A Superior Spectre

by Angela Meyer

  ‘I’m a little cold,’ I say.

  His face moves in slowly, questioningly. I open my lips. His hand grips my upper arm, hard. My tongue moves inside his mouth, tasting the sugar from his tea. I make a sound of wonder, and hunger. He presses his whole front into me, and I encourage, with a hand on his dipped lower spine. His pantaloons are indeed doeskin, and soft, I notice, as I move my hand to his buttocks, pressing him into me harder. He makes an ‘oh’ of surprise, pulling away momentarily, looking at me like he can’t believe this is happening.

  He moves from my mouth and kisses my neck. I feel desire, thick between my legs. There is an ache. He pulls me over to the rug closest to the fire, spins me around and begins to unlace my dress. With one hand I reach back and lightly brush his crotch. Again he makes that desperate noise, of want. He spins me to face him. He draws one breast out of my dress, gasps and leans in to take it in his mouth. Pleasure shoots through my body with his warm tongue on my nipple, gently agitating it. He does the same with the other breast.

  I want to see it; I want to know what it is like. As he loosens his own collar and begins to undo his vest, I edge my fingers between the buttons in the soft lavender between his thighs and pull it out. Not pink like an animal’s, but with the blood showing through. So hot and hard, straining at itself. Somehow, I know how it will feel to put my mouth on it. I kneel down, my dress half-off, and slide it past my lips and onto my tongue. Oskar moans deeply, puts his hands in my hair. The cock grows harder still. He pulls my face back and collapses on top of me. He pushes up my skirts and finds the split in my drawers. With his still-shaking fingers he finds that centre of me, pushes a finger up inside the hot wet ache. He leans down over my clothing, puffed out all around us, and kisses me hard. I spread my knees out further, showing him he is welcome. There is only this. Breath and heat and skin; the smell of hot fur; the sweetness of his lips. And then he pushes himself inside me, with a look of ecstasy, again as though he cannot believe it. There is a tearing sting at first. I inhale sharply. He pauses, touches my hair questioningly.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I say.

  So he moves in and out slowly. His breaths are deep. I can tell he is holding back. It begins to hurt less. There is a pleasing throb at the front of my secret place, beneath my belly. I buck up to rub that against his stomach. This makes him lose control, and he pumps suddenly very quickly just a few times and cries out, and I feel his cock pulse inside of me.

  He slides off me, panting slightly, and lies beside me on the rug. I worry about whether the seed will leave a stain. I pull my skirts down under me to catch it. I am still pulsing. I could keep going, or go again, or do something else. I wonder if he knows about that place on a woman, the place that makes her feel that uncontrollable spreading pleasure that he seems to have just experienced. If it is his first time, too, then he may not know.

  He is facing away from me, towards the fire. ‘Edward was not called away. He was always away.’

  ‘You wanted to see me alone,’ I say.

  Oskar rolls onto his back and adjusts his clothes while looking at me. His cheeks are deep red with heat and exertion. A lock of his dark hair is stuck fast to his forehead. I move to sweep it off, but he flinches away. ‘I cannot marry you,’ he says.

  ‘Then let us just be friends,’ I say.

  He looks puzzled.

  I need a friend, I want to say. But that would be too much. What does he need? Only this quick release? Is it just that there is no language for this in-between space we are occupying now, on the rug? No word that aligns it with good, anyway.

  ‘Cover yourself,’ he says, looking at my breasts still on display, then standing and leaving me alone. I could happily remain by the fire, half-naked, on the fur, feeling the press of heat and the sensation of softness on my shoulders.

  There is that tune in my head again, like no music I have ever heard. Oskar, I need to tell someone. I need to get this out of me. Sadness wells up in my chest. I stand and fix my clothing, as much as I can on my own.

  Oskar returns to the room with a lit pipe. ‘There’s a dresser in my room, so you can tidy your hair.’

  I move to where he is gesturing. He meets me halfway, grabs my arm firmly. ‘If you tell anyone it will only reflect badly on you.’

  I stare into his eyes. They have lost their depth. ‘Why do you have to make a pleasant matter unpleasant?’ I ask.

  Again he looks puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Cannae …’ I don’t know how to articulate it. ‘Can you not make me feel I am being punished?’

  ‘You have lowered yourself; you must feel some guilt?’ His hands are beginning to shake again.

  I will not tell him, then, that I enjoyed it. That I would do it again. It seems that will make me lower still, in his eyes. I fight back tears of anger. I grit my teeth, and wrench my arm from his grip.

  ‘I feel nothing,’ I say. And I walk to the door.

  I fix my hair in the window of the cab, which Ailie had arranged to wait for me.

  I am not really numb; I am both awakened and angry, and still physically aroused, with his seed and no doubt my blood sitting beneath the layers of my clothing, a concealed secret.

  I can’t quite get my hair back into place. I am as tumbledown as an old town tenement.

  If I had a husband, at least I would have room to express myself physically, in that way. But what if I was forced to marry someone with whom I did not have such a strong attraction? Like Mr Stewart, for example?

  Closed doors on every side.

  Faye and I met at a party. We’d both come with someone else and those someone elses knew everyone and we didn’t, so we talked. We’d both recently watched a series that was streaming, about a cop having a life crisis who ends up in a small town blah-blah same old, but the character was just so compelling – we agreed on this. And we bumped devices to add each other to our feeds and I watched her world through this and then asked her out for a drink one day when I was bored and lonely.

  It happened quite quickly. We had one of those subterraneous connections, expressed through the eyes. Like, even when our opinions differed, we were able to empathise, to a degree, with how the other had come to that conclusion. Through few words, we could see the landscapes of each other’s childhoods, and certain defining events of life. I just wanted to know more and more about her, be around her. But it scared the hell out of me. At first I told her I was just really busy, that I could only see her once a week. She was really nice about that. But then I’d long for her and overanalyse the hours between her text messages. I’d wait for her to text first. I’d hold back on xx’s and smiley faces but then go crazy if she didn’t send them herself. She was all I wanted, then, but I wasn’t ready to want that.

  She was so patient, when I think about it. This one time she was over at my house, and we’d just fucked – me bending her over, standing up (she loved that), my fist in her hair – and we were lying side by side, limbs casually draped, and I told her I wasn’t sure I could give her what she wanted, that I didn’t know where my head was at, that maybe she had developed feelings I couldn’t reciprocate.

  She pulled away from me, but then looked back at me, with a strange sort of resigned mix of sadness and love. ‘I’m glad you can be honest with me,’ she said. ‘That’s really all that matters. And it’s kinder than pretending.’ She slid her singlet on over her head, but then stayed lying next to me, turned away. She sighed. My gut churned with horror. What if that sigh was the beginning of a series of sighs that would lead to a resolute, final sigh, wherein she decided that was as much as she could handle? And yet I didn’t reach for her.

  What I’d said was true and it was the opposite of true. She gave and gave and gave and I took and, really, I couldn’t reciprocate fully. I am too selfish a being; I held on to my secrets. Time and texts and gifts and thoughts – she gave. I didn’t feel good enough for her. But then I dragged those early months on and on because I fell deeply for her and
I fell, too, for her falling. How could you give up a beautiful, good woman who would do anything for you? Once, also early on, she said to me, ‘Maybe what you love about me is my capacity to love.’ I gave no answer. ‘I guess,’ she said, ‘that’s as good a reason as any.’

  I so wish I could have given her what she wanted. Instead I pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. And she stayed, and she did coax me out, encourage me – the better parts of me, if you will entertain the idea for a moment that there was anything good to bring out. I grew happier and more productive at work; I was fit in a less obsessive way; I even danced occasionally to bad pop music. That made her happy.

  And the sex was phenomenally good. She was open-hearted and also open-minded. She could take me in a powerful way but then the next night let me fold her over, let me blow on her cheeks. And once I got the terrain of her cunt I could make her come easily, and then enter her straight afterwards while her body still pulsed and vibrated. Her eyelids would be half-closed, almost like she was stoned, and that would drive me wild, especially when she had no make-up on.

  Bethea has suggested I move from here. Because of the incident in town. I tell her I can’t stomach a journey. But then, I definitely do not want Faye to find me. Faye, who I perhaps did not treat as a friend.

  Bethea has still not asked who the woman is. She never pries. I’ve never had a companion that tolerates silence (and mess) so well. I’m not sure why there is collusion between us. Perhaps she has a secret, too. And people with secrets can sniff each other out. Or perhaps it’s just the Scottish way, not to pry.

  I think I trust her, but I’m also slightly nervous that if I let her put me and William in the car, she’ll drive us to the nearest hospital. Sometimes women like to save.

  Last night I was Leonora as she lost her virginity. Pleasure, pain and confusion. I woke up and I had come all over myself, and I felt guilty because she had not. That bastard. It might take time, sometimes, but it’s not hard to get a woman off. But then, he wouldn’t know or care, would he?

  God, to be penetrated, though. I could come again right now, thinking of the way it felt for Leonora. As I’ve said, I never wanted to be a woman but there’s something so fulfilling, or maybe relieving, about a cock inside you. It touches your organs, turns you inside out. It takes your breath.

  It’s typical that, despite me being so ill, my dick still works. I bet it wouldn’t if I were back home and being operated on and loading up on drugs. But I’m not supposed to be feeling pleasure. Maybe that existence would have been more torturous. Yes. Increasingly I think I’ve taken the easy way out. Let myself off the hook. I am suffering – in pain, and facing my thoughts – but would I have suffered more if I’d made myself live on? And continued to be around people?

  Selfish to the end.

  Leonora is selfish, too. She is not meek. She wants what she wants.

  I don’t know about going, Bethea. I don’t know. It feels like prolonging. But then the horror of Faye suddenly finding me here, still alive, and forcing me onto a plane back to Melbourne. Looking at me in that way a person does when they care about you. Forcing me to talk.

  No.

  It is New Year’s Eve. It is late. I am full and my head aches with the onset of my poorlies. But I am light as well, with the fizz of alcohol. Oskar has not come to Miss Taylor’s house. Ailie is fast asleep, upright on the lounge. I stay sitting next to her, afraid of my own mouth. But I sip again and again at the dry, sharp liquid. Spit on it. In my head there are bodies in strange settings under too-bright lights. In here, the lamps have been turned down. Is this heat, this rage beneath it all, from me or him?

  Miss Taylor takes to the piano again, and Rebecca stomps over to me and holds out her hand. She has loosened her dress. Her cheeks and nose are red. I let her pull me up to standing.

  ‘You are allowed to move,’ she says. Her teeth are large in her mouth.

  I think of God. Would praying help?

  ‘I wish Miss Taylor had a dog,’ I say.

  Rebecca is still holding my hand. ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘In the future they’ll have a drug called ecstasy,’ she says.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say.

  We are at the piano, now. Miss Taylor and Mr Stewart are play-competing on the keys. Joan is languidly leaning on the piano’s edge. It is a silly song I don’t recognise. We are done with the maudlin ticking over of one year into another, of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. The new year is a vista of impossibility. I cannot think about it. I drink more.

  One of the visions, lately, has been of a giant bug sitting on a wall, protecting a picture that he does not want his mother and sister to take away. That picture is anchoring him to reality.

  It is the animals that anchor me, but in the city they are hard to get to. The cat only visits occasionally. I asked Ailie if I could get a bird, even though the thought of one in a cage is not ideal, but she said she wouldn’t be able to stand the noise.

  Rebecca is loosening my dress. Shame slides in from somewhere. I swallow it away. I can breathe now that my dress has been loosened. I can try to learn the words of the song.

  With a tear on my eyelid as big as a bean, is how it goes.

  I am assaulted by the vision of a flying machine. Great white wings and a low rumbling. It is too terrifying. I collapse onto the floor. Rebecca laughs, but then comes and sweeps me up under the arms, takes me to a corner away from the fire.

  ‘Where are all the young men?’ she asks. ‘Miss Taylor is usually so good at inviting them.’

  I smile. Where are the dogs, where are the men?

  ‘I don’t know who to tell,’ I say.

  She pats me on the shoulder, but stands and looks back toward the piano: the bright, loud part of the room.

  ‘I don’t know what will help,’ I say.

  She hasn’t heard me. I don’t want to cry. I am not close enough to anyone to share my tears with them. But that thought makes me well up further. I stare at the wall.

  ‘You’ll be all right?’ she asks.

  I nod. She goes.

  My mind is as busy and loud as the room. My stockings are too tight.Where is my drink? I can’t breathe. I start to undo my dress further. It is loose enough now to pull over my head. I draw it up, smelling trapped smoke and skin and dust, and then throw it on the floor. That feels better. I loosen my corset.

  Mr Stewart notices. ‘Oh my, looks like we’re getting a show,’ he says.

  Rebecca squeals with delight, runs back over to me, picking up the bottle of champagne from the table on the way. She holds it to my lips and, still seated, I instinctively reach for her waist. She feeds the champagne to me like a lamb on the teat.

  Mr Stewart throws his necktie into the fire. The piano has stopped.

  ‘I don’t know …’ says Miss Taylor, though she is smiling.

  But Ailie wakes, inexplicably, as now it is quieter. ‘What is …?’ She stands quickly and moves over to us, shoves Rebecca out of the way. Cool liquid spills down across the top of my breasts. I laugh. For a moment all is light. Ailie mutters, wrenches me up and tells me to put on my dress.

  ‘Dear Mrs Kemp, please …’ starts Rebecca.

  ‘Don’t you speak,’ Ailie says. Miss Taylor remains at the piano. Mr Stewart seems to have disappeared into another room.

  I am dressed. I am dizzy. Ailie drags me to the door. I look back, smiling at them all. This year they know what they are doing. I wish them well.

  In the cab my aunt falls asleep again. It is not far, luckily, because the streets are full of drunks and fire.

  When we get up to her rooms she tells me wearily that we will discuss the matter tomorrow.

  ‘And you will not be seeing them – any of them – anymore. We need to find the right circles for you to move in.’

  Just when I have begun to feel some warmth, when I have come closer to friendship, with the possibility, too, of confession and aid. Have found people to potentially learn from, t
o learn how to become what one wants to become.

  In the dark room, the moon glints off the looking glass. I can see the whites of my eyes.

  I guess you and I will be alone now. Is that what you want?

  She sees us. She looks us deep in the eye.

  I wonder about the characters in books I have read. Did they see me too? Some, yes. Like Aschenbach.

  It’s discomfiting when books do that, though. Sometimes terrifying. And yet afterwards, you cling them to your chest.

  It has been a winding drive south to the ferry, during which I largely snoozed. When we exit the car in the bowels of the boat, an announcement comes through about it being a rough day, but that the crew will endeavour to make the crossing as comfortable as possible.

  Once up the stairs, Bethea darts for a table and seats with a view to the back of the boat. I’m not such a fan of ‘riding backwards’ but she’s done this many times before and I guess has her comfort zones. The décor is browns, mismatched plaids, on carpets and chairs. It reminds me of a Sydney pub, but with the peaty smell of Lagavulin, the boat’s ‘malt of the month’, instead of Bundy and Coke.

  The table secured, Bethea goes to buy chips – crisps, whatever – and a cup of Earl Grey. I look around at the windblown Western Scots, loose-chinned English, smooth-skinned Germans, some young, clean-faced mod-types – Asian and white – in jeans and backpacks and caps. Majority male. Majority white. Whisky tourists. Digging in bags for pre-quartered sandwiches and flasks or returning from the bar with armfuls of crisps and plastic cups.

  I’ll miss my tiny island. The path I wore from the room to the kitchen to the otter seat. The familiarity of the bathroom. A non-man as my only companion. The candles. The faces at the edge of sleep. It is only the fear of being found alive that is taking me further away, into the Hebrides, where Bethea owns another house. Larger, damper, she tells me. Large indeed, I hope, if she is staying on. Has she nothing better to do? I guess, in bereavement, she mustn’t.