Down
In
The
Crypt.
Chesapeake
At night the beach was pretty much deserted. Faces from the rocks slipped into the sly sea line while the waters thrashed as if a second moon would appear. Rain soaked and wind blown, I watched Rangi’s lone, lean frame angling into the foamy depths. He changed with each dive and stroke, beneath the knowing gazes of underwater creatures. I leaned into the wind from my view between two rough-hewn peaks, breeze dented, scowling chip paper in one hand; greasy fat chip in the other. Shots of vinegar created sour warmth in my mouth. Above a smattering of gulls chorused loudly.
I was joyous having left behind London and the brass head beneath my bed, the fascination it held and the sick feeling it produced in my stomach. I thought of my grandfather’s diary, facing the things I’d inherited breathing between the lines of a bound leather book.
The wind began to howl. My inappropriate plimsolls were soaked. Typical of me to wear the wrong footwear, you can’t even get that right. I shivered. The salty sea air felt good, I was slowing down my demons, given them a different oxygen. The faces in the night water waited patiently for limbs. Rangi stood, water undulating around him, motioning for me to join him. “Come on!” he yelled. “Stop being an observer!” he taunted. A weird rush of intensity filled my body, even in the distance between us, the air was electric. I shook my head, scared he’d notice something we both didn’t want to see rise to the surface of water. I leaned forward to get a closer view, certain his body had encountered haphazard bits of life underwater; a plane’s wing, a diver’s mask, the moon’s silver-limbed doppelganger.
Don’t be an observer. I wasn’t. There I was running off with a stranger to get to know myself, convinced the limestones in my pocket had left damp stains. They glimmered in those small openings, moist and full of slow promise. If I got really anxious, I could always nibble on them. Rangi called out to me in a language I didn’t recognise, water dancing with his shark mouth. I rubbed my tender neck, blinking against the tide and the memory of him trying to strangle me in his sleep the night before. I stilled my body, a statue amidst black rocks, listening to the heartbeat galloping towards my chest.
In the cosy room of the seaside B&B, the hand on my throat tightened. The earth-toned red room swam. The TV showing an old episode of The Twilight Zone flickered. I clutched at his wrist, struggling for air. My eyes watered, body wriggled, head smacked against the double bed’s rustic headboard. The voice over from The Twilight Zone spoke. You can never know what will happen during those quiet moments of night we take for granted. I tried to speak but he was squeezing hard, face twisted unrecognizably. Greyish white television light bathed us. I kicked wildly, digging my nails into his wrist before the pressure finally eased. I flung my body sideways, grabbing the glass of cold water beside the reading lamp, throwing it in his face.
“What the fuck?” he mumbled, wiping the wetness off his face, sitting up immediately. “Are you crazy? What did you do that for?” His New Zealand accent was even thicker during moments of irritation.
“You were strangling me!” I screamed. My voice sounded paper thin despite the volume. My eyes stung. I spluttered, relieved to be able to breathe again, stumbling from the damp bed as credits rolled on the TV screen. In the bathroom, I ran the cold tap, splashed water on my face and neck, trying to ease the burning sensation in my throat. I heard him knocking about in the other room. The portable fridge door opening made a whoosh sound. Cold air. I sat on the toilet seat trembling, touching the marks forming on my throat, waiting for bruises to come and transform under his bloodshot gaze.
I looked up, silent as his frame filled the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding a small bowl of ice. He wrapped some cubes in a white cloth, pressed them against my neck. “I didn’t mean to get that way.” His touch was gentle. The same broad hand and tapered fingers were capable of being both tender and destructive. He placed a hand on my shoulder. His handsome face was feral yet apologetic in the bright light. “You’re alright aren’t you?”
“You thought I was someone else!” I accused, still frazzled, nerves shot.
The television was now off.
“No, I didn’t know it was happening,” he answered, mouth a grim line. His shoulders were tight. He let out a slow breath as if releasing an internal pressure.
“Death doesn’t have to be frightening; it’s just a transition into another phase,” he said. It was such an odd comment; I shook my head in disbelief.
“Fuck you!” I exclaimed. “And you might want to be fully awake before you start giving lessons.”
He leaned closer, face inches from mine, and smiled sardonically. His golden eyes gleamed. “Watch your mouth.”
“How can you be so relaxed after what happened?” I asked. “What if I hadn’t been able to wake you?”
“What do you want from me?” he roared. “You want a written fucking apology? You want to hold this over my head is that it?” He walked out, flinging the door open.
I stretched my legs out on the floor, confused by his reaction, trying to ignore the roaring in my head, the clammy feeling on my neck. The pale floor glistened, I tried to stand slowly but my legs buckled. The sentence in my throat was a breathy wheeze.
I began to crawl on the floor. Fear came thick and fast. I couldn’t breathe. Panic attack. I felt around the floor for something, anything to steady me. Rangi appeared in the doorway again, calmly whistling. I hated myself for my weakness, for showing vulnerability too early. I knew I was crawling into the whites of his eyes, disappearing. He watched me struggling on the floor, coolly mouthed “fuck you.” Then everything went grainy black.
When I came to, it was still cold, hard floor beneath me. Rangi held a pillow and there was an intense concentration on his face as he brought it down. The burning in my throat persisted; it felt like sandpaper. The room was hazy, smudged. I couldn’t make out the lines of objects surrounding me. I sat up awkwardly.
“Steady,” he instructed. “It’s okay; I was just going to make you more comfortable. I didn’t want to move you yet.”
“What happened? “I asked, vaguely aware of the weakness of my limbs. He stroked a damp twist off my forehead, pressed a kiss there. “You fainted. Has that happened before?”
“No, not that I can remember,” I answered, confused by his concern and unpredictability. The sleeping blue flame inside him singed my fingers. Somehow I was grateful, it made me feel alive. He carried me out of the bathroom, took my gaze away from the ceiling. After attempting to strangle me, he fucked me gently on the damp, sunken bed.
We left in slanted, heavy rain, hurtling down tight, twisted roads in an older black Mazda I was certain wasn’t even his. Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside played on the radio. I placed my feet on the dashboard. It was hard to see through the thunderous showers but I spotted her at the top of the curve ahead, Anon, running towards us, clutching something round. My heart sank. Did you think I wouldn’t come? she asked.