The Casualties

by Nick Holdstock

  “Things are going to be fine,” he said, because it wasn’t enough to think this, feel this; it had to be heard. It was more than a mental conviction; it was a pulse that travelled the length of his body, the kind of thing you saw in films when magic spells were cast to heal the wounded hero. His fingertips felt as if sparks might emerge; rushes of electricity travelled down his muscles. These rushes felt like ants, but much faster than ants. They did not march in slow columns; these ants rode on trains.

  Sam rolled up his sleeve, took her hand, and placed it on his lower arm. Her hand clenched his wrist, but that wasn’t right, so he put his palm on her hand until her fingers opened. He gently put her fingers back on his arm, and then only the smallest motion, an inch’s journey, was enough to show her what he wanted. She smoothed her fingers along his arm as another wave passed through him. That was the only word for it, wave; it captured the way the sensation broke on him in an intense collision. Wave, because the feeling was not going to stop, just as the sea and its waves do not.

  Sinead’s fingers were moving in such total accord with those waves of certainty—they were coming in faster—that she had to know what he was feeling.

  “Come closer,” he said, because although she was touching him, she still seemed far away. She shifted nearer, but there was still distance between them, and so he said, “Closer,” and she came closer, and then he said it again. With Sam lying down, and Sinead leaning against the sofa, there was almost no space between them. Her face hung like a moon above. Her lips were far too red. Their intensity hurt his eyes and made him think of that old film where nuns living on a mountaintop go demented with lust. Her lips looked as if a child had coloured them in quickly.

  He was so thirsty. He was about to ask Sinead for water when she asked, “Do you have any gum?”

  “Gum?” he said, and liked the sound of the word. “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  “No,” she said, and looked quite sad, but for only a moment. “I have sweets,” she said, and stood up quickly. She went out the room, and he heard something break, and then she came back in. “Open wide,” she said, and he obeyed, and then she put something in his mouth. He was so curious about it, so impatient to taste it, that he closed his lips on her fingers. It was a mint, and her fingers were soft, and when she took them out she took the mint as well. She put it into her own mouth. “That’s better,” she said, and only then did he realise that the pulses had stopped. For a moment he felt dizzy, and he was still thirsty. She passed him a glass.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I’m thirsty too.”

  They drank and looked at each other. Her lips were no longer as red. He wondered about his.

  “How do they look?”

  “What?”

  “My lips,” he said, and pointlessly pointed. She brought her thumb to them. She smoothed it along his lower lip, which felt like it was swollen. The lips are big in the brain, he thought. And so are the hands.

  He pictured a man with his face, but distorted. With the hands and lips of a giant. As for his brain, Sam’s brain, it looked like a city seen at night from a plane—in some places dark, in others light—and although he could not quite map this image onto that of the man with giant hands, he knew they were connected.

  “Great,” he said, then could not say more, because her mouth stopped him. Her kiss was passionate, almost rough; he expected to taste blood. But it was not long before her tongue slowed and the biting stopped, and there was a tender meeting of mouths. Then he was touching her face, the back of her neck, his hand pushing into her hair. It had been years since he had kissed anyone properly, because Malea wouldn’t, and that one kiss from Magda had happened so quickly. There was nothing wrong with kissing Sinead; if she thought it would lead to sex, that was not his problem. The only thing which troubled him was that the waves had stopped. Her hand was still stroking his arm—that had not changed—but the euphoria had gone. Perhaps their kissing was confusing things. He took his mouth from hers.

  She looked surprised, then worried.

  “I’m so fucking thirsty,” she said, and drained her glass. “Be back in a minute.”

  She was gone a long time.

  He thought he heard rain.

  Out the window the sky was still blue.

  His legs felt hot, so he took off his trousers, albeit slowly and with a certain fear, because there was no telling what kind of wound he might see. He was almost disappointed to find how little damage there was; it devalued the beating.

  When Sinead came back in he asked, “Where were you?”

  “In the kitchen. Why, did you miss me?” she said, and laughed. This laugh didn’t stop, and she seemed to be having so much fun that he joined in. They laughed as she knelt then kissed him again, and somehow they kept laughing as their kissing continued. It was just as funny when her hand travelled down his chest. But he stopped laughing when she touched his penis through his shorts. The wave broke over him again, but now it was a constant feeling of pleasure. Perhaps it could no longer be called a wave, but he didn’t know what else to call it. He didn’t care either, after she pulled his penis through the slit in his shorts. “I love you,” she said, and put it in her mouth.

  Nothing in his life had ever felt as good. Many things had made him happier, or more pleased, but all those emotions were corrupted by words, thoughts, the fear of being seen to enjoy something too conspicuously. But this sensation did not need interpretation. When Sam thought of his brain, that city at night, most of it could have been dark, or absent, and he would still have felt the same pleasure. Only the oldest parts were required, those places lit by flaming torches instead of electric light.

  But when he gasped out loud, it was not because of Sinead’s oral skills. It was the realisation of how incredibly stupid he’d been. He could have felt this good every day for the last year. Admittedly, he would have had to reciprocate by having some form of penetrative sex, but he could have worn two condoms dipped in spermicide and made sure she was on the pill. They might not have needed to go out with each other: Plenty of his volunteers had regular sex with friends, or just acquaintances, with few complications.

  Sinead took his penis out her mouth and slapped it on her protruding tongue. “Do you like that?” she asked. She did it again, then put him back in her mouth. She pinched the base of his penis, squeezed his balls, and pushed his penis deeper in her mouth till it touched the back of her throat. As she moved her head back and forth she gagged but never broke eye contact. The whole thing seemed both completely real and utterly made up. It was not, in Sam’s experience, how sex usually worked. She was acting as if this were a porno film. He had no idea if this was something she enjoyed or whether she was just trying to please him. Although it certainly did, now there were lights in other parts of the city, not as bright as in the old quarters but enough to distract. From then on, every moment of pleasure was analyzed. Sam was no longer wholly within the moment; he was outside it as well. When Sinead leaned back and took off her T-shirt, then started to remove her bra, she did so with exaggerated slowness. First one strap, then the other, after which she arched her back as she reached to undo it.

  Though this was exciting, there was something performative about her actions that made him uncomfortable whilst really turning him on. The sight of her breasts was equally thrilling and discombobulating. They were medium-size, on the small side of large, with such a remarkable heft that they were without doubt the best breasts he’d ever looked at that weren’t on a screen. The old parts of the city could not wait to touch and taste them; the newer districts noted the way she rubbed her nipples while biting her lower lip. She wasn’t doing this for him, she couldn’t be: She didn’t know anything about him. Not his childhood, or his parents leaving, or what books he liked to read. As she undid her trousers, Sam considered the possibility that he wasn’t special. Maybe all she wanted was an audience.

  By the time her trousers were off, he was certain he was wrong. If all she
wanted was an audience, she could have found a different one each night.

  Sinead stepped out of her trousers and bent over him, so her bottom was in his face. This received mixed reviews. The residents of newer districts rolled their eyes and groaned; in the old town, the midbrain, lights pulsed in applause. The reactions between these districts differed so greatly that perhaps they were no longer one place. They were more like separate cities linked by history, not all of it good. Sam wasn’t one brain, one person, but two: the first fully in the moment, the other somewhat removed. Who enjoyed Sinead taking down her pants while looking over her shoulder? Whoever it was, whether “Sam” or not, this person was clearly in charge. When Sinead got on top of him there were no objections.

  She took his penis in her hand.

  She lowered herself.

  He did not say, “You need a condom.”

  She gasped then began.

  16. Three, Two

  WHEN SAM WOKE HIS HEAD hurt and his mouth was dry. Most of all, there was panic. He was in Sinead’s bed, and he didn’t know why.

  He sat up, and the pain was so bad he lay down again. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was only nine a.m. Next to the clock was a framed picture of his face. It had been taken in the shop; he was looking right at the camera but not seeing it. He had probably been talking to a customer, but it looked as if he were making meaningful eye contact with the photographer. He didn’t know when the picture had been taken, but it was at least three or four months ago, because his hair was very short. Sinead had been looking at his face each morning for at least that long.

  If he’d found a similar picture in Caitlin’s or Malea’s houses, he would have been pleased. Seeing it in Sinead’s bedroom was upsetting. It was only a photo, and far from private, but it bothered him. He imagined Sinead putting it in different rooms, having conversations with it, touching herself while gazing into his eyes. It was invasive and a violation, and it made him furious. At no point did Sam consider the thousands of photos he owned, all without the knowledge or permission of either the people in them or those they had belonged to. If this had been pointed out to him, he would have shaken his head and said, with special vehemence, that it was not the same thing.

  As he lay on top of her black sheets he remembered them fucking. Her on top. Then from behind. None of it made sense. After years of self-control, why had he given in? He smashed the photo of his face; it made him feel better.

  But there was nothing more twentieth century than thinking you could destroy a piece of information. There would be copies on her phone, camera, and computer; it could be her profile picture; she might have a blog entitled Will I Ever Get to Fuck That Guy in the Bookshop? that featured candid snaps of him from every angle. It had probably already been updated with new and adult content, its title changed to an affirmative.

  Sam got out of bed, put on his trousers, and started searching Sinead’s flat. He wanted to know something about the woman he had just slept with. It didn’t matter if she caught him; the worst had already happened.

  He began in the bedroom. In the chest of drawers he found sweaters, scarves, T-shirts, underwear, nothing interesting except a small pink box that contained a pair of handcuffs. They were engraved with the message For S from P. You will not want a key.

  The wardrobe was more rewarding. He found two shoeboxes full of photos of Sinead on beaches with boys in shorts who looked like they exercised a lot. The earliest photos were from 2006, the last from 2010. None showed her wearing dark colours or with the heavy makeup he was used to seeing. Without the latter, she looked younger, more at ease. There were also birthday and Christmas cards from her parents—though the most recent, from 2013, was signed only by her mother.

  The predictable vibrator was in her bedside drawer. Under it were six laminated photos. He saw himself in profile in different places on the street—in Mr. Asham’s, in the post office, in the French delicatessen—with no particular expression. All but one of the pictures were taken from at least ten feet away; the exception showed him at the bus stop, close up, and must have been taken through a bus or car window. There was nothing provocative or suggestive about any of the poses. Whatever she found erotic she supplied herself. Perhaps their banality was the point. These everyday moments were starting points for any fantasy. A chance meeting could lead to conversation, which could segue into a coffee, a beer, his tongue in her mouth.

  He looked through the photos again, unsure of whether to take them. Perhaps they did no harm. He was about to put them back in the drawer when he dropped one. He bent to pick it up and saw a notebook with a plain brown cover underneath her bed. Its pages were filled with entries chronicling the last few years. The most recent entry was from the previous week.

  July 4, 2017

  Still not sure about the dose. Not enough and it won’t work. Too much and he’ll feel sick. It would be so fucking typical if he threw up and passed out.

  It made Sam feel both better and worse to know he’d been drugged. He wasn’t to blame; it was basically rape. He sat a moment, letting the thought throb. Then he stood and left the flat, taking the diary with him.

  Outside, people were wearing shorts, eating ice cream, and walking very slowly. It was the first day that actually felt like summer. There were expressions of disbelief and sweaters tied around waists. People squinted at the sun as if it were a bright light suddenly switched on. It is probably bad taste to envy those about to die, but in one respect those people in Comely Bank, London, Paris, and New York had something we can never recover. They could look into the sky with absolute trust.

  When he got home, Alasdair was hunched over the scanner, holding a photo Sam did not remember. It was a black-and-white picture of a woman wearing a bonnet with ribbons tied under her chin. In her arms she held a small goose, or perhaps a duck, Sam really couldn’t tell.

  “What does it say on the back?”

  Alasdair turned the photo over.

  “It’s blank,” he said, and put it in the trunk. The next item he took from the pile was a notebook bound in black leather.

  “Oh, I remember that,” said Sam. “It’s really smoky. There must have been a fire.”

  Alasdair brought it to his nose, breathed in, and nodded.

  “It’s pretty strange, but also boring. Just this list of things the person bought, it’s really quite path— What are you doing?”

  Alasdair’s tongue travelled down the notebook’s spine. When he finished, he said, “This is good.”

  “Why the fuck did you lick it? It’s filthy.”

  “Because it’s a chemical sense. I wanted to see if it tasted different from how it smelt.”

  “And did it?”

  “No.”

  Alasdair grinned as if he knew a tremendous secret. He opened the book but only glanced at the page before looking back at Sam. His smile was still there, and Sam waited to hear that smoke was good for the body because it contained carbon, or that it was good to lick things because the tongue needed exercise. Instead Alasdair said, “A man came here last night.”

  “Who was it? What did he want?” Sam pictured Sean, or Mr. Asham. He thought of Sean holding him down while Mr. Asham hit him.

  “He didn’t say who he was. But he looked sick. I think he eats the wrong fruit.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To give you something.”

  Alasdair put his hand under his topmost sweater, then seemed to be feeling his nipple. He brought his hand out, looked at it, flexed his fingers several times, then slid it under a different layer of clothing. He produced a brown envelope.

  “Here,” he said, and Sam took it. The envelope was damp.

  “Tell him to eat peaches. The best ones are in cans.”

  Inside was a small red book with thirty-two pages, most of which were blank. It was Malea’s passport.

  The next day, he booked her a plane ticket for the Philippines. The flight was for August 1. He put the passport and ticket through h
er door that evening. Though Sam would have liked to see Malea’s confusion, then joy, he decided it was best not to give it to her in person. If he was present, it would put too much pressure on her response. There was even a chance she would refuse the ticket, not because she didn’t want it, but to avoid being in his debt. It might even upset her; maybe she’d be angry he’d found out her real name.

  But it could also be a chance for them to start again. In another place, where she was not “Trudy,” he could be someone other than Sam who used to pay for sex. Obviously, they’d have to take things slowly, get used to their new roles. It was far from guaranteed. Yet not impossible.

  And so he booked himself a ticket on her flight. He did not think there was any need to mention this to her.

  * * *

  THE LAST TWO weeks in Comely Bank were almost without incident. A black cat called Lucky was rescued from a tree three times, a driver lost control of his vehicle and drove into what had been Mr. Campbell’s antique shop, and a fire broke out in a house near the bridge. Even in the glare of hindsight, none of these events seems auspicious. Only the betrayal, murder, and vicious beating that befell several of the human relics seems to have anticipated the impending cataclysm. Finally, in those closing days, those people were of the present.

  It would be a stretch to say that Sam was responsible for all of these mishaps. Yet even the most indulgent view of his actions, from someone who was privy to his every feeling and thought, would find it hard to deny a degree of blame. All that can be said in his defence is that he was badly shaken by his violation. If he hadn’t seen Sinead for the next few weeks, perhaps he might have calmed down. But when he looked out of the bookshop window on July 19, she was on the other side of the street. He stared at her, thinking she would quickly, guiltily leave, but she didn’t seem bothered. In fact she was smiling.