Walking on Glass

by Iain Banks

  "Hello," she said, and from his own eyes, hers flickered down to where her hand was held out to him. He was aware of Slater drawing in a breath and putting his head back the way he always did when he was rolling his eyes, but before Slater could say anything, Graham quickly nodded, switched his glass to the other hand, and took the woman's small hand in his, shaking it formally.

  "Ah... hello." Her hand was cold. How old was she? Mid-twenties? He let her hand go. She was still looking at him. Her figure even looked good; he wanted to weep, or throw her over his shoulder and just run. What was she? How could she do this to him? She was still looking at him. Such calm, steady eyes, the iris and the pupil almost one. Arches of deep dark brows like some perfect mathematical line. He could smell her; a cold sharp distant sort of musk, like a window on to a forest of winter pine.

  "You mustn't worry," she was saying, smiling at him, "Richard hasn't said very much about you." She looked at the other young man, who had retrieved his glass and was watching Sara and Graham with a smile on his face, almost a smirk. He shrugged.

  "He's never even - " Graham swallowed, tried to stop himself sounding too amazed," - mentioned you." She smiled at that, first at him, then Slater. She stuffed her black gloves into a pocket in the padded jacket.

  "Well," she said, looking at them in turn again, lifting her face to gaze directly at Graham, "if I may make so bold, chaps, how about a drink? I was bringing my own but I put it in the wrong pocket of my coat and it fell through the lining and smashed." Her eyebrows arched suddenly. Slater laughed.

  "What a wonderful story, Sara. I'm sure none of us would mind if you just didn't bring any at all." He turned to Graham. "Mind you, Sara does dress in the early Oxfam style, so she might be telling the truth." He looked at the woman, patting her shoulder and putting his glass on the mantelpiece again, "Allow me ma'm." He walked off through the press of people now all but blocking the way to the door. Graham suddenly noticed the room was crowded, and getting hot. He was alone with her, though, Slater gone. She stooped, brought one foot up, fiddling with 9 strap on her shoe, then started to over-balance, tipping towards him! He put one hand out; she put out hers and gripped his forearm, looked up briefly and made a noise which might have been "thanks', and went on working at the strap of her shoe.

  He could not believe this was happening to him. He actually tingled where she touched him. His heart seemed to be beating in some huge dry place, an echoing cavern. His mouth had gone dry. She let go of his arm, lifting the shoe she had taken off, showing it to him and smiling. She laughed, "Look," she said. "See? Wine."

  He gave a small dry laugh of his own - all he could manage - and looked at the small black shoe. The hourglass shape of white leather inside it, raked from toes to low heel, was stained pale red, and still looked damp. She pushed it closer, laughing again and lowering her head as though shy, "Here, smell, if you can stand it." Her voice was deep, slightly hoarse.

  He did his best to laugh, said heartily, nodding his head, bobbing it from side to side, achingly conscious of how stupid he must look, "Yup, looks like wine to me."

  A terror seized him. He couldn't think what to say to her. He found himself looking round for Slater as she put one hand on the mantelpiece and slipped her shoe back on, fastening the strap again. A wine box appeared above the crowd of heads by the door. He watched it come closer, relieved.

  "Ah... here comes your drink, I think," he said, nodding to where Slater was pushing through the crowd, lowering the wine box and a glass he was carrying; smiling at them when he saw Sara and Graham.

  "I've been proving to Graham I really did have some wine and it smashed," Sara said as Slater, turning briefly to greet somebody he had just passed, came over to them. He set the wine box on the white mantelpiece, held the fresh glass beneath the little tap, and filled the container almost to the brim.

  "Indeed. I trust he was suitably impressed,"

  "Bowled over," Graham said nervously, then wished he could gulp the words back somehow. Neither of the others seemed to think anything of it though. But he felt bowled over, and could hardly believe it wasn't obvious to every single person in the room. He took his plastic tumbler up again and sipped at the wine, watching Sara over the lip of the tumbler.

  "Well then, Sara," Slater said, leaning one-elbowed on the shoulder-high wood of the mantelpiece, smiling at the pale-skinned woman, "how are we, then? How's the old home town?" Slater meant Shrewsbury, if Graham recalled correctly. Slater glanced at Graham, "Sara and I were next-door neighbours for a while. I do believe our parents may even have intended us for each other at one time, without actually saying anything about it, of course," Slater sighed, looked Sara up and down. Graham's heart, or his guts, something deep inside him, ached, as Slater went on, "Not for me, of course, though looking at Sara I almost wish I was a lesbian, sometimes,"

  Graham laughed, biting the sound off the instant he thought he was laughing too long. He hid behind the wine glass again, putting his lips to the liquid but not drinking despite his dry throat; he would get too drunk. He couldn't disgrace himself in front of this woman. Was she as old as he'd thought? Was Slater serious about them being some sort of childhood sweethearts, or even just close enough in age for their parents to think...? He shook his head for a second, trying to clear it. The room seemed suddenly stuffy and close. He felt claustrophobic. There was a scream from somewhere in the house; the chatter of voices quietened briefly and he could sense heads turning to the open door leading from the room.

  "That, I suspect, is Hunter," Slater said unconcernedly, waving one hand. "His idea of a party trick is to tickle his wife until she wets her knickers. Sorry, Sara, I interrupted you..."

  "Nothing," she said, "I was just going to say it's dull and horrible. I hate the winter there,"

  "So you're here," Slater said. The woman nodded.

  "I'm... staying in Veronica's place for now, while she's in the States," He heard something strange in her voice.

  "Oh God, that awful place in Islington," Slater looked sympathetic. "You poor thing,"

  "It's better than where I was," she said quietly. She was mostly turned away from him; he could just see the curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, and as he watched she put her head down very slightly, and her voice altered again. Slater tut-tutted to himself, looking into his glass.

  "Finally left him, then?" Slater said, and Graham felt his eyes widening, that pulling back of the skin towards the ears he thought he had seen frozen on her face. Left? Separated? He stared at her anxiously, then at Slater, and tried hard not to look as interested as he felt. She was looking down, into her glass. She hadn't drunk very much.

  "Finally," she said, bringing her head up, shaking her head not in negation but a sort of defiance, so that the tangled black hair bobbed once.

  "And the other one?" Slater said. His voice was cold now, expression deliberately blank. Something about his eyes was hooded, making his eyes, briefly, resemble hers. Graham felt himself leaning forward, wanting to catch her reply. Had she started talking? Both their voices were low; they didn't really mean to include him in the conversation, and it was noisy in the room; people laughed and shouted, the music next door had been turned up.

  "I don't want to talk about it, okay, Richard?" she said, and to Graham her voice sounded hurt. She turned fractionally away from Slater and drank deeply from her glass. She looked at Graham, not smiling, then her lips trembled and a small smile did appear.

  Park, you idiot, Graham told himself, you're looking at this woman as if she was ET. Get a grip of yourself. He smiled back. Slater giggled briefly, then said to Graham, "Poor Sara married a cad who had the ill taste to become manager of a sewage works. As I've told her, now that she's left him and his personal life's in such a mess, perhaps he'll do what these managerial types usually do in such circumstances, and throw himself into his work."

  Graham started to smile, though he thought the joke itself might be in rather poor taste, but then he was aware of Sara turnin
g quickly, putting her glass on the mantelpiece and looking straight at him, coming closer, her face set in strange hard lines, eyes bright, taking him by the elbow and turning her head as if to emphasise that she was talking to Graham, ignoring Slater, saying,

  "You do dance, don't you?"

  "Oopsie-doopsie, me and my big mouth," Slater said quietly to himself as Sara took Graham's plastic tumbler and put it on the mantelpiece beside her own glass, then led him, stunned, unprotesting, through the crowd towards the room where the music was.

  And so they danced. He couldn't remember a single record, track or tape played. Her body was warm through the layers of clothing they wore, when they danced slow dances. They talked, but he couldn't remember what about. They danced and danced. He was hot, sweating, his feet hurt after a while and his muscles ached, as though they were not dancing but running, pounding through a strange, noisy jostling forest of soft, moving trees in darkness; just the two of them.

  She kept looking at him, and he kept trying to hide what he felt, but when they danced together, holding each other, he kept wanting to stop and just stand there, mouth hanging open; express through sheer immobility something he possessed no dynamic for. To touch her, hold her, smell her.

  They went back to the other room eventually. Slater had gone, so had the wine box and Sara's glass. They shared Graham's glass, taking turns. He tried not to stare at her. Her skin was still white, though a sort of heat seemed to radiate from her now, something which he caught and felt, became infected by. The room seemed darker now, and smaller than it had. People moved and pushed and laughed and shouted; he was vaguely aware of them. Around her neck, the white-on-white semi-circle of scar tissue seemed to glow in the dim light, like something itself luminous.

  "You dance well," she said.

  "I don't -" he began, cleared his throat, "I don't usually dance all that much. I mean..." his voice trailed off. She smiled.

  "You said you draw. You're at the School?"

  "Yeah. Second year," he said, then bit his lip. Was he trying to prove how old he was? People sometimes said he had a baby face. He'd been questioned about his age in pubs several times. What age was she? What age did she think he was?

  "What sort of things do you draw?" she said. He shrugged, relaxing a little; he had dealt with this sort of question before.

  "What they tell me to. They give us exercises. What I really -"

  "Graham, who is this lovely young thing?"

  Graham looked round in despair at the sound of Mr Hunter's voice. Their host was a huge, lugubrious man, who reminded Graham of Demis Roussos. He was wearing some son of brown caftan. Graham closed his eyes. Mr Hunter was what he resembled: a refugee from the sixties. His fat hand squeezed Graham's shoulder. "You are a dark horse, young man." He swept forward towards Sara, almost hiding her from Graham. "Graham's obviously so speechless with you he won't introduce you to me. I'm Many Hunter - " (Marty? thought Graham) " - and I just wondered if you'd ever thought of doing any mod-"

  At that point the lights went out, the music groaned in a deepening bassy slide, and people made appreciative animal noises.

  "Oh fucking hell," Graham heard Mr Hunter say, and then something huge squeezed past him in the darkness saying, "that's Woodall; he always finds the mains switch at parties

  Matches flared, lighters grazed sparks, just as, with a hiss, Sara came forward, hugged him. The lights flickered on before Graham could do more than put his arms round her. She pushed herself away again as soon as the lights came on, shook her head, looking down, her perfume still spiralling away between them. The music started again, people went "Aww..."

  "Sorry," he heard her say, "I'm silly. I get frightened at thunder... too." She looked around, distracted, for the glass, but he was holding it, and handed it to her. Thanks," she said, and drank.

  "Don't be sorry," he said, "I quite enjoyed it." She looked up briefly then, smiling uncertainly, as though she didn't believe him. He licked his lips, moved forward, put one hand out and touched hers where it gripped the glass. She kept looking at the empty glass, avoiding his face. "Sara, I -"

  "Can we...?" she began, then looked quickly at him, put the glass on the mantelpiece, shook her head, saying, "I don't feel all that well..."

  "What?" he said concernedly, taking her by one hand and a shoulder.

  "I'm sorry, can I..." she motioned towards the door, and he helped her through the packed people, using his elbow to get them out of the way. In the hall they found Mr Hunter again, holding a slack, bored-looking black cat. He frowned when he saw them.

  "You look rather pale," he said to Sara, then, to Graham, "Your friend isn't going to throw up, is she?"

  "No, I'm not," Sara said loudly, raising her face. "Don't mind me; I'll just go and lie down in the snow or something..." She started as though to make for the front door, but Mr Hunter held up a hand to stop her.

  "Not at all. I do beg your pardon. I'll find you... here, come with me." He put the cat on top of an old sofa which had been shoved against the hallway wall, and led Graham and Sara towards the stairs.

  On the far side of Farringdon Road, Graham passed Easton Street, where another painter's or window-cleaner's cradle lay on the pavement, up-ended for some reason, neat coils of rope around it. Summer; the season for painting and scaffolding. Getting things done after the winter cover-up. He found himself smiling, recalling yet again that first meeting, that strange, almost hallucinogenic evening. He stepped past an old lady, standing still in the middle of the pavement, seemingly looking across the road at a man in elbow-crutches waiting to cross the street. Graham, almost automatically, tried to imagine drawing the scene.

  "I saw Slater heading out the door with some rug-chested young Romeo," Mr Hunter said as they got to the second-floor landing in the big house. "I hope you weren't depending on him for a lift, were you?" he asked Graham. Graham shook his head. Slater didn't even drive, as far as Graham knew.

  Mr Hunter unlocked a door and opened it, switching the room light on. "This is our little girl's room; you lie down, young lady. And take good care of her, Graham; I'll send my wife up to make sure you're all right." He smiled at Sara, then Graham, then closed the door behind them.

  "Well," Graham said awkwardly as Sara sat down on the small bed, "that's us told." He bit his lip, wondered what he was supposed to do now. Sara put her head in her hands. He stared at the sooty-looking ball of black chaos that was her hair, wanting her, terrified of her. She looked up at him. He said, "Are you all right? What's wrong? I mean, do you... are you hurting?"

  "I'll be okay," she said. "I'm sorry, Graham; you go back to the party if you want. I'll be fine."

  He felt himself tense. He went forward, sat on the end of the bed with her. "I'll go if you want... but I don't mind just sitting. I don't want you... sitting here by yourself, all alone. Unless you want to be. I wouldn't enjoy myself anyway, I expect, I'd be thinking of you. I -"

  He had been going to touch her shoulders with his arm, but she came towards him anyway, her head on his shoulders so that the perfume of her hair enveloped him, made his head feel light. She seemed to slump; it was not an embrace and her arms seemed heavy and slack. Her hands stayed in her lap, limp as puppet limbs. He held her, felt her shiver. He swallowed hard, looked round the room, at Snoopy posters, posters of horses in sunlit meadows, posters of Adam Ant and Duran Duran. A small white dressing table in one corner looked like something from a doll's house, gleaming and bright with tidy arrangements of bottles and jars. She shook again in his arms, and he realised she might be crying. He lowered his head to her hair instinctively.

  She brought her head up, and her eyes were dry. She put her hands on the bedspread, looked into his eyes, an anxious searching as her gaze shifted about his face, first focusing on his right eye, then his left, then slipping to his mouth. He felt inspected, plumbed, and like a moth in front of some anti-lighthouse, casting a shadow-beam, making him want to pull back, fly away from the intensity of those black, searching ey
es.

  "I'm sorry, Graham, I don't want to be a tease," she said, lowering her head again, "I just need somebody to hold right now, that's all. I'm going through... oh," she shook her head, dismissing whatever she had been about to explain. He put his hand on hers.

  "Hold me," he told her. "I know what you mean. I don't mind,"

  Without looking at him, she slowly came closer again, then leant against him. Finally her arms went gently round his waist, and for a long time they sat there, while he listened to the sounds of the party, and felt - against his side, and within the perimeter his arm made around her - the gentle ebb and flow of her breath. Please, please, don't come now, Mrs Hunter. Not now, not in this perfect, fragile moment.

  Steps thudded on the stairs, and his heart seemed to try to echo them, but the steps and some laughing voices went away. He held her, wrapped in her smell, warmed by her nearness. He felt drugged, by her perfume and her presence; he felt... like he had never felt in his life before.

  This is absurd, he told himself. What is going on here? What is happening to me? Right now I feel more happy, more satisfied than in any post-coital daze. Those Somerset nights, in friends" cars, other people's houses, once in a moonlit field; my carefully scored and compared encounters to date; they all mean nothing. Only this matters.

  God, you fool.

  In a rambling old house in Gospel Oak, in London in January I lose my heart. What are the chances she'll ever love me? Christ, to be like this for ever, to live, to be together, to hold her like this in bed some night when she's afraid of the thunder, when I'm there to hold her, to be held by her.

  She stirred against him, and he mistook it for something like the small movements of a child asleep, and smiled down at her through the slow current of perfume rising from her black, turmoiled hair; but she was awake and brought her head up, drawing away from him a little, looking at him, so that he had to hide his smile quickly, because it wasn't something he had meant her to see.