‘Sam.’
Under the security light she was as bright as an angel. ‘I told you he wouldn’t come back here.’
He couldn’t understand what she meant. Then, in a rush, he placed himself outside the library, and the confusion hit him hard, gave him an attack of shivers. How had he got there? He had no memory of leaving the pub. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Have you been drinking?’
He remembered the glass Mags gave to him, and nodded. ‘The Cornerhouse.’
‘Right, well, you’ve had enough.’ She tugged his arm, and he followed her to her car. During the drive, he kept getting traces of the distinctive perfume, but every time he turned his head towards it, it disappeared again. It hadn’t been real, not real in the way that Sam was. He began to understand that he’d had some sort of hallucination. Never had feelings been so intense, so painful, so pleasurable.
Sam pulled the car up outside her house, and he followed her inside. She motioned for him to follow her upstairs; he brushed the string of bells hanging from the banisters, and the tinkling noise was pleasant, restful. How amazingly tired he was, but Sam steered him into the bathroom, and got him to sit on the side of the bath as she dug out antiseptic, cotton wool and plasters from under her sink. She examined his knuckles, then began to dab at them with the antiseptic.
‘She’s not coming back,’ David said. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Marianne or the woman who had encased him in the vision. He wanted them both.
‘Of course she is. It’s one week at a holiday camp. She’ll be back, and she’ll be so pleased to see you. That’s how a holiday works.’
‘Not this one.’
‘What makes you think Skein Island is any different?’ Sam peeled the backing from a large fabric plaster and smoothed it over his middle knuckle. ‘It’s just middle-class, middle-aged women discovering themselves. Am I doing the right things? Living the right life? Who the hell knows? Seven days on an island off the coast of Devon isn’t going to tell you, but it’s free and it’s better than getting drunk and punching walls.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, automatically, to the bitterness in her voice. He reached out and touched her face. She looked so angry, so young. How could she be so dismissive? She let him cup her chin, and the anger faded as he told her, ‘I’m so sorry that you found me like this. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’ve had some kind of… dream.’
‘I told you to stay away from The Cornerhouse. The men who come out of there are wasted, and they can’t wait to go back again. It was investigated a while back. We thought maybe they were drinking home brew, something really strong, but we didn’t find anything. You don’t want to end up like that. You’re freezing. Come on.’
‘No, I need to tell you—’
‘Come on,’ she told him, and he got up and trod along behind her, across the corridor to a darkened bedroom, warm from the radiator under the window. She drew the purple curtains and pulled back the duvet on the neat bed. ‘Take off your clothes and get in.’
‘No, I should go…’ But he couldn’t find the will to move, and when she crossed to him, crouched down and started to remove his shoes, he had the strongest desire to cry. It was all he could do to stand there and keep his face still, in case she looked up.
She put his shoes neatly against the skirting board, then took off his socks and slipped them into each shoe. Then she stood up and started on his shirt. He let her work the buttons, pull it from him, and when she put both hands against his chest the warmth of her was astounding. ‘Get into bed,’ she said.
‘No.’
He stared at her, watched her take in his denial. He couldn’t obey her instruction; he had to find control once more.
‘Get in.’
‘No.’
‘Please. I… Please, get warm.’
He put his hands over hers, then led her to the bed, and pulled her down with him. Underneath the duvet, he wrapped his arms around her; she moved back against him, her bottom pressed into his groin.
‘There,’ he said.
They didn’t talk. Although he was tired, he couldn’t get close to sleep. It evaded him every time he grew near to it. He matched his breathing to Sam’s, in and out, and he thought of how quickly everything had changed. He could not have imagined, only a week ago, that he would be in bed with another woman. Only terrible men did that, not men like him. And yet it did not feel wrong to be there. Sam was fully clothed, and he still had his trousers on, and it wasn’t even about who was wearing what. It was a comfort at a terrible time. It was as if a death had happened, and those left had to find a way to carry on. How they carried on mattered to nobody any more, nobody important.
‘This is really happening,’ she said. ‘Yes. It’s okay.’
‘You don’t get it. Nothing ever happens to me. I feel like I’m always waiting for something, a moment.’
He put his hand on her breast. He wanted to show her how easy it was to change fate. ‘I know how it feels. To want things to be different.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want things to be different. I want me to be different.’ She touched the back of his hand, and he took it as a sign that she wanted him to continue, to stroke her nipple, bring her to feeling. He touched her with the curiosity of exploration, without sexual thoughts in his head, and remembered the girl who had lived down the road when he was little, and the games they had played together – looking at each other, wondering how it all fit together. The delight in the fact that people fitted together at all; that was what came back to him through the night, and even the next morning, as he watched her make coffee and toast in her tiny kitchen, and realised he couldn’t wait for the end of the week. He had to see Marianne.
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Sam, once they had eaten.
‘That’s not true. I’m just not sure what it does mean, that’s all.’
‘It means you were lonely and drunk.’
‘No, I wasn’t – listen, I have to go. God, that sounds awful, but I really do have to go.’
‘You’re going there, aren’t you? Skein Island? There’s no way to get on it. They don’t take men.’
‘I’ll find a way,’ David said. The thought of persevering, and accomplishing, was all that was keeping him going. He needed to see his wife, to tell her what he had learned last night. Maybe her mother had never gone to the island after all. Maybe she was dead, had been dead for years. That could be the starting point for solving the mystery together. The case of the disappearing mother, and the father that covered it up for years.
He could picture it clearly, and how it would play out. At the end they would be the triumphant husband and wife.
‘Go on then,’ Sam said. ‘Just forget about last night. That’ll be easier for everyone.’ She had curled in on herself, her lilac dressing gown pulled tight over her breasts, no strength visible in the dropping lines of her tiny body.
‘No, I don’t want to forget it, okay? I’ll come and see you when I’m back. We’ll talk properly.’ But he did want to forget it, was already filing it away as a stupid mistake after some sort of hallucination that he never wanted to think about again. Except that the two things had become linked in his mind. Being wrapped up in his vision, and in her. Being the centre of a fresh, clean world.
He kissed her on the cheek, and she pushed him away. ‘I hope it all works out for you.’