He and another Guard came to the house the time we were broken into. Mark and I had been arguing about who'd left the kitchen window open. The room was stink with our bile.
He was fine-tuned to pick up on my agitation. I watched his pupils darken when he looked at me; sensed the shifting of his focus. Even with my back turned, I could feel him looking. It made my headache worse.
I liked his mouth, his strawberry blonde eyebrows, his freckles. Mark ceased to exist. It felt good, right from that moment. It felt good to say, fuck it.
He left me his number. I waited a fortnight before I did anything. Don't ask me how I knew he was thinking about me all the while. I pictured him rubbing himself hard to a Tennis Club picture of me torn from The Sentinel; considered what I might wear for him. It had been a long time since I'd had to think about all that. I shaved my legs, got a colour in my hair, bought new stockings and knickers. I trimmed my bush with a nail scissors.
I used the break-in as an excuse for ringing him. Did they have any new information, blah, blah. He was so easy to talk to. Nothing forced or cagey. We got side-tracked. He mentioned Gillian in passing, wife, I guessed. I'd known from the start that he was married. Men like him always are. He saw my own lack of commitment and raised it. He had a crack in his voice like a bubble bursting in honey. I liked that he spoke quietly and with such good sense. I throttled my fingers blue in the cord of the phone.
The following Saturday morning, I saw him in Rooney's but let on that I didn't. I wanted to see what he would do.
I started to salivate like a dog when I copped how he was stalking me. Had he known I'd be here? Had he been watching me all along, tracking my routine? I felt violated, touched. That he could be so devious. Yet that he'd go to that much trouble.
I liked how his colour rose when I busted him in the meat aisle. He was like a boy scurrying to stash a dirty book as the bedroom door opened. Now we could begin to be straight with one another. There were things that I needed him to show me. I wanted so badly that he wouldn't blow it.
It was the first time I'd seen him out of uniform. His claret polo shirt was so tight about his upper arms. I longed to drop all pretence and to touch him, to feel his skin, his breath on my fingers. I didn't care who might see us. But to an onlooker it remained a chance meeting of the barely acquainted. We both played along, both of us aware of the other's complicity.
He was hungover. He'd cut himself shaving. He'd promised his daughters pancakes and not a drop of Jif in the house. Of course he'd have daughters, pert little princesses, Irish dancers with kittens and amputee Sindys. It turned out I knew Gillian to see, a frizzy brunette, a clerical officer above in the Health Board. A passable bitch, I suppose. Poring over Cosmo on her lunch break, them articles on how to kickstart one's post-natal sex life. She was the problem. Pelvic discomfort, a latex allergy...Whatever it was, the man wasn't getting what he needed. No more than I was.
I mentioned in passing that I was dropping into Catharcarra to visit my parents' grave. It was handy, on the way home. On his way as well.
They were buried in the old graveyard, by the wall of the church ruins. There were people beyond in the new section but I was alone. Fatherless, motherless, childless...I kept looking over my shoulder but there was no sign of him. And then, through an ivy-framed window of the church, a flicker of claret...
I have never wanted anything as badly as I did that kiss. Never felt as mad, as coveted. My heart burst with pity for the hurt I sensed at the root of his craving. I could have killed Gillian for her blindness. What kind of bitch was she at all to normalise such suffering?
I can't stop
Don't
Thinking about you
I want you to
You do?
Mm
Fuck, the pancakes...
He stepped back, bewildered looking. Rubbed away my mouth with the back of his hand without thinking. He didn't even say goodbye or look back at me. Just fucked off like a windy boy.
Mark had been at training over at The Harriers and had brought a few of the lads back with him to watch Sports Stadium. I walked in and out with bags but not one of them so much as acknowledged me. I put away the shopping in a daze, stopping to touch the cut on my lip, as my bitterness said, I told you so.
He rang me on the payphone at work a few days later. I took the call reluctantly. I just wanted him to be a man about it. I couldn't stand to have him let me down again.
His voice was steady. He said he wouldn't apologise; wouldn't add insult to injury. He said he'd meant what he'd said to me. He swore that it would be the last time he'd ever hurt me. He said I'd suffered enough.
He knew. He wasn't like the others.
I can be cool when I want. I get it from both sides, Mammy and Daddy. They knew how to use silence as a weapon. How it could hurt more than any beating. He took his punishment. He did us proud.
I said I was glad he'd called. I said I was always free to talk if he needed to. If it was possible.
I hear you...
I hung up and composed myself for the benefit of Dodie Sherlock, who was watching me on the sly from inside the half-opened door of her office. She'd a nose like a pointer. She'd know something was off by the colour of me alone.
Use the phone box in the Post Office from now on. It ought to be just us. We should be able to speak.
I had so much to tell him. All that holding back had me full to the craw.
Saturday morning, I asked him if he wanted to come and look at wallpaper. I knew he'd say no. DIY was poison to him. Spoiled by his mother. Never had to lift a finger growing up.
He said he'd ring Dots Fagan. I said would he not ring a real painter and decorator and not some waster from the old days he felt sorry for. He said I should see the job Dots had done on Bretts. I said I had and that he'd done some job all right.
He never once looked up from his book. He didn't notice I was wearing perfume nor the bum note of me in a skirt at the weekend...
I checked myself in the hall mirror before I left. I had guilt written all over me. You could have nothing to yourself in Annigal.
Fuck them.
I unfixed my hair and shook it loose. I'd done a good job on my eyes. I made a mental note to stop in JJ's for Silvermints.
I'd memorised the directions he'd given me. South on Teachlorainn Road, first left after Donemony Bog...I wondered what story he'd give to Gillian even as I sickened on the thought that he wouldn't show. But I enjoyed the drive. It was good to get out of town. I didn't do it enough.
You'll see a white rag tied to a tree at the head of a boreen. Turn down it, about a half mile...
I drove into wilderness, careful of the bodywork in the narrowing width. It was bogland on either side, white noise of bullrushes shivering in the wind beneath the ghost of a waning moon. The stink of dead water seeped into the car, under my skin. Impossible to reverse now.
He knows it. He's giving me no choice but to come to him.
He was parked by the water's edge in a glade of trees that opened out miraculously. How does he know about this place? Who else has he brought here? I was mad at him, at myself, for an instant, but it passed, bled into my adrenaline rush as the door of his car opened.
He was in uniform like I'd hoped he'd be. I vaselined my lips, watched him approach. I liked how he moved. He had music in him, a promise of soul. Even with that pained something in his smile.
He got in the passenger side. We were quiet at first. I offered him a Silvermint but he waved it away.
Are you on duty? How long do you have?
Not long. I can't believe you're here.
I always keep my promises.
I touched his razor burn. He took my wrist, kissed the tips of my fingers one by one. He reached out with his other hand, cradled my cheek. It seemed huge, a grown-up's to a beloved child.
Tell me to stop if...
No.
I went for his mouth, furious off the back of years of neglect, but it didn't bother him. He talked me down to a place of mutual comfort, set the pace. Showed me the pleasure of sparing the tongue, the pith of relish. His breath was foul with wanting me. He would stop at nothing.
We got in the back. I sat astride him and unbuttoned his shirt as he gathered up my skirt and aligned our bodies. He was so hard, so boyishly flushed and serious, that I couldn't but smile. He'd have a boy's mean streak as well, no less charming. It was how I wanted him, gentle and cruel, mindful and thoughtless of my pleasure in relation to his own. I wanted to obsess him, to stoke his recklessness. I was done with safety.
I braced myself against the roof. His mouth was tender to the point of pity at my breast, one extended finger touching me from behind. That was new. I watched his upper arms break out in gooseflesh when I dragged my nails up them; again when they flickered about his nipple. I was already mad for the body on him, even the bit of a belly. I knew the hunger it represented. I knew that emptiness.
He lifted me up, steered me into the corner. I knew what he wanted. I arched and pulled off my drawers in one slick move. My thighs were pale in a shaft of sunlight, my hand slipping down, emerging from shadow.
I watched him, gauging his reaction. All I'd known were men who were disgusted by it, even though they let on otherwise. Men who used words like, box, gee, fanny, cunt. Cack-handed, tone-deaf men. But I also knew they couldn't all be that way.
Mammy used to say that I was too soft, that I was living in a dream world. The last thing I'd wanted was to want to end up like her and yet it had happened to me. Almost happened...
He spoke in tongues to me. To her. Fluent as a tinker. I moved my hips with his fingers, reassured him. He knew what he was doing. That in itself was wonderful to the point of being strange. I urged him to go to the crop if he needed. Express himself. My muck clicked like a scold's tongue. I heard him say my name. I heard the sob in his breathing.
I had never come. Not really. Part of me wouldn't allow it. It was wasted on someone like Mark, even if he'd been any use of a lover back before he'd given up pretending to be interested. I realised I'd been hoarding it. I wanted body and soul, to fall in love and to be fucked raw. I wanted it. I had as much right as anyone.
Oh fuck...Oh look at you...Oh my poor baby...
A flush spread through the shiver of heatstroke that took me over. The back of his neck went red as a farmer's. I clawed his skull, my midriff tense and sunken. I wouldn't cry, no matter how much I wanted to, nor let him up for air. A wasp choking in honey, he didn't dare stop. He was a grafter. He was so clean.
He broke free of my clutches with no bother. I gagged on the taste of myself off his mouth but his spit was sugar to the medicine. I unbuckled him one-handed, grabbed on to his bared arse. He was wanking himself off. I couldn't see but I could feel its presence, its life. I knew in my guts that it wouldn't fail me. I would make him come. He'd have no say in the matter.
Let me.
I took the condom from him; ripped it open with my teeth. I was pure spoofing, half remembering how-to's from TV shows, yet carrying it off. Part of me was upset at the thought of lying to him. I was his woman. I wanted him to know he could trust me.
He held his cock at the bottom as I smoothed the rubber down it, grave as a nun. He sifted the hair away from my face with such fondness. I stroked his balls, afraid to look at him, afraid of giving away how anxious I was.
Are you ok?
I want it to be good. I couldn't bear it...
Ssh. Come here.
I straddled his lap. He struggled a bit with my bra and both of us laughed. The rush of tenderness I felt for him unmoored me. I rode the tip back and forth, back and forth, ever closer, ever lower. There was blood in the threads of spit that clung to our lips between kisses. I felt fit to burst asunder, like grapes crushed underfoot.
It hurt, and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop at that point. He wouldn't. But he took it easy. Spared me the apologies. The weirdness of latex disgusted me but I saw it through, no less the sting. I was a mess down there. It was no bother.
He let me take control. He wanted it to be about me. My pleasure, in my time. Nor was there any side to it. No need for cynicism or suspicion. He wanted to please me and that was all. I adored him, his strength, his goodness. I pitied him and revelled in his self-denial.
His chest shone, came up like a bruise. His grip was savage. I threw my head and shoulders back, my body wholly open to him, never before more vulnerable nor confident. His pleasure, the sorrow and threat of him, was gorgeous to see. Did they train guards to kill? I sincerely hoped so.
I rode him slowly, deliberately. I wanted to be drained like a boil, purified, hollowed out. We were such a good fit. We were so close. I dreaded falling in love with him. I'm so sorry, darling. I was scared. I had no control over it.
I closed about him like a sprung trap. I throttled him. He took joy in mine, his terrible need to please bordering on desperate. I wanted it to be about him too, his pleasure. I wanted to make him lose it same as me. I wanted to feel it as it happened.
He was barely holding on. I lifted my hips to push him out, awkward in getting to my knees. I pushed back his legs to give myself room. Rolled the rubber up and off. The hair on his arsehole was the same colour as his eyebrows. He was sweating buckets out of there.
He knew I was bluffing and he didn't care. But I got better at it as I went on, as I found out what he liked. It wasn't long before I was showing off. I could feel a change in his tension, the loss of control upon a burst tyre. He had no choice.
I was cotton-mouthed, devoted. His arsehole clenched about my fingertip. There was almost hate in his face. We wouldn't go there. But neither would it have taken much.
He came hard, massively as a priest. It was a sin to deny himself like that. He was a man. They go odd without it. His come was scalding, not so gross as I'd imagined. There was a sweetness there. I could taste it in the back of my throat.
Maybe it was the peace I was after, the holiness of that silence when it's finished. I wasn't even thinking about the mess. I closed my eyes and listened to him breathing. He cupped my shoulder thoughtfully, like he'd just figured something out.
Mark said there was a weird smell in the car, like a licked hand. I told him he was smelling himself. But I bought one of them trees from the garage anyway. I needed to be more careful. He wasn't that thick.
The few days afterwards fizzed like Satz over ice. Dodie Sherlock told me my skin was looking well. She knew that glow. Spring water, I told her, but she wasn't buying it. She asked after Mark, imagine. I told her Mark was grand, not a bother.
We only got to talk once and it was awkward. He took ages to pick up and when he did he was off with me. I said I was sorry if I'd ruined his day. He told me not to start, not everything was about me. He couldn't talk for long, he had to be somewhere. Why would I even ask if he wanted to see me? Was I playing tennis Thursday night?
I blew the first set. 4-6. Helen wasn't even playing that well. She took her chance when it came along was all. It made me fed up enough to take the second by sheer contrariness alone. 7-5. She was broken mentally by the end of it. I knew from the stance of her. 6-0 the last, all of eighteen minutes. Every sweet spot I found, the foxiness of my game, all of it was down to him. I couldn't wait to tell him.
I'll be waiting in Steirim Road. You're to follow me.
I knew by the way he was driving, even, that something was off. I tried to ignore the sense - You're still up after playing - but it was no use. I knew what children they could be. He wasn't like the others...I suppose I hadn't given up all hope.
We parked at the back of an abandoned cottage by the lake. Somewhere around Port Ferris, I don't know. He took me through the field behind into the trees by the lakeside. I saw it before he could point it out to me.
A fucking caravan?
Mobile home.
Same difference.
Don't start.
I'm not starting anything.
But it was all right inside. He said nobody knew about it. It had belonged to a teacher out of the Convent who'd killed himself. Out of respect for his family, they'd kept its existence off the record.
Is this where he brought them?
Rowed up from Cluastorran. Not one of them could remember exactly where it was.
What about what happened to them here? Did they remember that?
Mongoloids, all of them. And he used to drug them. Their memories are...unreliable. And sure don't kids have vivid imaginations? Gingerbread houses, you know?
I stared out at the skeleton of a rowboat. I ought to have felt pity but we hadn't the time. He took off his belt and doubled it up; cracked it once.
Are you going to hurt me?
Send you home black and blue to the other cunt. And what would he do, eh?
You're all talk.
His lips went pale. I unzipped my tracksuit, my guts in a heap.
I stopped off in Xtravision on the way home; lingered a while among the racks. I didn't want to go home. I still could feel the bulk of him on top of me; the sting of internal bruising when I moved.
My heart burning with spunk and nobody knows. He's my whore. It works both ways.
I caught the fatarse behind the counter looking at me and faced him down. He blushed like a cartoon. What would he have done, anyway? He'd have skid marks, a limp dick, a smell of Tayto off him. I'd scare him.
Jesus, such a difference between men...He gets so hard. I get him so hard. I know what he likes. I know how to get him off. Oh, he has greatness in him, I'm telling you. I haven't even scratched the surface with that boy.
Cocktail. I'd already seen it but fuck it.
I went next door to the Minimart, bought a packet of pork, onion and tomato and savaged it down in the car. It smelled like armpits but it didn't matter. It was meat. It was all I could think about.
We got ready in silence, drove to The Pound in silence and then, after parking the car, Mark turned to me and said, I know what's going on.
What are you talking about?
I'm not a fucking eejit.
You're not?
He was shaking. He acts tough not to let on how scared he is all the time. Had I really been as blind? He's so transparent. It makes me laugh now.
They were talking about YOU.
Who was?
You're changing room gossip, you are. You tramp, you. You fucking sicken me.
I told him to grow up. I needed to pee so bad.
It was a table quiz. The teachers' team had brought me in as a ringer. They were such patronising wankers. But even I could see how they were only putting up with him.
I drank brandy and ginger all night, just to piss him off. I was full of spice all right. I watched him getting surlier, with that prissy little fucking mouth he gets. Getting every question wrong and getting bollocked for it. He took this stupid shit way too seriously. Like general knowledge was some measure of worth.
I waited until he was in the jacks before ringing. Calling the barracks was a desperate move but I needed to warn him. And, more than anything, I wanted to see what he was going to do.
He waited till we were parked outside the house. I wasn't expecting the dig but neither was he the one I landed back on his mouth. A split lip, a cracked tooth...I won, I suppose. He had no tissues on him. I was fucked if I was giving him any.
He found an old J-cloth shoved down by the handbrake. Nor was I going to tell him what I'd used it for.
This needs stitches. Your rings caught me.
Show us...Just a nick. You'll be grand.
He rolled down the window and spat. Whatever way the light hit him, and with the blood on him and all, he looked good, like he used to, handsome like an actor. Truth was, I'd never been able to figure him out. He'd never know how much he'd hurt me.
Who is he?
He's not you. That's the most important thing. I always thought it was my fault, you know? It was the only explanation, wasn't it love? That there was something wrong with me?
You have no fucking right...
I have every fucking right. You have the cheek to slap me? Because of your hurt feelings? You don't feel anything, do you Mark?
Shut up.
Try it. I'll hit you back again.
He punched the dash instead. Tried not to let on how much it hurt.
I locked myself in the box room. I felt calm, clear in the head. Mark was running up and down the stairs, slamming doors. He had to be doing something with himself.
He won't leave Gillian and the girls. You'll be a kept woman in a bedsit downtown. Come over once a week for a ride and fuck off back to the family. You know how it'll be.
My hand was killing me. My fingers were so swollen that I couldn't get my rings off. I needed ice. I could figure the rest of it out later.
I stuck the kettle on as I was down there. He'd used the last of the ice so I ran my fingers under the cold tap. He leaned against the frame of the kitchen door, holding toilet roll to his lip, watching me. It wasn't even an awkward silence. There was just nothing that needed to be said.
I gave him sugar in his tea. They say it's good for shock. I even felt a bit bad for him. He looked so lost, like Daddy gone senile. But we'd coped with that as well.
He can get it up...
Jesus Christ, are you still feeling sorry for yourself? After all this time? I sicken you, Mark, I know. I'm sorry you had to put up with me.
No, I...You were...
Yeah. Just like in one of your poems. I'm sorry for existing. I'm sorry about the smell.
A car pulled up outside. He knew who it was by the look on my face.
Just a chat, love. Take the lie of the land. Then see where we go from there.
He shook his head. He was begging. He'd thank me later, though.
I brushed past him like he wasn't there.
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