HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  ‘It’s been years since we had a long session. Let’s screw like we used to screw.’

  ‘With gay abandon?’ Bob laughed at the memory: they’d only just paired up as a dance duo and they’d clicked like tap shoes, hot close dances, hot sweaty sex and eventually love. They’d got drunk on every cocktail Sammy Joe’s had to offer, screwed on Blackpool’s Golden Mile on a sunny August afternoon, first under North Pier with the Irish Sea lapping Bob’s arse and with no care for the families on the beach. Then again under South Pier, where the shade kept others away. They dug out a hole in the sand and Bob sat in it and Carol pulled her bikini bottom to one side and sat on him and wriggled and giggled.

  They’d slept on the beach in the sun afterwards. Later they danced the tango until the sun went down then screwed again against the seawall in the dark to the rhythm of the sea.

  ‘With gay abandon,’ Carol agreed. She pulled him to and unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it to the floor.

  Bob removed her jumper and T-shirt and kissed little kisses across her chest as he unclipped her bra.

  They both dropped their jeans in sync and kicked them away with precision timing. She yanked down his boxers and he yanked down her knickers and they both kicked them into the air and caught them.

  ‘Help me with this.’ They moved the sofa to the wall and the armchair into the kitchen area and made some space; not a lot, but it would do.

  Carol found the CD and put it on. She pulled her new pashmina in blood-red tartan from the shopping bag and blindfolded him with it as the first notes of the ballroom tango tinkled into the room.

  ‘Scent of a Woman,’ Bob said.

  ‘Al Pacino. The blind man can surely dance.’

  They’d done this a few times, after watching the film, Bob playing the part of the blind man dancing the tango. Bob had blindfolded Carol once, told her how intense it was, the closeness of the dance, but with no eyes to see meant sensual movement took first place. Carol didn’t like it, didn’t like the loss of control.

  She came into his arms, breasts barely touching his skin, her warm breath on his neck. The scent of her was strong, intoxicating. ‘I love you,’ he said, and really he did. Her lips touched to his chin, then to his lips, her breath sweet and musky. He drank it in and together they moved, stepped once, twice, back again. He twirled her as the rhythm picked up and they slid a foot as one, leg point, twirl again, the closeness of unseen skin on skin exhilarating. He stopped her dead, grabbed her shoulders, and bit into her neck and sucked.

  Carol groaned, grabbed his hair, forced his teeth into her flesh until they ground against the bone beneath. The music finished and the next version started: the Argentine tango – the closest you could get to sex without actually having it – faster, closer, dipping between each other’s legs. She twirled away and he spun her back to him and she leapt around his middle, legs splayed, sex touching sex, nipples rubbing across tingling skin.

  Sweat poured down Bob’s face, flesh slipped against flesh. Breathless, they stopped as the music died.

  Bob pushed the scarf from his eyes and perched it on his sweaty brow. ‘Water,’ he said. Carol obliged. She let the tap run awhile for maximum coolness, brought two glasses, they drank them down. ‘More,’ Bob said and they drank down another.

  Carol untied the scarf and took it away and wiped his face. ‘Choose your music, Martin.’ She tied the scarf around her head.

  ‘You don’t like the blindfold.’

  ‘I want to try it again.’

  Bob’s heart flushed with something pleasantly cool, lifted him. ‘It will be my pleasure, Muriel.’

  Bob took the Argentine tango back to the start and pressed Play.

  Carol smiled when the opening bars played. She reached for him and he pulled her close and they danced with a new tautness, bone tight against bone, slick with perspiration, the scent of her cunt heavy in the air. ‘I fucking adore you.’ He spun her away and pulled her back and squeezed at her breasts as she arched her back and dipped and moaned with pleasure. ‘That’s so good, Martin.’ He threw her again. ‘So fucking good.’

  In his arms she felt small and light, energy seethed through his muscles, empowered his heart that thumped steadily and loudly as if the music was keeping up with him.

  ‘I so need fucking,’ she gasped when his leg slinked inside hers and his thigh pressed against her wetness.

  ‘I’m glad you’re all mine,’ he said, and meant it.

  ‘I am all yours, Martin.’

  ‘Call me Bobby.’ He dipped her back and held her there and ran his tongue from her bellybutton up. ‘No more games, my sweet Caro.’

  He pulled her back up and she collapsed into him, brow against his chest, fingernails scraping down his sides. ‘No more games, my sweet Bobby.’ She took hold of his stiff cock, squeezed it hard and Bob’s nostrils flared. He snorted like a bull and Caro giggled. Her swollen lips shone to him as she laughed – lips that he could happily bite off and swallow down.

  ‘You know I won’t ever let you go,’ he told her.

  A breathless ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know you are mine.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You know how fucking lucky you are.’

  ‘I am so fucking fortunate.’ She took his hand and pushed it between her legs.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  She flung herself back, threw out an arm, breasts firm and pointed. He squeezed her left breast and she gasped, sweat now running over her lips, panting quick breaths. She lifted a leg and wrapped it over his hip and deftly his cock pushed inside her with a burn that made him snort again. He lifted her other leg around him and she impaled herself fully. Bob felt her shudder as his fingers dug into her ass cheeks. She took hold of his head in both hands and kissed him hard. She came up for air and licked her tongue up his face. ‘Make me fucking scream, Bobby.’

  Bobby laid her down and made her fucking scream.

  5

  Elizabeth takes Beth’s head in her hands and kisses her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. Not at all.’ She stares into Beth’s eyes. ‘Please forgive me?’

  For a moment Beth sees herself running, finding the stairs to the hole. She suddenly realises she hasn’t got her backpack, left it at the stairs when she passed it down. Something touches Beth’s leg. She looks down to see her backpack has magically appeared.

  When Beth looks back up the wood spirit has tears in her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Bethy. This is the first time I’ve shown anyone the magic. It’s an effort I’m not used to and if I get it wrong, Master will be terribly cross with me. Please, Bethy?’

  Bethy, she’s called now. Beth nods and the girl smiles and the tears vanish. ‘Good girl. Now, would you like to see some of Master’s wonderful work? He is so clever.’

  ‘Will he be there?’

  The wood spirit shrugs. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Embarrassment prickles Beth’s neck.

  ‘Master’s form is the greatest gift, Bethy. You will come to adore him, and everything about him.’ The wood spirit takes her hand and the room flips into chequered patterns and rainbow colours. There’s a strong smell of something familiar – disinfectant.

  They’re standing on a floor of gleaming black and white tiles – it reminds Beth of the giant chess game at the shopping centre. Behind them, above the double front doors is the stained-glass scene of flowers through which sunshine sprays the room in every colour. A grandfather clock ticks and tocks by the stairs. A side table holds an old-style phone that sits on a cradle. Before them is a door with a round brass doorknob and a keyhole underneath.

  Beth turns her head to the sound of squeaking wheels. It’s the nun in the curly chair and Master is walking behind. He’s wearing a black suit and a white shirt and shiny shoes. A naked Elizabeth follows behind Master.

  Master spins the wheelchair to face the front doors and the nun squints with a rainbow face. Elizabeth moves to stand in front of the chair and faces the nun with her hands behind
her back, an action which makes the nun sneer and mutter.

  Master places a hand on Elizabeth’s head. ‘I may be some time, my precious girl. You know the drill.’

  He leaves through the front doors and locks them. An engine rumbles to life then fades away.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Beth feels the need to whisper.

  ‘They can’t hear you, Bethy.’

  ‘They’re still as statues. Is it a game?’

  ‘It’s not a game. While Master’s away we have no business. We will stand and appreciate until his return. That’s the drill.’

  ‘Appreciate what?’

  Elizabeth sighs. ‘How fortunate we are, of course.’

  ‘But he said he might be a long time.’

  ‘It’s never usually more than a day.’

  ‘You stand like that for a day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No food?’

  ‘No. We had sustenance before he left. The body can look after itself for longer than you might think. But never mind that. I’ve brought you to this memory to show you Master’s work, and also to show you what happens when you disobey. Please watch and learn.’

  It seems the nun and the girl are having a stare-off until the nun spits and the spit lands on Elizabeth’s stomach. But the girl doesn’t even flinch.

  ‘You poor child,’ says the nun. She spins the chair round and wheels it to the side table and tugs it from the wall, sending the phone toppling to the floor with a crack and a ping.

  Beth wonders why the nun doesn’t phone the cops.

  ‘The telephone is not a working model,’ says the wood spirit.

  Beth tries not to think of anything else.

  Now the nun has the small table against the door with the brass knob. She heaves herself from her chair, and up onto the table. Beth sees clearly that her legs are completely gone, the material of her tunic is tucked around her base and secured with safety pins. Once on the table the nun stretches up and feels along the top of the door. She brings down a key and laughs a laugh that makes Beth think of witches.

  ‘What is she doing?’

  ‘Being curious. Behind that door is Master’s work room.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to stop her?’ The naked Elizabeth stands still as a post.

  ‘No, I wanted her to see.’

  The click of a lock and the door pushes open to darkness. Back in her chair, Sister Charity wheels herself through. A light switches on inside the room. The naked Elizabeth is grinning.

  ‘Any second now,’ says the Elizabeth at Beth’s side.

  There’s a long stuttering scream, frantic crashing and banging and gargled cries to God for mercy. The noise suddenly stops and there’s a heavy thud.

  ‘Fainted,’ says Elizabeth.

  Naked Elizabeth strides forward, disappears into the room.

  ‘Why has she fainted?’

  ‘Constraints of a narrow mind, dear Bethy. She is not worthy of Master’s great work, has no understanding of nature’s true beauty.’

  The wheelchair rolls through the door, the nun slumped at an angle. Naked Elizabeth pushes the chair away.

  ‘Are you worthy, Bethy?’

  Beth can hear something in the work room, barely audible but it’s there . . . someone breathing.

  ‘I think you are worthy. Come.’ She takes Beth’s hand and pulls her to the work room door and pushes her through.

  This room is huge with a low ceiling. Many lights on the walls in fancy shades. Old-fashioned oil lamps on tables that hold tools and stuffed animals. A goat with two heads, an eagle with outstretched wings, a dozen or more crows in varying poses, a fox with two tails and only one eye. The room smells of sawdust and fur.

  ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’

  Beth thinks perhaps they are, but still, these were once alive. A hand in her back pushes her on. Beth hears the breathing again, it’s coming from a darkened corner, hidden by metal racking, shelves holding jars with things floating inside – plump white things with trailing threads that Beth doesn’t want to look at.

  Another breath in the darkness and Elizabeth pushes her on.

  Beth steps around the corner of the shelving. When she sees it, a scream spins in her throat but she stops it from coming out and reaches for a table because she doesn’t want to faint like the nun did.

  ‘Meet Alison Green, the egg thief, another who thought she knew better.’

  The naked woman is sitting on a cane chair, one arm tied at the wrist and attached to a ring bolted to the wall. She has long black hair that looks dirty and messy, her face is a picture of gloom and despair. Her other arm has been cut off at the shoulder and stitched to her mouth. It hangs down her front, fingers wriggling between her legs. The stump at her shoulder is black. The woman’s breath comes out through her nose in a heavy puff as tears roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful,’ Elizabeth says.

  Beth moves quickly towards the door, keeping hold of table edges as she goes. She knocks a stuffed crow to the floor where its head shatters and for a blink she’s falling through the air towards the loch. Elizabeth’s hand grabs at Beth’s hair and pulls her back into sunshine and they’re lying breathless on the gravel path outside the house.

  Elizabeth’s eyes are as bright as her grin. ‘It’s only a memory, Bethy. Don’t be scared. You must persevere with this. There are more great wonders to see. Master needs you.’

  ‘Needs me?’

  The wood spirit seems to consider what to say next. ‘Remember when we first met on the platform and I told you not to touch the handle?’

  Beth nods, she sees the rusted handle in her mind.

  ‘I think you’ve earned a look inside.’ Elizabeth holds out her hand and Beth’s hand is drawn towards it like a magnet.

  6

  George isn’t coming, George isn’t coming, George isn’t coming. Ali stirred the stew and drank more wine until the stew was overcooked and the wine bottle empty. Bastard.

  She went to the kitchen, opened a small window to let candle air out and fresh air in and heard the rattle of a diesel engine – the 4x4.

  She unlocked the door, lit another candle, opened another bottle of wine and placed it on the table. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and practiced smiling.

  The engine died right outside. A door slammed. Footfalls sounded up the steps to the porch. For one gut-twisting moment she thought, not George but one of his bitches carrying a bunch of `I’m sorry` flowers, but George will see you tomorrow, or the day after, or next fucking week.

  The door opened and George walked in. He hung his leather jacket on the back of the door and placed his case and laptop on the side. He came towards her with open arms and embraced her in a hug; a fleeting moment of pleasure that made her feel sick.

  ‘Something smells good.’ The chair he pulled out grated against the floor, and he took a seat at the table. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s ruined. Wine?’

  ‘It won’t be ruined,’ he said, ‘you know I’ll eat anything, and man, I’m famished.’

  Ali poured the wine, put the stew on to heat, gave it a stir and tasted it. There was a slight bitterness. She added more wine.

  ‘Where’s Beth?’

  ‘Not here,’ the words stuck in her throat.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we could spend some time, you and me, with Beth away.’

  ‘Away?’

  ‘Staying with the dancers.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She walked to the table slowly, the sway of her hip purposeful yet George barely seemed to notice. Bustling hot itches arrived at the scar Beth left behind. She sat down at the table and scratched at them, breathing too heavy.

  ‘You’re wearing makeup,’ George said.

  ‘Let’s celebrate.’ Ali downed her wine, George followed suit and she poured more.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  Those itches, angry and sad, they needed more than release. ‘Us, George.
Me and you and a happy future, a future where you stop running away.’

  ‘Running away?’

  ‘What else is it?’

  ‘I don’t run from anything.’

  ‘Big tough George.’

  ‘I’m not a runner, Ali.’

  ‘You hate me, George.’

  George laughed, drank more wine.

  The fork that had found its way into her hand almost went into his face. Almost. ‘Then what? If you’re not keeping out of my way, what is it?’

  He looked at her as if he did hate her. Soon he would launch into his we’ve-got-enough-money-to-buy-anything-you-could-ever-wish-for-so-you-should-be-happy-as-Larry speech. She didn’t want to hear it. She got up and walked away and checked the stew. It wasn’t hot enough but she dished up anyway. ‘Your daughter picked you some big mushrooms.’ She passed him a bowl and sat down with hers.

  He tore off some crusty bread and dipped it in and tasted it. ‘Needs pepper.’

  She pushed him the pepper.

  He ate some stew, said it was delicious. Ali finished the wine, went to the fridge and took out another bottle.

  ‘Look, Ali, I’m sorry I sometimes have to be away.’

  ‘Sometimes?’ Ali laughed. ‘When did we last make love, George?’ He hated that, make love.

  George ate more stew, a sheen of perspiration on his nose and brow.

  Ali thought she’d push it. ‘Tonight, maybe we can cuddle up in bed, and –’

  George clattered his spoon into an empty bowl. ‘Listen, Ali, tomorrow afternoon, there’s no easy way to say this, darling, but I have to go to Edinburgh. Won’t be for long. A day, two tops. But I’m here until then.’

  The bastard. The lousy bastard. ‘Fine. Can we make love, please?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired, to be fair.’

  ‘Fair? Do you even know what that word means?’

  He stared at her. ‘Have you taken your tablets today?’

  The itches that had flourished in her gut now seethed up into her throat. She could have spat them at him, nailed them to his face. On the table, the breadknife she’d placed next to the bread was in easy reach. ‘I cut myself.’