these past six years.

  Jake looked down. ‘Anything special you’d like me to bring back? We’ve got a bit spare. Or should have, once I’ve traded in a few things. Something you need, maybe?’

  Peter had been spooning the coffee granules into the cups. Hearing what his father said, he stopped. ‘I…’

  He was hunched suddenly, awkward. There was something he wanted.

  ‘Go on, boy. If we can afford it.’

  Peter steeled himself, then turned, facing his father. ‘I… I wanted to get Meg something… A ring.’

  ‘A ring.’ But Jake knew better than to mock his son over this. He could see in his face just what it meant, asking for this. ‘Is that all?’

  For a moment Peter seemed surprised. Then, quickly, he shook his head. ‘No… just that…’

  Jake smiled. ‘’S’all right, lad. I’ll make sure it’s a nice one.’

  There was the briefest flash of gratitude in the boy’s eyes, then he turned back, busying himself, hoping that his father hadn’t noticed he was blushing now. But Jake had noticed.

  He stood, then went over to the window. The sky was brightening. The blackness of the yard had been solid a minute or two ago, but now you could discern familiar shapes.

  Jake turned, looking across at the old, walnut-cased clock that stood on the mantelpiece. He didn’t have to be in Corfe for another hour yet, but maybe he’d go a bit earlier this time. Get there before Tom and make sure everything was okay between them.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’

  Jake turned, surprised to find Peter there beside him, holding out the cup for him to take. Had he let something show in his face? He took the cup from the boy.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, lad. And thanks. I thought I might try and get us some cocoa this time. As a bit of a treat, eh?’

  Peter grinned. ‘Cocoa… wow!’

  Jake nodded. They couldn’t afford it, really. None of it. Tea was cheapest, but even that was a luxury these days, as supplies dwindled. But without such treats life wasn’t worth the candle.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Those people we saw on the road yesterday. D’you think something’s happened. You know, in London?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘I dunno, lad. I really don’t. But we’re sure to hear something when we get to market. That place is awash with rumour. Aye, and some real news too, occasionally. If anyone’ll know, they will.’

  Only Jake wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was happening in London. Nor anywhere else outside of Purbeck, come to that. He’d been at the centre of things once, and look where that had got him! No, this was his life now, this ‘island’, geologically shorn off from the rest of England. This place and these people.

  Which was why he had to go and speak to Tom. To set things straight, or at least, to make sure everything was fine between them. Because if it wasn’t…

  He sipped the sweetly sugared coffee, then closed his eyes, smiling with the rare pleasure of it.

  ‘That’s good, lad. That’s a damn fine cup of coffee.’

  For once he shunned the road, taking the back way through the meadows, a full pack on his back, his gun slung over his right shoulder. At this time of year the way was often waterlogged by heavy rains, which was why, with the wagons, they took the main road north to Wareham. But today it was fine, the ground beneath his boots firm rather than muddy.

  This was the scenic route and, in summer, he often took it for its sheer beauty and peacefulness, but today he chose it for a different reason – so as not to meet up with Tom. Not yet, anyway. He hadn’t rehearsed yet in his head just how he was going to play it.

  His natural instinct was to tell Tom everything – to lay it all before him and beg his forgiveness – but how did you tell your best friend that you’d spent the night dreaming about fucking his wife? That wasn’t an option. Best say nothing, maybe. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Only he felt awkward about it. He didn’t like the idea that he was somehow betraying his best friend, even if it were only in his head.

  Thought crime, he realized, recalling the classic novel. There were those, of course, who’d not think twice about it. But he wasn’t one of them. The very idea of hurting Tom filled him with horror. It would have been the same as hurting Peter, or Annie, come to that, when she’d been alive.

  As he walked he looked about him, taking in the sheer beauty of the place. Some days he felt alm
ost like he had died and come to heaven. At least it would have seemed so, had Annie been at his side. Coming out from the trees beside the Ridgeway he found himself waist deep in a meadow full of wild flowers, their bright, natural colours stretching all the way to the low grey walls of the old graveyard that lay in the shadow of the castle.

  Jake slowed, taking it all in, his mood brightening at the sight.

  He had done Tom no wrong. He had kissed Tom’s wife, yes, but he had gone no further, and what was one small kiss between old friends? And maybe Tom knew that already. Maybe she had gone straight home and told him, and he had laughed and said something like ‘Poor old Jake. He needs a woman in his bed.’ Which was true, only…

  Jake stopped, reaching out to pluck a strand of wild lavender, studying it a while, conscious suddenly of how fragile it all was; of how easily all of this was brought to ruin. Transient, it was. And thus meaningless, some might say. Only it was that very brevity that made it beautiful, that gave it meaning. It was like Annie. Even though he had lost her, he would not have chosen never to have met her, not for all the suffering. Never to have had – never to have risked having – that was worse. Far worse.

  He came in from the back way, walking up the long, curving slope of West Street. There beneath the Martyrs Cross, two small, horse-drawn wagons were waiting, packed tight with trading goods, their drivers seated on the steps of the old stone cross, drawing on their pipes. Seeing Jake, the smaller of the two stood and hailed him.

  ‘Jake! ’Ow’s ’e?’

  Jake grinned. Ted Gifford was a small, wiry man in his fifties. He had been born in Corfe and had remained here, and his accent was as local as it got. His companion was his son, Dick, who was much taller than his father with a shock of red hair. It was said by some that Dick was a clever man, though as he rarely spoke it was hard to tell, but one thing Jake did know: Dick was the best shot in all of Purbeck, and he had never see him flinch or run in a fight, even when things looked bad, so he was glad to see him there that morning.

  ‘How are you two? I didn’t see you last night?’

  ‘We got some shut-eye,’ Ted answered. ‘’S long journey. An’ the road this year…’