Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02]

by To Haveand To Hold

  Ah, well. It wasn’t an uncommon phenomenon; she’d seen it in Dartmoor often enough—the prisoner so desperate for sympathy and companionship that she grew dependent on, even attached to, her gaoler. Was it twisted? A corruption of reality? In the end it didn’t matter, because the deadliest enemy was still loneliness. It put all the others to shame.

  She took off her shoes, helped him take off his. They half lay, half sat in the bed, their backs against the pillows. At the instant she began to think that it seemed strange to lie together but not to touch, he picked up her hand and laid it palm-down on his upraised thigh. Stranger still—because they were enemies, weren’t they?—such an intimacy from him no longer alarmed her. Maidenly shyness was a condition she hadn’t been able to claim since her school days. But was Sebastian her enemy? Why did he sometimes seem like her only ally?

  “Sully’s not a friend of mine,” he said carefully. “I have my share of shallow, profligate friends, but Sully’s not among them. Our paths cross often enough in London and elsewhere, because we’re both idle and aimless. But we are not friends.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “I’m telling you this to justify myself, but of course, it’s too late for that. When I received his letter saying he and his friends were coming, my first reaction was relief. I wanted him here. I wanted his cynicism and vulgarity, his contempt for anything simple or decent. I wanted him to remind me of my roots, you might say. Because for some time I had felt myself moving in a slightly different direction and it . . . and it . . .” He stared at her fingers, absently pressing them apart one by one. “It frightened me.”

  She listened to the echo of that extraordinary admission, and could think of nothing to say.

  “As soon as I saw them, I knew I’d made a mistake. But I didn’t understand the enormity of it until you came. Then it was . . .” He put his head back and closed his eyes. “Biblical analogies,” he said with another mirthless laugh; “lamb to the slaughter, all that. Painful. Excruciating to watch, almost unbearable. But I managed. Perhaps you thought I was enjoying myself. You might take a little comfort from knowing that I suffered. Not as you did—I couldn’t claim that. But I suffered.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know.” He kept his eyes shut, so she watched him closely. “I honestly don’t know.”

  She didn’t believe him. She even thought she knew the answer, but she didn’t offer it. Not because he would deny it, but because saying it out loud would upset this odd, new, peculiarly enjoyable peace they were sharing.

  “I thought you would ask me why I hated it,” he said after a moment, looking at her. “Why I finally stopped it. I’ll tell you, even though you won’t ask. It’s because I saw myself when I looked at Sully and the others. Heard my voice in their voices. What they did was despicable, indefensible, and they were the mirror of me. I could see it clearly, and it revolted me. I was glad when Sully drew the knife, because that gave me permission to kill him. I wanted to kill him, wring his neck, stop his heart. You won’t believe it, but I know that it was the vileness in myself I really wanted to kill.”

  Face to face at last, she thought. They looked at each other through nothing but the air, no veils of deception between them, no pride, no determined cruelty, no trumped-up impassivity. Even so, she drew back; as much as she welcomed this openness, she also feared it with her woman’s discretion, her natural armor.

  He sensed it—changed tacks. “Why aren’t you angry?” he asked in the gentle voice, the devastating one. “Why are you here? How could you tie a bandage around me and then lie down with me in my bed?” To make it worse, he caressed her forearm, beneath the tight sleeve of her dress—he’d unbuttoned it a minute ago and she, silly woman, had barely noticed. “Are you mad?” he murmured. “Or that compassionate? That foolhardy?”

  The last guess was the best one. “I found out about anger in prison,” she said slowly. “In the first year, it ruled me. I couldn’t control myself. I’d never been treated rudely in my life, and I didn’t know how to cope with such callousness. The refractory cell I described that night—do you remember?” He didn’t answer; his expression said she had just asked a very stupid question. She blushed, but for a second she felt airy inside, almost breathless. “I spent . . . quite a lot of time there in the early days. Because of my anger. They call it ‘breaking out’—smashing everything in your cell, screaming, shredding your clothes. It keeps you from going mad for a little while, but the consequences are . . . dire.”

  “What was it like?”

  “I can’t describe it. They never beat me. Once they hobbled me—tied my hands and feet together behind my back. Left me in the dark cell.”

  “How long?”

  “Days. Two or three, I don’t know. That was the worst time. After that, I changed. I became a model prisoner.”

  He was watching her carefully, really seeing her; she had his complete attention, and it made her nervous. But under the nervousness lay a quiet, secret excitement. It’s only the novelty, she assured herself. The newness of being listened to by someone, by anyone. But the effect, she couldn’t deny, was elating.

  She continued in a low, tentative voice—so he could stop her whenever he chose, whenever he tired of this. “But it wasn’t really the solitary cell or the shackles or the denial of food or privileges that made me change. After that first year, I came to understand that the anger and fury, the terrible sense of injustice I felt—they were eating me alive, and keeping me in a prison every bit as vicious and confining as Exeter. But I could free myself at least from that prison if I could let all the rage and hurt go, just—let it go. And so I did.”

  “How?”

  “I stopped caring.”

  He nodded, but she saw his skepticism.

  “It doesn’t seem possible,” she conceded. “I think, to understand it, you would have to have experienced life in a convict prison. To survive, one becomes like an animal. No memories, no hopes. Dulled senses. I can’t explain it, it’s—not like anything. There are no words. You cannot imagine it.” She sighed, hopeless again. Words, or the futility of them, depressed her.

  A silence. Sebastian shifted uncomfortably, holding his side. “Have to lie down,” he mumbled, moving down in the bed until he was flat on his back, only his head on the pillow.

  “You’re tired,” she said, embarrassed, starting to get up. “I’ll—”

  “No, don’t go. I’m not tired anymore. Stay, Rachel—come down here beside me.”

  She didn’t even argue with him this time. This was where she wanted to be. She might be losing her sense of proportion, of propriety, of self-preservation, she might even be losing her mind—but it was lovely to lie here in the semidark and murmur a few of her deepest secrets to this man who held her fate in his hands. A few nights ago he’d seduced her body, taken everything a man can take from a woman. What would he think if he knew that a truer, more devastating seduction was the one going on here, this minute?

  “I’m sorry about Sully,” he said quietly, his eyes on the ceiling. “I couldn’t say the words before. I wanted to imply it—much easier than saying it. Now I’m saying it. I apologize to you.”

  She kept the ridiculous tears in by squeezing her eyes closed. “It’s all right.”

  “No, don’t say that. Keep your anger—it’s completely justified. I didn’t apologize to you so that you would forgive me.” She doubted that, and a second later he smiled and added sheepishly, “Although I was very much hoping you would.”

  She smiled, too. “I’ll tell you something curious.” He turned onto his good side, facing her. “I hated the things they said to me, the way they treated me, all of that. They made me feel like an object, not a person, something pitiful and despicable. They made me feel dirty. But—here is my confession—when they started playing the ‘truth’ game and I had to answer their questions, I felt—of course I hated it, but—deep down, something in me was glad to answer. Glad because I was being made to speak, finally, eve
n in that awful way, of the things that happened to me in gaol. Can you understand this? It’s . . . hard for me to talk—of course, you know that; it’s obvious. But they made me talk, and I was . . . relieved. That sounds pitiful.”

  “No.”

  “Crazy.”

  “No. I felt something like it, too. What happened was absolutely hellish, a nightmare, but at the same time I was glad to find out some of your secrets at last. It wasn’t lewd curiosity, I promise you.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Why should you believe me?” he asked softly, rhetorically. “But if I were to ask you now to tell me what it was like in prison, would you believe that something more than prurience motivated the question?”

  She thought, but not for long. Probably not long enough. “Yes. Now. I would now.”

  They were both quiet for a time, holding hands under the covers. She couldn’t measure the risk she had just taken because it was too big, incalculable. But she felt alive for the first time in a long time, and the extraordinariness of that couldn’t be measured either.

  And then it started. With the gentle encouragement of his thoughtful, judicious questions, she began to speak of the last ten years of her life. It wasn’t an orderly recital; she let her thoughts wander in time, forward or back, over events and milestones and states of mind. She told him of the bitter indignities she’d suffered at the hands of ignorant, underpaid, casually vicious warders, the constant bullying and hectoring, the battering of the mind and soul that never stopped, never, not for four thousand days. The deadly monotony, the barren, brutal months, the unspeakable loneliness. The flies and spiders she’d befriended; the mouse she’d kept for a pet for one whole winter. The SILENCE signs on the walls of every cell, every corridor. The time they’d given her two days’ bread and water for smiling at a fellow inmate on Christmas Eve. Loneliness could become so real, it took on a life of its own, became a kind of company. She told him her number—forty-four—and that she hadn’t heard the sound of her own name in more than nine years.

  He asked about her family, and she told him about the one and only time they’d come to see her. She’d been locked up in a large wooden box with wire netting for a window; four feet away her father, mother, and brother were locked inside an identical box. Two warders stood between the boxes, listening to the conversation, such as it was. Her mother had never stopped crying, and after the first shocked greeting, her father couldn’t speak. It lasted ten minutes, and when it was over she asked them not to come back. She never saw any of them again.

  She told him about the library, the only light in the long darkness of her prison term. It had four hundred books, and she’d eventually read all of them, some many times.

  At first, she’d feared dying in prison. That had seemed the ultimate horror, being nailed up in a prison coffin and thrown into an unmourned grave. But after her family was gone, she stopped caring, and soon she began to pray for death. She hated, hated, hated everything, especially a world where such an unspeakable travesty of justice had been allowed to occur. But even the hatred had waned as year followed empty year. “You erased yourself,” Sebastian said, and she said, “Yes. That’s it, exactly. I killed myself without dying.”

  She rested, exhausted from the telling. The lamp by the bedside had long since sputtered out; they Jay in the dark, she listening to his breathing. She’d told him terrible things, painful, degrading truths she’d thought she would take to her grave. By rights, she ought to be frightened, but all she could feel was tired and relieved. Unburdened.

  Extraordinary.

  He still had her hand, but she thought he’d fallen asleep. She was surprised when he said, “Rachel.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who do you think killed Wade?”

  She blinked, trying to see his face. “What?”

  “Who killed him? You must have thought about it in prison. Who do you think it was?”

  She tried to speak, but only a wheezing sound came out before her throat closed up. She realized she was squeezing his hand too tight, using all her strength. She let go and sat up in bed, hugging her knees.

  He sat up, too, and put his hand in the middle of her back. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

  She shook her head. A pitiful lie—-her eyes were swimming, face dripping; only by swallowing repeatedly did she keep back embarrassing sobs. Emotions she couldn’t blame on weariness or tension hammered for release, threatening to burst out of their careful bounds. Sebastian had his arm around her shoulders, his hand on her wet cheek, trying to make her look at him. She knew him by now: he would keep at her, he wouldn’t stand for evasions.

  “I’m just—grateful,” she got out, voice strangled. “Because no one believed me. You can’t know—” She gave up, couldn’t talk.

  “What do you mean? That you were innocent? What rot. Don’t cry, I can’t stand it,” he whispered, holding her against him, both arms around her now, and she was soaking his skin with tears.

  She put her hand on her aching throat and told him the worst. “No one believed me. No one.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “My family.”

  There, it was out, the worst thing, the most grievous hurt. As soon as she said it, she calmed. The emotional storm passed, and she was left trembling in reaction.

  “Impossible,” he said lightly, stroking her hair like a father, rocking her a little. “I always knew it. I doubt if you could kill an insect. You’re the gentlest person I know. And the saddest.”

  “Stop.” Or she wouldn’t be able to stop crying.

  He knew the surest way to banish tears. He kissed her. Not like a father. He kissed her like a lover, slow and hot, their mouths wet, clinging, salty from her crying. As soon as she stiffened, he stopped. In unison, they lay back down on their separate pillows. “You’re tired,” he whispered. “Go to sleep, Rachel.”

  She was tired. She covered a yawn with her hand. “I could never sleep in prison.” A minute later, she was dreaming.

  ***

  She dreamt she was in her prison cell, lying on her hard cot in the dark. Even though her eyes were closed, she could see everything. Someone was watching her through the spy hole beside the door. She feigned sleep, not moving, trying not to breathe. A key scraped in the lock. The door opened an inch, two inches, and cold, paralyzing dread congealed in her stomach. The eye in the spy hole was still watching her, and she knew who it was. Then her blanket was gone and her legs were bare. She wanted to push her dress down, cover herself, but if she moved he would know she was awake. The door widened.

  She whimpered in fear . . . and the dream faded, grew vague. A low voice told her she was safe; someone touched her and called her by her name. She calmed, slept deeply, and drifted into a different dream.

  She was in a flower meadow, lying on a bed of grass. There was no horizon; in any direction, the flowers stretched forever, soft and waving, every color imaginable. A man lay beside her, a different man, not the one in the doorway. This was the empty-handed man, the one who never hurt her.

  They lay without touching until she put her hand on his shoulder. Afterward she knew it had been the signal—that he couldn’t touch her until she touched him, because that was their rule. Why didn’t I do this sooner? she thought, or said, and the empty-handed man smiled just before he kissed her.

  She could see their mouths, like two other people’s mouths coming together. Delicious, how sweet, how luscious the kiss was. She changed the dream by an act of her will so that it could be her mouth under the man’s, tasting and being tasted. Lips and then teeth, soft and then hard, and tongues gliding together with such serious playfulness, the perfect mouth caress. Drowning, she was drowning in sensation, and everything was allowed, everything was permitted. Don’t make me wait, she thought, or said, and the dream changed again and they were rolling and turning over the crushed sweet grass, and the empty-handed man’s hands glided on her skin, leaving color wherever he touched, blue-green over the white of her belly, bright
yellow on her breasts, purple and crimson on her thighs. His body floated over hers and she had him, yes, and it was what she wanted, but—it wasn’t enough, she couldn’t feel him, and everything was just out of reach. Half awake now, she knew it wasn’t real, and she wanted to weep from the frustration, the maddening inadequacy of this dream.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring up into Sebastian’s. Was it nighttime? He’d lit a candle; she could see the shadows flickering on the wall behind his bare shoulder. He watched her with his head propped on his hand, his brown hair tousled. She thought she would smooth her fingers back over the boyish cowlick—and realized she was resting her hand on his chest.

  Then and now mingled as fragments of the dream floated back in disorienting patches. Had she touched him in her sleep? Was he the one who had soothed her with his voice? She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Her scattered thoughts came together, and finally she knew who the empty-handed man was. The connection slid into her brain smoothly, hardly causing a ripple, but afterward nothing was the same.

  Why didn’t I do this sooner? the dreaming woman had wondered. Touching the man had been the key, the beginning. But Rachel couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Some things never changed, and her fear was one of them. She couldn’t move.

  How would she have answered if Sebastian had asked her then if he could touch her? Too late; she’d never know now. And all she felt when he finally lowered his head and put his mouth on hers was gladness.

  She lay quiet and passive, drifting between dreamer and actor, reluctant to decide, putting off thinking of anything. This was like the dream and not at all like the dream. Sebastian never hesitated, and all his movements were fluid and smooth, like a dancer’s, and the way he loosened and pulled and peeled away her clothing was like a dance, a seamless ballet for bare arms and shy, naked legs. She could hardly wait to feel their stomachs touch, and for a little while that was enough, just the slide and press of their skin, his with a downy fleece of hair to rub against hers. The center of herself seemed to be in her belly, and she thought that heavy, intimate pressure would be enough. But it wasn’t. She felt the dream-frustration, the identical emptiness at the real center, and she embraced him with her legs, and closed her eyes when he penetrated her.