The Blue Book

by A. L. Kennedy

  They parted in the small hours: phone numbers, brisk kisses, a slightly embarrassed rush.

  Arthur was leaving early.

  So he’ll be gone now – would have headed off before she came down.

  He would have walked across the entrance to the dining room, past the clock and out to his car and neatly away from any chance of her mother seeing him, recognising him, making half-right and half-wrong assumptions, shouting.

  And he’s neatly away from me, too.

  A rising breeze makes the big windows rattle.

  But there’s another sound inside that.

  There’s a tapping – perhaps from twigs dropping, or debris, Beth can’t be bothered deciding which, but her mother is standing. That’s what makes Beth look up: the sudden movement, the lurch of odd hope. Her mother is standing and walking, easing, slowly, slowly towards the window and gazing straight ahead and there it is.

  Tapping.

  There’s a magpie – large and handsome bird, dapper black and white and that special sheen along the feathers – the dash of glamour that you always get with jays. And he’s tilting his head and thoughtful and considering and tilting again and he peers in and then taps. He steps, deliberate, taps once more.

  And Beth is also standing, didn’t quite notice how, and her mother is inching closer to the window and the magpie nods and eyes her, steps, taps. He has a circus air: costumed and tricky and unnatural – clever bird – pickpocket bird – magician bird.

  The magpie is unfearful. He taps with his beak and then rests – as if he’s awaiting some response.

  ‘He wants to come in.’ Her mother’s voice careful and joyful, delighted. ‘He wants to come in.’ Cath brings herself all the way close to the glass and touches it with her hand, her palm pressed flat where it should surely disturb their visitor; but he remains tranquilly determined, ponders it and then taps again not far from her thumb. ‘Oh, Beth.’ A girl’s voice. Young and happy.

  And if her father was going to visit them as a bird, come back and please his wife, give love to his wife, then a magpie would have been his choice and here is the magpie, their magpie, in a nice black suit with pantomime touches and jocular and peeking at them, familiar as family.

  But it isn’t him. It’s a bird. It’s a story her mother will tell and that will help her and will be special and will never be taken away.

  ‘Oh, Beth.’ And the broad flare of wings when it leaps, finally takes flight, renews the loss and her mother’s weeping. Tomorrow she’ll say that she slept well and dreamed of her husband and the way he smiled, and of flying.

  But the bird wasn’t him. Beth can’t believe it. The bird was just a bird.

  With Arthur, she’s the only one who doesn’t get her consolation.

  ‘Arthur.’

  Beth wakes in the suite before him.

  ‘Art.’

  Panicking in case she has slept too long, because she has slept at all – the windows showing spills of shiplight on the dim balcony, rainwater glimmers across tables and chairs provided for fair-weather entertaining, elegant guests. Beyond that is a vertigo of black – it’s full night.

  ‘Fuck.’ She’s been lying awkwardly, they both have.

  Clothes will look as if I’ve gone to bed in them – because I have.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Hm?’ Arthur stirring, taking little sips of air and he shifts. ‘You . . .’

  It’s painful when she tries to move. ‘I’m here.’ She must have fallen asleep and never shifted. One of his buttons has been pressing near her eye and it hurts when she lifts her head.

  He swallows, ‘You’re?’ Voice in his chest and moving like a deep and red and dreaming thing. ‘You’re . . .’

  Arthur’s hand briefly, muzzily patting her hair as he twists his shoulders and hips and retreats until she is lying without him, unembraced. He turns on the lamp – the small glare stings her – and checks his watch. ‘It’s past seven.’ Rubs his face, ‘By which I mean, it’s past seven o’clock. Not any other meaning. I don’t mean anything else . . . I’m sorry, it’s probably late for where you want to be . . . and I’m sorry . . .’ He sits up and closes his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, this is the last thing, the worst . . . this is the worst thing I could have . . .’ Rubbing the back of his neck to be a comfort while he upsets himself. ‘Waking up with you . . . I think when you go, that you shouldn’t come back. I think that we would just . . .’ His good shirt creased. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  It isn’t all right – it’s us on a ludicrous boat in a blind ocean and everywhere else, they’re dying – willingly, unwillingly, violently, unnecessarily, badly, well, at the limit of their natural term or long before – the world is spinning with it, ruined, and I am guilty and we are guilty and everyone still living has to be guilty because of it, but I’m not having that tonight – not tonight – and I’m not having you try to end this now because you’ve panicked that it’s going to end later when you’re in too far.

  Arthur is sitting with his fists braced against the bed, thumbs rubbing his knuckles. He keeps his eyes shut.

  You’re in too far already.

  I know it, because you’re next to me.

  Beth kneels on the bed and it gives, gives, gives.

  But I’m not going to argue – I’ll speak to your skin.

  ‘Arthur, I’m going to take off your shoes.’ He doesn’t answer and so she undoes his laces, pulls at the weight of stiff leather until it gives, gives, gives, until he lets her steal his shoe.

  And again.

  Gentle and warm feet and red socks, his not-at-work socks –’ And I’m taking off your socks.’ He makes a little noise when she does this, a younganimal noise. ‘I’m putting them over here, out of our way but this is me back here and I’m going to stay back.’

  She stands next to the bed.

  Bare feet, long toes – and he won’t prevent me, but he won’t assist, but he won’t prevent. So we’re all right and I can be doing this and reading him because it’s needed, not an intrusion, not a theft.

  She has the impression he is thinking of being heavy, of being sunk into the mattress, of being a man who cannot give himself to this.

  But we both know he will.

  And she bends to him. ‘And this is me kissing your feet, this is the feel of me kissing your feet.’

  The Magdalene thing – it’ll work. He’s not a Catholic, but he had a funny mother, that’s like being a Catholic. Mary Magdalene will reach him.

  Lips on his instep, more respectful than erotic, ‘I know you’d kiss my feet, but I’m doing it for you. I have decided to.’

  The complicated bones, the smooth skin.

  This isn’t a violation.

  ‘And this is my hand on your stomach where you get scared.’ And slipping her fingers inside his shirt, between the buttons and there he is, alight.

  Arthur sways his head to the left, as if he’s trying to think something through, angling his thoughts. Obviously doesn’t intend to open his eyes. He arches up in a small way to answer her, but then lowers himself again, withdraws.

  Which means he’d still like his privacy, maybe his dignity, and so she removes the touch. ‘Arthur, it’s where I’m scared as well. And this isn’t going to be what we do – the way we’ve been. This is about . . .’

  I think he’d be more convinced if I can’t help faltering and anyway it’s too late if it would have been stronger of me to roll on and make the statement, be matter-of-fact.

  ‘Arthur, I love you. I want you to believe that.’

  And who says they love anybody without wanting to get the love back – it isn’t a generous emotion.

  ‘And this is me unbuttoning your cuffs and this is my mouth. On the inside of your wrist, which I also love.’

  Starting an inventory because that will gi
ve them a structure and a pace, ‘And the other one. Can’t have favourites.’ Which should make him smile, but he doesn’t – he’s listening too much.

  He’s reading me – I can feel it, taste. I can read it.

  So I’d better get this right.

  ‘And you know I have to do this.’ Kissing his palm, his too hot and too clever palm. ‘And I need to take off your shirt.’ And fast with the buttons, smooth with the buttons – determined enough to make it seem inevitable and right.

  And here he is – Arthur – all blue-white and tender breath – like he’s hurt already.

  ‘We have to.’

  Now, slowly, slowly – kiss his throat – him swallowing beneath you – kiss the notch in his collar bone – nipples – kissing the hair – his ribs – poor ribs – poor boy ribs.

  Shadows and hollows and silk, ‘And I love this.’ And Arthur the man and Arthur the boy again, too. ‘I love all of this.’

  Needs someone to get him through it.

  Flail of his arms as she struggles him out of the cloth, tugs it away.

  Kiss where he’s scared. Me, too.

  ‘I want to see you, Arthur, and I want you to feel me looking.’

  Kiss over his heart and feel it startle.

  ‘I love you.’

  Not a lie.

  Kiss his mouth so he can’t say it back – so he can’t fail to say it back. Either way, it would be our problem – and a joy and a beauty and a trap.

  Kiss his mouth.

  And I don’t want to think, not any more.

  Belt buckle – tricky and sleek and tricky.

  Jeans.

  Clumsy.

  Unfasten.

  Unfasten.

  Unfasten.

  Unfasten.

  Break him, peel him free.

  ‘I do love you.’

  Silkhotsilk.

  Crest of the hip – hummingbird tremor in the thigh – inside – under – kiss the fur – shift of the skin – shiftingundertheskin kissed balls – fleece and lovely – where he wants – round and blind and speaking and head and rim and head and shaft and this is everything and sorry and angry and sorry and perfect and tongue and mouth and needs and take him in and keep and lose and keep and play and the first taste of almost and almost and the softesthardestlostestnakedest thing in the world and he’s dancing and taste the dancing and running against the tongue and taking him in and lips and taking him in and hands and taking him in and never leave him be and take him in.

  Say nothing.

  The idea of calling him darling.

  Say nothing is best.

  Arthur opens his eyes. The blue of them is terrified.

  And she doesn’t know what this could mean.

  Please not that I’ve hurt him. Please not that he doesn’t believe me. Please not that he didn’t trust me, but let me in any case.

  Please is it love?

  She wants to tell him that she’s sorry, but is a coward and worried that he might ask her what she’s sorry for and so she lies beside him, edges her head on to his chest. ‘Can we stay like this? For a bit.’ Like this, he can’t look at her.

  ‘Of course.’ Unforthcoming voice, small and private.

  And she thinks about Beverley and the night when they started again and how in the grey, in the pre-dawn, he’d got out of bed and gone off to the bathroom and she’d dozed and then something had fully woken her – the electric sense of somebody’s attention – and she’d sat up and found him there watching her, standing in the doorway with the light at his back, being this curious shadow – and he’d said, ‘You feel different.’

  ‘I am different.’

  Arthur waiting, his head seeming to shift and focus on something beyond her.

  Always does that – indirect.

  He does see, though.

  The distracted man who’s looking somewhere else – that’s who’ll catch the trick. The ones who stare and are intent, they’re not a problem – any magician will take their careful observation and lie to it, because it is solid and therefore can be moved, aroused, betrayed.

  Arthur looks away to catch the truth.

  ‘You are different?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She seemed to feel him testing her silence, pressing against it, but then he nodded, walked to join her, his body cooled. ‘I’m going to sleep now. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I have to leave early in the morning.’

  ‘Well, I’ll . . . once you’re asleep I’ll get out of your way . . .’

  And he rolled on to his side, stilled his breath, but he didn’t sleep – she knew he was listening when she left.

  It is perhaps foolish, but happiness can scare you. The big kind, the real kind – it can be too much like a new country opening round you, strange and wide. You do love it, naturally – you’d be insane not to – you dance in it and it’s the best music you’ve ever felt – but you can still wonder how you’ve come to be so lucky.

  And beauty, you can’t be near it without changing and what if you change to suit it and then it goes – then you won’t be the right fit for anything else. Or it can be as if saying a lover’s name will make them disappear – abracadabra – or as if they might say yours and you don’t know what would happen if they did.

  It can take a while for you to adjust.

  But you can.

  You could.

  You should.

  And your book would love to see you happy – the big kind, the real kind.

  So your book wants to play with you.

  Just a game.

  For company.

  For you and your book to be together in a little game.

  In this game, you could – if you wanted, you don’t have to – you could pick a number between one and nine.

  You would usually be asked for a selection between one and ten – that’s the standard for many illusions that might trick you. Statistically, you’d be most likely to choose seven in that case. Most people prefer seven – it has a nice corner, was easy to draw when you learned it and hasn’t too greedy a value, but isn’t too low – it’s a number of moderate, comfortable self-esteem.

  A magician, a trickster, would tend to pick a three. They favour threes. They favour three of clubs – almost worthless, a dark and peculiar card, shows a symbol like a paw print, the sign of an odd beast. This sets them apart from those they deceive.

  But you can have any number, any at all between one and nine.

  You’ll probably avoid seven now.

  You don’t have to, but you can.

  You probably will.

  Or not.

  What matters is that you know you do have a free choice.

  So pick one number.

  If you’d like.

  Your book can wait.

  It would be happy if you’d pick.

  And once you have picked – if you have picked – it would like you to multiply your number by three.

  And note the answer.

  And then add three.

  And note the answer.

  And – why not? – you can multiply that answer by three once again – by the magician’s number – that way you have three threes.

  For luck.

  There’s no such thing, but if it could, your book would promise you good fortune – books have made similar promises before. Your book might have said you could be defended from every harm and that nothing will ever reach you but tenderness.

  That ought to be possible and in a book anything at all is possible: once you’re tucked up neat inside a story, you can find all kinds of things convincing.

  But your book will only give you something honest – the magician’s number. The number which can be Touch me or Loss. 3.

&nbs
p; The magician’s number changed your first thought to something else and then again and then again.

  It altered your thinking and something which alters your thinking can alter you, alter your world.

  If you choose to play.

  Just a game.

  Where you multiply your number by three, add three, then multiply by three and note your final result.

  That’s all.

  Your book – because it never wants to lie to you – will tell you this.

  Or you could pick one of its meanings in the codes, whichever spoke to you the most.

  Or you could pick both and the good luck, too.

  Why not – you deserve it.

  Or our game might have been a type of manipulation when manipulation is usually wrong, although not always – not when it might make you happy, or satisfied, or keep you from being alone.

  It’s sometimes hard to say what’s right, what’s wrong.

  But because your book doesn’t want to trick you, it won’t tell you that it knows you, can slip into how you think, has sat quiet in your life and watched you, been with you, has spent this many pages with its voice curled in your head, with its weight against your fingers and working at you. It won’t say it predicted your choice long before you first met.

  It won’t deceive you.

  Derek is sitting on the bed in his bathrobe when Beth slips into the cabin. He’s entirely awake and alert.

  Shit. Say something.

  ‘Hello.’

  More than that.

  ‘You look better.’

  ‘I know.’ Derek nods as if he’s handing over a school report, or some kind of challenging but completed project: here’s his health, present and virtually correct, all neatly boxed and polished.

  If I don’t tell him now, I’m not sure when I will.

  On shore.

  But the shore’s too far away.

  ‘Really healthy, Derek . . . Well done.’

  Well done?

  Well done and by the way I have been with – sounds biblical – another man – Christ, this is giving me a headache – another man – made love with – trying to make love with – another man – I think I’m ill – not pleasantly ironic if on a boat full of geriatrics I’m the one who ends up having a stroke – no pun intended.