Blood Rules

by John Trenhaile

  “Why not come with me?”

  She laughed, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze but not bothering to reply, because the answer to his question was so obvious. She did not recognize it as a silver bullet then; she thought it was his way of having fun.

  “No, seriously—why not come? Do come.”

  She shook her head, laughing.

  “But why?”

  “Well-brought-up Lebanese girls don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “They just"—she shrugged—"don’t, that’s all.” “Why?”

  “Oh, stop saying ‘Why?’ You know why.”

  “I don’t.”

  Now was the time to talk about her fiancé, Yusif. It was on the tip of her tongue, the perfect excuse to get her out of a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.

  She opened her mouth and then he said, “We’re lovers, after all. How many nights have you spent with me?”

  And she giggled, because his words summoned up a picture of his single bed, positioned so that moonbeams filtered onto it through a high window, silvering their moist bodies as they languidly coiled and writhed in simulation of a mobile work of art. And because she giggled, Yusif faded from her mind, retreated from the tip of that tongue which only hours before had been exploring Colin’s foreskin with delicate probing flicks.

  “That’s different,” she protested. “All well-brought-up Lebanese daughters do that.”

  But her smile faded before his did. She was, she knew, in deep trouble. Officially they, the family, expected her to be a virgin on her wedding day. Off the record, it was accepted that she might have had the odd one-night fling with strictly the right kind of boy as long as she kept it to herself and nobody gossiped: the right kind of boy in this context meaning an unmarried male born somewhere between Casablanca on the west and Teheran on the east. Colin’s geography was all wrong.

  “Well, think about it,” Colin said. “We can spend the next couple of months copulating here, in extreme discomfort, or we could grab some rays and fuck the way God intended. I’m going to take off for a few weeks anyway.”

  “Without me?” She stared at him, aghast. “For a while. Need a break.”

  “A break from me?” Her horror was growing by the second.

  “No, of course not. But if you won’t come, well…. ” He shrugged. “Another cognac?”

  She meant to say no but heard herself accepting. Poker. Maybe he was bluffing about a holiday in Europe, and maybe he held four aces after all. One thing she knew: just as she needed food, water, enough sleep to fuel their lovemaking, so she needed the man who made the love. If she turned down Colin’s invitation, she could see the rest of the summer stretching out in front of her like a basement session with the interrogators: guarded by unsubtle minders, obliged to wait on the men while they ranted their politics into the small hours, shopping in the West End, followed by more shopping, rounding off the day with a bit of shopping....

  She wanted to go to Europe, she must go. But darling Halib would kill her if he knew, and he would undoubtedly find out.

  First her family, now Colin: everybody she’d ever cared about wanted to steal her life, convert it to their own purposes. Europe would be madness, sheer madness, a wild, spectacular burning of whole armadas. It was, in short, impossible.

  “When do we leave?” she blurted out, and was at once engulfed by a crippling fit of hiccups.

  Now, looking down on his wiry body, tanned evenly all over and covered with tiny hairs bleached blond by the sun, it still seemed to her like folly, but folly of the most superior kind. She lowered herself a little, to get a better view. He smelled of salt and clean living. His flesh was well compacted over the muscles of a lean frame. When, as now, he lay flat, his stomach turned concave and the outline of his ribs showed above the hollow. There were enticing ridges and caves, best explored by moonlight and tongue tip; everywhere tasted good, even, especially, the bits you weren’t supposed to lick, ever. He was so clean. His sweat was clean. There were beads of it, now, on his neck. She watched, fascinated, as moisture welled up along the rolls of skin beneath his jaw. His pores had enlarged in the heat; she felt that, given time, she might be able to count them all. The prospect made her feel ridiculously happy. One tiny little hole, two, three….

  After a while she tired of her game and rested her head on his chest. When his right hand began to stroke her hair she moaned contentedly, like a dog settling on its rug. Out of the corner of her eye she was just aware of something stirring beyond the fluffy mound of hair above the place where his legs joined. His hand had descended to the strap of her bikini top. It was untying the ribbon …

  “Stop that.” She gave him first a little slap, then a big kiss on the cheek. “Lie down. Go to sleep.”

  He smiled, but his eyes remained closed and he said nothing. He continued his exploration of her bikini top, working around to the front with a slowness she suddenly found maddening. She slapped him again, giving his nipple a brisk tweak for good measure.

  “You’re interested in law,” he said drowsily, “aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” She settled more cosily into the hollow of his stomach. “It’s your subject.”

  “In law, we have something we call ‘the contributory negligence rape.'”

  “What?”

  “It’s where the woman says no … and means … yes!

  On the last word he folded up his body like a penknife snapping shut, catching her head between his thighs and darting both hands down to her bikini bottom. She fought hard, but he held her tightly by the wrists and dodged her jabs of the feet, until at last she didn’t know how she could survive the laughter, tears, embarrassment, fear of someone coming along, rising panic, and sheer excitement at the sight of his huge erection.

  At last they collapsed in a tangled heap of arms and legs, gasping for breath. She sat up, after a while, and threw a towel over his already detumescing penis, before casting anxious glances up and down the beach.

  “Behave yourself,” she gasped. “You’ll have us deported.”

  But she wanted him to take her, pin her to the beach, so that while they made love she could feel the sand beneath her back and the water lapping her ankles. The previous night they had made love in the sea, their bodies writhing in phosphorescence, and she had thought she would die with love of the one who made these things happen. Of the sorcerer.

  He must have seen the desire in her eyes, in the slackness of her mouth, for he said, “Let’s go back now.”

  It was only three o’clock, but she was on her feet before he could sit up. She liked the simplicity of sex with Colin. If she didn’t have him inside her soon she’d go berserk.

  They hadn’t meant to stay as long as this. Island hopping, they’d agreed, in Athens, one day here, another there … but they’d already been on Ios for two weeks, with no plans to move on. There was one tiny hotel, with accommodation consisting of bare stone huts that turned pleasantly damp in the evenings, a terrace bar, and simple barbecued food, served along with feta cheese, olives, and salad, bread, wine. Half a dozen other people were staying there, mostly couples like themselves, and a few more travelers were dotted around the town, renting rooms from the locals. There was no tourism here, just the adventurous young crowd, well stocked with hash and LSD. “Do your own thing” was their motto; the locals affected horror and loved it.

  Colin and Leila discussed endlessly how they might find a way of living here: they could open a hotel, buy a bar, sell artifacts. This was play talk and they knew it, but it was also the stuff of dreams hence, and a vital part of growing ever closer.

  Not all the dreams were good.

  She knew Colin had nightmares sometimes, because he would thrash around the bed, grinding his teeth, but she never mentioned it to him when he awoke the next day. It seemed silly, in the sunlight; also, she had a superstitious horror of being thought superstitious, and paying undue attention to dreams might be so construed. But she knew she could no
t ignore his demons forever.

  They finally confronted her the night after the tussle on the beach.

  The weather had turned bad around four o’clock, with a heavy blanket of cloud drawing itself over the island like a shroud. Ios was a peaceful place, but the silence now seemed threatening: the silence of a court awaiting the judge’s decision. Far away, over a sea turned the color and texture of rough-hewn granite, forks of lightning pointed up other islands in the chain with moody carelessness, as if undecided where to vent their wrath. Leila and Colin, mounting toward a climax of their own in a snarl of sweat-moist sheets, saw none of this. Only when the first peal of thunder burst overhead like all the heralds of doom sounding at once did they sense the change in the air.

  They tried, halfheartedly, to resume where they’d left off, but too big a part of them was listening too intently for the next thunder, so after a while they lay back, puzzled and upset. Sex did not normally tire them, it revitalized them. This evening was different.

  Colin said. “God, I feel drained.”

  She felt the touch of the vampire, as he spoke those words, and shivered.

  “Leila, are you okay?”

  She knew he was using solicitousness to cover his shame at not being able to come, and thought how endearing he could be. The perfect lover, from the first kiss to the last gentle cleansing of her body with a warm face cloth, he was the one she had waited and longed for. She loved him.

  “I love you,” she blurted out, and was rewarded by one of his brilliant smiles.

  “I love you too,” he said softly. “You are all right, aren’t you? Only you shivered…. ”

  “Somebody walking over my grave, don’t worry about it.”

  But it wasn’t just the sensuality that had vanished. She felt foolish, sitting there naked on the edge of the rickety bed. Earlier the warmth of the sun had irradiated her body, but now she was conscious only of sunburn, of soreness where her legs rubbed against the sheet. She got up quickly and went to shower in the dim cubbyhole at the back of the room, taking refuge in water made tepid from its stay in the exposed pipes leading down from the tank on the hillside.

  The wash did nothing to refresh her. As she dabbed herself dry she caught sight of a gecko high on the wall. Normally she would have spoken to it, one healthy young animal to another. Today its unwinking eye looked ominously upon her, like a presage of evil.

  Colin stayed a long time in the shower, long enough to propagate her seed of panic into genuine fear. Something had happened; the atmosphere was changing. She wanted the afternoon, with its stimulating, dangerous sexuality and warmth, back.

  They spoke little over dinner but drank too much, trying to dispel the grim aura with artificial jollity. Flashes of lightning continued to fork overhead at intervals, but there was no more thunder. Above the island, the atmosphere slowly thickened like soup left to simmer too long. As they walked back to the room a few spots of warm rain speckled the exposed parts of their skin. They showered again, together this time. Colin put his arms around Leila and held her underneath the tap, rocking to and fro while brackish warm water drizzled down their bodies. They were so tired, all of a sudden. Tired and depressed.

  The room contained twin beds, designed for small children. He kissed her good night but did not offer to climb onto her bed, and although this was the first time he hadn’t wanted to make love, part of her felt glad. What’s happening? she silently asked the ceiling. What’s wrong with us? Is it just the weather? What else could it be? He loves me.

  “I love you,” she said to the darkness above her face. No answer came.

  The hours unwound slowly. She never quite lost consciousness of the room, with its ingrained heat, faintly gleaming white walls, and dripping tap. But at some point she must have gone under, because when Colin screamed she shot up off the bed with her heart on the verge of an attack.

  He was rolling around, shouting like a madman. Leila fumbled for the flashlight, knocking it off the bedside table. Her shaking fingers somehow managed to find the light and switch it on. Colin sat bolt upright, staring ahead of him. His eyeballs looked as though they were going to pop out of their sockets. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. Every muscle, every tendon in his body stood out rigid. When she stroked his face he let out a gasp, his eyes returned to their normal size, and he moved his head slightly. She wiped away the blood with a tissue. He licked his lips, mumbling something.

  “What?”

  “Water, water.”

  She fetched water in a mug and steadied his arm while he drank. His teeth clattered against the mug. She took it from him and set it down on the table before wiping his mouth with another tissue that came away stained pink.

  “Colin,” she said. “It’s me, Leila. All right?” And when he did not answer she asked him again, louder, “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “Ba …”

  “What?”

  “Bad … dream. Sorry.”

  He looked sheepish. Leila climbed onto the bed and put her arms around his shoulders. He was ringing wet. She felt with her hand. The sheets and pillow were sodden.

  “Come to my bed,” she murmured. “Come on.”

  She propped him up against her own pillow and snuggled against him, massaging his chest with slow, circular movements. “Take it easy,” she said. “Tell me.”

  He made a peculiar noise. She couldn’t decide if he had laughed or what. She didn’t know anything about him at all, she realized; she was sharing this grotty room with a stranger.

  “I have this dream,” he forced out at last. “It goes back to my childhood. Something happened to me.”

  She waited. “Do you … do you want to talk about it?” “All right.”

  By the candle’s gleam she could just see his face, the eye sockets two black holes enlivened with pinpoints of white.

  “My father died when I was seven,” he began suddenly. “We were traveling on a plane together. In the Far East. It was shot down.”

  “You mean … your father was a pilot?”

  “No. We were living in Hong Kong at the time. He was a banker out there. We were flying home together. Chinese fighters mistook us for somebody else, and they shot us out of the sky. Dad died. I didn’t.”

  “And in the dream—”

  “I relive it, yes. Is there anything to drink? Real drink, not water.” “Vodka. Do you want orange with it?” “No. Straight.”

  She poured them both a drink and came back to bed. This time she sat up with her back against the wall and took his free hand in hers.

  “When did these nightmares start?”

  “After I got back to Hong Kong. We were rescued. My mother was waiting for me, in the crowd at the airport. It was horrible: flashbulbs popping, the works. They had this horrible flat, in the Mid-Levels. Dark, damp. When the typhoons came, I used to hide under the bed. I thought the windows were going to blow in.”

  “How awful.”

  “It was my mother who was the problem.” He took a long drink. “I hardly ever speak to her, now.” “Or about her.”

  “No.”

  Throughout this conversation he kept his eyes on the sheet, not looking at her. An image came into Leila’s mind: here was a man who’d been surprised by enemies while he slept and now was patrolling his campsite, gun in hand, on watch lest they come again.

  “My mother couldn’t get over my father’s death. She blamed me for it.”

  “Blamed you?”

  “I got out, you see. He didn’t. She and I weren’t close, even before Father died. Afterward, she turned cold. Dead. That’s when the nightmares started.” He grimaced. “Bed-wetting too, if you want all the horrors at once.”

  She remembered the soaking sheets of his bed. Sweat. Definitely sweat.

  “Do you remember how it was when you were a child, Leila? It’s like you’ve got a peephole onto this whole different world, where the grown-ups live. Just a tiny hole. You look through it and you think that’s what being adult means.
It doesn’t. But you can’t understand that, when you’re young. I used to overhear conversations. Mother talked on the phone for hours, to her friends. And of course there were lawyers, papers to sign.”

  He’d run out of steam, but still he refused to look at her.

  “What kind of things did you overhear?” she prompted gently.

  “Oh"—he sighed—"what would be best for my schooling, where she should live, where I should live. And you know I got the feeling, I got it incredibly quickly, that she wanted to pack me off, out of the way. There wasn’t a funeral, as such: no body, you see. But there was a memorial service. I was crying, she was crying. And afterward, lots of men crowding around to say things in low voices, while I hung on to her sleeve and hid behind her, and I heard her say, ‘Colin will have to stay at boarding school in England. I’ve got relations in Buckinghamshire; they can take him in the holidays.’ You know, just like that—take Colin, take a message if someone rings…. ‘I can’t afford the airfares,’ she said, ‘not on what’s left of Malcolm’s pension.’ God, how the words come back! You think I’m fantasizing, don’t you, making it up. But I swear to God, Leila, I can remember every last word she said that day. And I’ll tell you something: it was a relief when I had to go back to school. Oh, yes, of course I cried at the airport, and Mother cried. But it wasn’t real. I hadn’t lost one parent, I’d lost two; that’s why I was crying.”

  Leila tried to imagine how he must have felt on that lonely flight back to England, how his first day at school must have seemed. She reached out for his wrist, gripping it so hard that at last he was forced to turn and look into her eyes.

  “My grandfather,” she said abruptly, “was shot. I was nine. It was 1957. An assassin came to our home. He shot Ibrahim, my grandfather, killed him underneath a tree where he was sitting. I saw it. I know.” She gripped his wrist even harder. “I know,” she choked out.