Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  ‘I’m going to bed. Your room’s to the left of the bathroom, but feel free to stay up as long as you like – finish the bottle of Scotch, I don’t mind. Say goodnight to Nina for me.’

  Bobby sat down on his bed and began the fiddling business of untying his shoelaces and taking off his shoes before lying down on his bed. Taking his cigarettes from his pocket he lit one, watching the match burn almost to his fingers before briskly shaking it out. He closed his eyes. He could hear Nina running the bath and he pictured her soaping her breasts with the pink soap he’d bought for her. He thought about her hand moving lower, over her belly and between her legs. His own hand went to his flies only to stop. He wouldn’t masturbate, although often it helped him to sleep. Masturbating with Hugh and Nina in the next rooms would make him feel even more of a pervert. He smiled bitterly. Imagine if Hugh walked in on him, thinking it was his room. How much pity he would have for him then! ‘You’re a sad bastard, Harris,’ he said softly. ‘It’s pity-fucks or wanking from now on, you do know that?’ Sweet-faced, ordinary, marry-me virgins wouldn’t look at him now.

  There had been a sweetheart of a nurse in the first hospital. The farmer who had found him staggering about in his field had later told him she was his cousin. The two of them certainly looked alike, blond and blue-eyed and strong as Aryan gods. The farmer had raced him to the little cottage hospital in his truck, had carried him inside running as though he weighed nothing at all. At the time he couldn’t understand his hurry or the panic that dragged at his handsome face. He had tried to tell him to slow down as his head bounced against the man’s arm and his feet dangled into space. He had wanted to make a joke and ask where’s the fire? Only he found he couldn’t speak in anything more than a whisper. The sweetheart nurse told him not to speak and that he should lie still and she would be gentle as she cut off his uniform. He seemed to remember that the pain had started in earnest then. He had tried not to cry because she was so pretty.

  Her name was Anne Hill. He thought about her often because she was the kind of girl he had wanted to marry and make pregnant over and over. A lot of girls threw themselves at him because of the uniform he wore but he guessed uniforms didn’t impress Anne Hill. And she had been shy, something he hated in himself. She had been kind, but not soppy-kind like Nina, who never could keep the fright and horror from her eyes. That first night in hospital when he’d woken from a dream that red-hot irons were crushing his hands, Nurse Hill had been there at his side, his calm, morphine angel. He suspected he told her that he loved her, cringing whenever he remembered. She couldn’t love him back; it was impossible to love someone who cried at the lightest touch and stank like a spit-roasted pig.

  Bobby blew smoke rings at his bedroom ceiling. Nina had pulled the plug on her bath and he could hear the water gurgling away. She should have saved it for Hugh to climb into – they were intimate enough, after all. He remembered again how they had looked together at the station, how easy Nina seemed with him. He had to admit they made a handsome pair and that Hugh was a better physical match for her than he was. Hugh was a head taller than Nina, whereas he was more or less the same height. Hugh took her arm or placed a guiding hand on the small of her back as they walked; Hugh smiled at her a lot and was attentive and laughed at her feeblest attempt at a joke.

  Bobby tried to remember if he had ever behaved like that with a woman. Of the handful he had slept with he remembered only a kind of strung-out intensity to their courtship, as if each potential fuck truly mattered. He was, in other words, a charmless bastard. Odd how woman had seemed to respond to him so willingly.

  He rolled on to his side and stubbed out his cigarette. He could hear Hugh coming up the stairs, the click of the switch as he turned out the landing light, the opening and closing of the bathroom door. He heard him piss, a noise that seemed to go on for ages, a great, long, satisfying piss, his territory well and truly marked. How very manly Hugh Morgan was. Bobby found himself smiling bitterly as the lavatory was finally flushed. Hugh Morgan would never pose nude for pictures for queers to wank over. He closed his eyes, appalled that the truth of what he used to do had come to him so starkly. Usually he was kinder to himself, remembering only the times in Jason’s studio when he made love to Nina.

  Jason had laughed at him. ‘You’ve fucked her, haven’t you? I know, I can tell! Look at you, cock of the walk now you’ve lost your cherry. Really – what kind of pictures can I take of you now?’ He’d waited for an answer as though it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

  Holding his gaze, Bobby had said, ‘You’ll have to pay me more. Nina, too.’

  Jason laughed. ‘All right. But for Christ’s sake – don’t get her pregnant, I can’t use an up-the-stick model. Deal?’

  Bobby had turned away from him. Taking off the silk robe he let it crumple at his feet. He allowed Jason a long look at his bare backside, tensing the muscles in his thighs and buttocks. At the same time he thought of Nina, of the way she’d wrapped her legs around his waist as he came, the way she’d moaned and rolled her eyes as though she was in ecstasy. He’d wondered if she was a whore, but what did he know? Whore or not, he had held her face between his hands and kissed her mouth, his spent cock still inside her. She had seemed to like this kissing best. He remembered she had giggled and squirmed beneath him and he realised her eye rolling and moaning was an act, an aping of the grown-ups. For the first time in his life he’d felt child-like and he laughed until she pressed her hand against his mouth.

  Years later, when Nina was sometimes mistaken for his wife and Joan for his child, he would wonder why he hadn’t married her. There were lots of reasons, the worst being that he was a snob, the best that he was wrong for her, that away from their bed they really didn’t get on terribly well. If it hadn’t been for Joan he was sure they would be almost strangers to each other by now.

  Bobby got up. Now that his guests had retired to bed he could go downstairs again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NINA COULDN'T SLEEP. THE bed was too soft and too warm, although she had kicked until the purple quilt covering her feet had slithered to the floor. Trees scraped their branches at the window; an owl hooted; every so often a train would sound in the distance. London was quieter.

  She tried to will herself to sleep because she was tired and she didn’t want dark bags under her eyes in the morning. Lack of sleep made her jumpy and cross and tomorrow she needed to be calm. Neither Hugh nor Bobby could guess that she wasn’t taking this delicate situation in her stride. She sighed, remembering how dismayed Bobby had looked when he saw Hugh, how stiff and awkward he had been around him. She told herself that none of this was her fault. Bobby didn’t have to invite Hugh to stay with him; Hugh didn’t have to accept. She sat up, punching at the pillows in an effort to make herself comfortable. Outside a cat began howling and she almost wept in despair.

  She listened, defeated, trying to make a lullaby of its pathetic cries. But cats sounded like babies crying, sometimes. She tried to put this thought from her mind and stared into the darkness. On the landing outside her door she heard a floorboard creak and she tensed, pulling the covers up to her chin like the grandmother in Little Red Riding Hood.

  Nina watched as the door handle was turned with tortuous slowness. As the door opened a crack she quickly turned on her side, drawing her knees to her chest and closing her eyes tight. If she pretended to be fast asleep he – whichever of them it was – would go away.

  He came in. He closed the door softly behind him and moved quite soundlessly toward the bed. She heard him stop breathing and guessed he was holding his breath so that he might hear hers and know if she really was sleeping. He lifted the covers. Climbing in beside her he rested his hand lightly on her hip.’

  ‘Nina?’

  Hugh. ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’ His hand became heavier. ‘I just want to hold you.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  He laughed quietly. ‘No. You’re right.’ Propping himsel
f up on his elbow he looked down at her. ‘You thought it was him, didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Jesus. So you did half expect him?’

  ‘Go back to bed, Hugh.’

  ‘Would you send him away too? Look at me.’

  She sat up and turned on the lamp beside the bed. Hugh blinked as though the dim light hurt his eyes. Coldly she said, ‘This is wrong. What if he does come?’

  ‘Then there’ll be three in the bed. And the little one said …?’ He smiled and reached up to press his palm against her face. ‘You’re lovely. I can’t sleep in the next room knowing you’re here.’ More softly he said, ‘Do you really want me to go?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt him –’

  His hand moved to her mouth. ‘Then hush. We won’t make a sound.’

  * * *

  He used a johnny and when he rolled off her he removed it carefully and dropped it on the floor. She imagined it making a slug-trail on the purple quilt and that Bobby would notice it and know what they’d done. Remembering the daffodils he’d placed in a vase by her bed, the scented soap and the thoughtful way he’d made her bed and laid out towels, she felt her eyes fill with tears. Unable to keep still she tossed the bedcovers aside and sat on the edge of the bed away from the heat of Hugh’s body.

  After a moment Hugh said gently, ‘Would it help if I said I love you?’

  She looked at him. ‘You don’t.’

  He held out his hand to her. ‘Come here.’

  ‘I’m too hot.’

  ‘Shall I open the window?’

  ‘There’s a cat howling outside.’ She could hear her voice rising hysterically and she looked at him, not caring if he saw that she was crying. ‘We shouldn’t have done this.’

  ‘Nina …’ He sighed. Moving across the bed he knelt behind her and rested his head lightly on her shoulder. ‘Nina, I love you. Right from the moment I saw you at that party.’ He kissed her neck and she realised he’d shaved, that he smelled of the soap Bobby had left out for her.

  She said, ‘You knew I’d sleep with you tonight.’

  ‘Not for certain.’ Brushing her hair back from her face he said, ‘Do you believe I love you?’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  He laughed softly, his mouth against her neck so that she shuddered with pleasure. ‘You know what I’d like? To take you away. There’s a cottage I know in Cornwall, right by the sea, all you can hear is the waves and the gulls.’ He took her cigarettes from the bedside table and lit two at once. Handing her one he lay down and grinned at the ceiling. ‘I could really get to know you in Cornwall.’

  Nina closed her eyes and remembered a pretty, deserted beach with rock pools and sand dunes and the tall, pale grass that could slice unwary fingers. Such insignificant cuts to sting so. Bobby had kissed the tiny wound, drawing her finger into his mouth. They lay side by side and he had taken off his tunic and folded it for a pillow so that her cheeks grazed his wings and she could smell the oil and metal scent of him.

  Hugh pulled her into his arms and kissed her head. ‘When we’re together like this I feel even more sorry for Bob.’

  She closed her eyes. Quickly she said, ‘He makes my flesh crawl.’

  Hugh whistled through his teeth. ‘Christ. The poor bastard.’ Her head rested on his chest and he put a finger under her chin, tilting her head so that she’d look up at him. ‘Do you really feel like that?’

  She nodded, unable to speak for the tears choking her throat. Ashamed of herself, she buried her face in Hugh’s chest and wept.

  Bobby made tea and toast and laid the table in the dining room for three. Upstairs he could hear Nina and Hugh moving from bedroom to bathroom and back again and he found himself hovering at the foot of the stairs, anxiously glancing up. Hugh had left his bedroom door ajar and he’d seen that the bed was just as he’d left it last night when he’d offered to let him stay. The idea of him fucking Nina under his roof was unbearable. He wondered how he could ask them to leave without appearing petty.

  He went into the pantry and took marmalade and jam from the shelves, fresh jars bought especially for her. He looked down at them in his hands and wanted to smash them against the wall.

  ‘Bob?’

  Bobby pressed himself against the pantry wall, not ready to face Morgan yet. He heard him wander out into the hallway and call his name again. Bobby went into the kitchen and opened and closed the back door. He would pretend he’d been in the garden, he would be nonchalant and leave him to guess whether he knew what had gone on in his own house.

  ‘Good morning.’ Bobby smiled as Hugh appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. You?’

  Bobby nodded. ‘Go through to the dining room. I’ll bring you some tea.’

  ‘It’s all right, Bob, we could eat in here.’

  He ignored him, decanting jam into a fancy pot he’d found in the dresser. The pot was encrusted with silver daisies and bumblebees, with a hinged lid in the shape of a hive and he realised too late that it was meant for honey. He looked up at Hugh, the spoon dripping strawberry jam on to the table. ‘Go and sit down, Hugh, please.’

  ‘Should I take anything through?’ Hugh smiled at him, eyebrows raised mockingly.

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’

  They heard Nina’s footsteps on the stairs and both of them turned towards the hall. Hugh laughed, the self-assured, easy laugh of a man who’d spent the night having sex.

  ‘Should I show her to her table?’

  ‘Why don’t you piss off, Morgan?’

  Hugh gazed at him. After a moment he closed the kitchen door softly and stepped towards him. ‘Bob, I don’t want to fight with you.’

  Bobby felt the familiar symptoms of a panic attack. He placed the spoon down gently and held on to the edge of the table, his head bowed. The sickly smell of the jam caught at the back of his throat and he closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling that his heart was about to burst through his chest to pass.

  Carefully Hugh said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What the fuck do you think?’

  Hugh took his arm. ‘Let’s get you sat down.’ He led him to a chair and made him sit. Crouching in front of him he smiled, his eyes frowning. ‘I’ll piss off soon, don’t worry.’ Gently he said, ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Why? Don’t I look the picture of health?’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine now. Take that bloody look off your face.’

  ‘I was worried you were about to faint, that’s all.’ Hugh stood up straight. ‘Sorry about the bloody look.’ His attention seemed caught by something outside. Looking towards the window he said, ‘Do you know there’s a boy climbing one of your trees?’

  Bobby stood up at once and immediately regretted it. He swayed dizzily and Hugh caught his elbow. ‘Steady on or you really will pass out on me. It’s just some kid messing about –’

  Ignoring him, Bobby went out into the garden. Sure it was one of the gang of boys that had been making nuisances of themselves for days, he shouted, ‘You’re trespassing you little bastard so get down from there before I call the police.’

  ‘It’s me, Bobby.’

  Mark looked down at him. Sitting astride a thick branch he held a kitten against his chest. He grinned. ‘Don’t call the police. I’ll come quietly, guv’, honest.’

  Feeling foolish, Bobby said harshly, ‘For God’s sake, Mark, get down before you break your stupid neck.’

  Beside him Hugh Morgan said, ‘That isn’t your baby brother, is it?’

  Bobby glanced at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He laughed. ‘Really? That’s what used to be the nuisance brat?’

  ‘He’s still the nuisance brat.’

  Mark dropped at their feet. Still grinning he held out the kitten. ‘Present. He’ll keep the mice down.’

  Hugh held out his hand to Mark. ‘I bet you don’t remember me.’

  As if seeking approval, Mark glanc
ed at Bobby before putting the kitten down and shaking Hugh’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t.’

  Stiffly Bobby said, ‘Mark, this is Hugh Morgan.’

  Mark still looked blank. ‘Sorry.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘Still none the wiser, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Michael Morgan’s son,’ Bobby said. The kitten was rubbing itself against his legs and he scooped it up before walking back into the house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JANE MASON WATCHED AS the boy on stage dropped to his knees and stretched out his arms away from his sides. He hung his head and closed his eyes and Jane sat further forward, concentrating on the agony in his face and the small, twitching movements in his fingers; she could almost see the barbed wire that was meant to be supporting Captain Palmer’s dying body. She smiled, covering her mouth with her copy of the script so the other boys on the stage wouldn’t see how pleased she was. She had been proved right: Mark Redpath was a natural. She allowed him to go on kneeling there, keeping up that crucifixion pose for longer than was necessary. He was beautiful and sometimes she liked to watch him suffer.

  Jane stood up and clapped her hands twice. ‘All right. You can relax now, Redpath, before the stigmata start breaking out.’

  The other boys on the stage sniggered and as Mark Redpath scrambled to his feet she saw that he was blushing. Softening her voice she said, ‘Well done, all of you, especially you, Redpath. All right. Home. I think we’ve all had enough for one day.’

  Her first world war soldiers became schoolboys again, joking and jostling each other down the steps of the stage. Slinging satchels on their shoulders, they filed out, their heavy footfalls echoing around the school hall. As she gathered her coat and briefcase from a chair, she became aware of someone watching her, and looked up to see Redpath hovering at the hall doors.