The Gloaming

by Kirsty Logan

  Bee had liked to scoop up the bird bones and bird beaks left by the foxes and make a collection of them. On his bedside table he laid them out, neat as a museum exhibit – it was the only neat thing he ever did in his life – and wouldn’t let anyone else touch them or look at them or breathe on them. He said goodnight to them as if they were his pets.

  Peter was less enamoured by birds. He hated their beady black eyes, their cruel beaks; but he could sit for hours and watch them. He knew that birds were not to be toyed with, close as they were to any gods who might exist up there. Owls seen in daytime mean a death. Six crows together mean a death. Three seagulls flying overhead mean a death. Any bird calling from the north means a death. An albatross near a ship means a death. Doves around a mineshaft mean a death.

  Peter crept into Bee’s old room and knelt on his windowsill to watch the birds swoop and rise and roller-coaster-dive against the clouds. He checked that the windows were latched; a bird flying into the house means a death. On the bedside table Bee’s collection of bones and beaks still sat, now wearing a winter jacket of dust, though still perfectly arranged, ready to be bid goodnight.

  Every Sunday, still, Signe roasted a chicken. Every Monday she made soup from the carcass. As there were only three of them in the house now, they had to have chicken sandwiches every lunchtime for the rest of the week to use up the leftovers. Signe always saved the wishbone to split with Mara. Sometimes it was the only time they spoke to one another all week. The bone waited for them on the kitchen worktop, a translucent angle of a thing made jagged with scraps of chickenflesh. Then Signe and Mara stood there in the ramshackle kitchen, the bone gripped in the hooks of their pinkie fingers, and wished in silence.

  Scunnered

  ‘SHIT,’ SAID PEARL. She flicked the light switch again, but again, nothing happened.

  Mara stood outside the front door, shivering in three layers of towels. ‘What is it?’ she said. Each shiver cascaded drips to the peeled-off wetsuit by her feet. She was numb from the thighs down.

  ‘The bulb in the hall’s gone. Wait.’ Pearl disappeared into her dark house. Night fell fast in winter, and though it was still afternoon the sky was blue-black. Mara heard the click of another switch. ‘Shit, shit! It’s not the bulb, it’s the fuse.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Mara took a step into the dark house, which felt like stepping into nothing, as she couldn’t feel her feet and she couldn’t see the ground.

  ‘Hang on!’ Pearl’s voice came from far away, as if she were underground. ‘I’m trying to find the …’ Her voice faded.

  ‘Pearl? Pearl, are you okay?’ Mara shuffled into the black hallway, hunched in her towels.

  Thud-thud-thud of feet, the sudden heat of another body, and there was Pearl beside her.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ said Pearl. ‘I was trying to find a new fuse, and then I was trying to find a torch so I could see to find the fuse. But it’s darker than a – I don’t know, a very dark thing.’

  Mara remembered her first visit here: the candles, the wood-burning stove. ‘Do you have matches?’

  ‘Can’t bloody remember where I bloody put them. And you’re so cold, Mara, and I want to get you inside and warm by the fire.’

  ‘Let’s just wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Just wait,’ said Mara, taking her turn to soothe.

  In the darkness, she could hear Pearl breathing. She moved closer, opening the sides of her towels like wings to enfold Pearl. Her body was warm and soft and good. Mara was still cold, but parts of her were heating up. While they’d been in the water, she was helpless and Pearl was in charge. She liked that now she could take her turn. They stood together in the dark, staring blind into the house. Slowly, edges began to emerge from the darkness. With each blink, shapes resolved. Soon they could see how the dark house was peopled with grey shapes.

  ‘There,’ said Mara. ‘See?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pearl. ‘Yes, I can see. Good thing I ate all those carrots when I was a kid. Just wait here, okay? I’m going to get a fuse.’

  Mara didn’t want to wait. She went inside, moving slowly through the shadowed rooms, letting her eyes adjust as she went.

  ‘Pearl?’ She didn’t know why she was whispering, but it felt logical at the time. She heard a metallic creak and the tumble of water.

  ‘In here!’ called Pearl. ‘Just running the bath.’

  ‘Aren’t we damp enough already?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. Now get in here and put your feet in the water. It’s the best way to warm them.’

  Still wrapped in her towels, Mara felt her way towards the bath. In the darkness Pearl’s breath was loud. She helped Mara step into the bath. The warm water prickled, then it soothed.

  ‘You okay?’ said Pearl. Mara nodded, their bodies so close it didn’t matter that it was too dark for Pearl to see her. ‘Good. Sit tight, and I’ll fix the lights.’

  Mara sat on the edge of the bath, leaning back so she could peer out of the doorway. The shadow of Pearl opened the shadow that was the fuse box. Mara heard the heavy thunk of a switch, a click, a scrape of metal. The room was lit with a distant light. Mara blinked; it was coming from the bulb in the hall. Coming into the bathroom, Pearl flicked the light switch. Nothing.

  ‘Shit,’ said Pearl. ‘The bulb in here must have tripped the fuse. Hang on.’ She disappeared into another cupboard, and emerged with a stepladder and a light bulb.

  ‘Let me help,’ said Mara. ‘I’m warm enough now.’ She stepped out of the bath and dried her feet. Her body would look ridiculous next to Pearl’s: ghostly, insufficient. She made sure the towel covered as much of her as possible and stepped into the hall.

  She couldn’t deny that she found it sexy, watching Pearl being practical, as if digging through cupboards in her underwear was no big deal, as if she spent all day every day fixing things. Mara wanted to be practical too. She wanted Pearl to look at her the way she looked at Pearl.

  Mara unfolded the ladder and took the bulb from Pearl’s hand. She climbed the ladder, unscrewed the dead bulb, and swapped it for the new one.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Pearl. ‘I wouldn’t have let you go in the water if I’d known this would happen.’

  ‘I’m not cold,’ said Mara. ‘Not any more.’

  In the dimness of the room, details were lost. The shape of a hand, the contours of a face. The dark made Mara bold. She stepped down from the ladder and into Pearl’s arms, the dead bulb still held gentle in her hand. Pearl reached for her, their hands meeting. Mara could hear a tiny clicking, and it took her a moment to realise it was the broken filament inside the bulb. She looked down at where they both held it.

  ‘Your hands,’ said Mara. ‘They’re shaking.’

  ‘I know!’ Pearl put the dead bulb on the top step of the ladder. ‘Don’t make me feel like a dickhead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t like to feel like a dickhead?’

  ‘No.’ Mara reached for Pearl’s hands, feeling her own grow steadier. ‘Why are they shaking?’

  ‘Because. You.’

  And, then – Pearl was nervous, and so it was okay for Mara to be nervous, and so suddenly she wasn’t. She pressed her lips to Pearl’s, pressed her body against Pearl’s. Her underwear was still cold and damp from the loch, but her skin was hot as fever.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Pearl, ‘if you wanted to.’

  ‘I did,’ said Mara. ‘I do.’

  Pearl pulled away, keeping Mara’s hands in her own. Through the kitchen, across the dark hall, into the mystery of Pearl’s bedroom. The sofa, piled with duvets, soft with years of sleep and smelling of Pearl’s skin.

  Mara’s entire body became heartbeat and breath. She could not open her eyes wide enough. Pearl’s body was like the island covered in snow: familiar as a memory, as her own self; but still mysterious, her curves and hollows still to be discovered.

  Pearl pulled off her underwear, then Mara’s. She pressed her body full
length against Mara’s. The silk of her skin, the heat between her legs. Mara felt her body turn to liquid. Her fingers moved across Pearl’s body; slid down, down.

  Mara hesitated. Pearl placed her hands on Mara’s jaw, wrists touching at her chin, and looked her eye to eye in the darkness. ‘You don’t have to,’ she said.

  ‘I know. But I want to.’ Mara took Pearl’s hand and kissed her palm. Her mouth lingered, open, tasting salt. She kissed Pearl’s forehead, the tip of her nose, her bottom lip. She didn’t know what she was doing, her hands and mouth so clumsy, so unsure – and it didn’t matter, not at all, because with Pearl everything was the way that it was, not right or wrong, not a test she could pass or fail, not a way of being she had to strive for or fight against. It just was, and they just were. Together.

  Pearl made snacks. She arranged them on a copper tray, each tiny dish a different colour. Rough oatcakes spread with butter and flakes of sea salt, smoked salmon arranged in slim curls, radishes and shaved carrots, peeled apples and hard cheese. And for dessert, winter berries on a dollop of cream.

  Mara padded naked around the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down. She was no longer shy about her body. She’d felt meagre and pallid beside Pearl, but now she felt strong, northern, mythical: like a figure carved in ivory. She picked up an apple and bit into it, keeping it held in her teeth as she reached both hands out to lift the tray. Pearl bit the other side of the apple, trapping it between them. Their eyes locked as they each silently dared the other to be the first to bite. Mara raised her eyebrows, challenging. They both bit at the same time, and the apple thudded to the tray, an equal bite taken from each side. Still chewing, they took the tray to the bedroom and settled among the hillocks of duvet, made warm from their bodies.

  ‘Couldn’t you stay?’ Mara popped a brambleberry between her lips, rolling it between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She could taste Pearl. She tried to be playful, not to show her sadness, her desperation to make Pearl stay. ‘I think it would be fun. I think you’d like it.’

  ‘You see this place,’ said Pearl. ‘There’s no bed. Barely any furniture. There aren’t even any bloody windows. It’s a weird little den, a cave meant for hiding out. You can take shelter in it for a while when you need to. But it’s not a home, and I can’t stay here. I’ve already stayed too long. I get …’ Pearl rubbed the back of her hand. For the first time, Mara saw how the skin was starting to flake. ‘I get restless.’

  ‘But you could stay for a little bit, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Mara. I’d need a reason to stay.’

  She knew that she could try to give Pearl a reason. She knew – she hoped – that she could be a reason. She barely knew Pearl, but she knew enough that she didn’t want her to leave yet. And so she would do it. She would ask to be with her.

  But what if. Pearl might say no. Pearl might tip back her head and laugh at the very suggestion. Pearl might say she had a hundred girls just like Mara, quaint island girls whose locations she marked on a map in case she ever wanted to visit them again, though she probably wouldn’t.

  And now it was too late, she’d left it too late, Pearl was dropping her gaze and stretching her body away to reach for something on the tray, her skin not touching any part of Mara’s skin.

  ‘Okay,’ said Pearl, her smile small and sad. ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Let’s …’ But Mara couldn’t say it, she couldn’t say anything, she didn’t even know what she wanted to say.

  Finally she said: ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Pearl again.

  ‘Pearl, don’t –’ Mara could feel the air in the room tipping, souring, becoming cold. She couldn’t make it better again, but she could make it slightly better than it was. ‘Maybe next week,’ she said, ‘if you want, you could come round for dinner, and you can meet my parents – but not in a big meet-my-parents way, just that they’ll be there too.’

  Pearl turned to Mara, her smile wide. The room was warm and sweet and light again. She stroked her thumb along Mara’s bottom lip, and Mara had meant to say something else but now she’d forgotten what it was.

  ‘I’d love to meet your parents,’ said Pearl. She kissed Mara on the tip of her nose. ‘I’m good at parents.’

  They turned back to their feast and ate until the plates were empty.

  Mara woke close to midnight with her body on fire. Pain burned through the centre of her: belly, hips, thighs. She hadn’t been paying attention to the date – of course it would come now, when she was in the bed of a beautiful woman. Of course.

  She slid out of bed, back hunched, arms crossed over her middle. She closed the bedroom door silently so that Pearl wouldn’t wake. In the bathroom she folded toilet paper into her underwear. She padded around the twilit house, searching for something to ease the pain. A hot-water bottle, a cup of warm milk, paracetamol. All the silly things that are supposed to help. But they were silly, and they didn’t help.

  She slid back into bed beside the warmth of Pearl and tried to sleep. There would be no pain in sleep. But the world shrank to the size of her body. The deep ache between her hip bones. Inside her was a pepper grinder, a rusted vice turning tighter and tighter. She could feel the too-big teeth of the gear, dark with oil but still scraping. She fidgeted in bed, stretching out her legs to relieve the ache, tensing her toes until the bones cracked.

  ‘You okay?’ Pearl’s voice was thick with sleep.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘Can’t sleep?’

  ‘I’ve got cramps. They won’t go.’

  Pearl pressed her body against Mara’s back, sliding her arm around Mara’s waist, holding her close. ‘Let me help.’

  Mara cringed. ‘No, don’t come close to me. It’s not nice.’

  Pearl slid her hand to Mara’s lower belly, pressing her palm flat against the centre of the pain. She spoke in velvet. Calm and soft and insistent. ‘Why would you think that I would only like you when you’re nice? I like you like this,’ she said, ‘and I like you not like this, and I like you every way you can possibly be.’

  Mara tried again: ‘I don’t want you to be disgusted by –’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ said Pearl, sliding her hand lower. ‘Let me help.’ She pressed her kisses to the side of Mara’s neck, her breasts against Mara’s back. The closeness of Pearl’s body tripped a switch inside Mara, and all she wanted was the softness of Pearl’s body, the heat of Pearl’s tongue in her mouth. She rolled onto her back and wrapped both arms around Pearl, pulling closer to her kiss.

  Firmly, steadily, Pearl’s fingers stroked, slick against her own slickness. She closed her eyes and the world was pinkish, veins in her eyelids, squeezing to red as she reached higher, higher, almost peaking, almost tipping over. Her breath came in gasps. The flesh between her hips clenching, releasing. She opened her eyes wide to the dark. She bit her lip, hard, catching Pearl’s hands between her thighs, feeling the bones grind. Eyes closed, she waited out the throbs. Through it all, Pearl held her close.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Pearl.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ she said, smiling, her breath slowing, her eyes closing, as Pearl kissed her nose, her forehead. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  Besom

  IN THE WHISPERING dark, Pearl told Mara stories. Mermaids: those sinister, shifting fish-girls who want to sing you to your death. Who want to drown you in salt water. Who have shark-teeth and fingernails like claws. Breasts hard and cold as carved ice, a belt of sharpened shells slung over hips more scales than skin.

  Forget that. For a woman, there’s no living to be made in death and glory. Think instead of pretty little sea-maids. Think sweet smiles and beckoning fingers. Think crowns of starfish and combs of clamshell in hair the colour of childhood.

  To be a mermaid, you need three things.

  You need hair.

  You need a tail.

  And you need to know how to breathe.

  Pearl had many wigs as part of her mermaid show.
All of them were long and all of them were beautiful, made specially and at great cost so that they could be attached with waterproof tape to her temples and nape, the long lengths flowing and twisting perfectly under the water. Sea green, sky blue, shell pink. Of course they were bright. Of course they were beautiful. What would be the point of a mermaid who looked like any other girl? Why would you pay to see her if you’d already seen someone just like her out in the street? The hair was such a vital part of the mermaid that, ten minutes after a performance, Pearl could whip off her wig and her tail and walk anonymous among a crowd who had been staring wide-eyed at her moments before.

  The tail takes some getting used to, but everyone is so eager to believe that they’re easy to please. To make a tail, lie on a large piece of wetsuit material while wearing a diver’s monofin and have someone trace your shape. Your tail must be tight to your skin, because it’s not skin, and so water can get inside and slow you down. Don’t forget the zip, so you can get in and out – a very strong stainless steel is best, one that won’t rust or break, the sort used to make garden awnings. You’ll need scales, of course, and for that you need screen-printing paint. And why not some sequins too? You must be pretty. Sew it all shut, or use waterproof glue. We know that the real swimming fins are on the inside, but you should add some decorative ones too. Flexible plastics are best, the sort used for floor matting.

  Breathing is hardest of all. No amount of sequins or pink hair will help you here. You’ll need to practise yoga and breath-holding, as well as exercise to strengthen and expand your lungs. Start by blowing up a large balloon every day. When you’re ready to try in the water, slow down your breathing so your heart slows. Deep-breathe for one minute, keeping your exhalation slow. One, two, three long breaths – and you’re ready. Of course, it’s easy to run out of breath. It’s easy to black out and drown. It’s easier than – well, than breathing.