Moon Page 9

  He relaxed, not wanting to take the love-making too far, not yet. She turned her head back to look at him, and there was a shine in her eyes. ‘I love you,’ she said simply.

  He kissed her again, just lightly, and his hand brushed lank hair from her cheek. ‘There’s a comfortable bed waiting upstairs,’ he whispered.

  Amy lowered her eyes, as if suddenly timid. ‘And I love being with you.’ She sipped her Martini, content in the soothing liquid warmth. He helped her massage shampoo into her hair, rinsing it with his own empty whisky glass, using a cloth on her back, all movement slow, languid, no vigour and no haste used. Eventually he drew her from the water and she stood before him, a golden, lissom figure, so sensually innocent in her nakedness, so knowing in her smile. Childes towelled her dry, using a restrained, patting movement as though her skin would break if touched too hard. He reached her legs and they parted a little as he dabbed at them; he paused to kiss her tummy, her hips, the top of her thighs. She was very damp there and it was not just water.

  ‘Jon,’ she said, and there was a mild urgency in her tone. ‘Can we go upstairs now?’

  He rose and reached for the dark blue bathrobe hanging behind the door, wrapping it around her shoulders and tying the belt at the front for her, her arms trapped inside. ‘You go ahead, I’ll pour us another drink.’

  Back in the sitting room, he heard her bare footsteps overhead, the bed creaking as she lay down. He quickly replenished their glasses and climbed the short stairway, forgetting about ice. Amy, still in the bathrobe, was lying on top of the bedclothes, waiting. One leg was provocatively exposed to the thigh, while the robe was loose enough around her neck to reveal the delicate curves of her breasts.

  Childes took in the sight before moving into the room. He put their drinks on a bedside cabinet and sat on the bed close to her. Neither of them spoke, but they watched each other, enjoying what they saw, both relishing the waiting.

  Finally, Amy drew him down, easing off his shirt as he sank. His hands went inside the robe, reaching round to her back, pressing her flesh, pulling her close. They kissed and there was no control, their mouths open to each other’s, their lips crushing. Her relentless hands caressed his sides, his back, his hips, squeezing, scratching, inciting. He fondled her breasts and they were soft and malleable, only their centres resisting, the hardened tips thrusting themselves at the moving palms of his hands.

  She kissed his chest, causing pleasurable tension there, her tongue heightening that sensation.

  His hand slid towards her thigh, delving beneath the rough material of the robe to feel the roundness of her buttocks, pressing them in a circular motion, his fingers probing the end of her spine. Amy moaned aloud and collapsed onto her back, one leg raised over his. His searching hand came back to find her warm moistness and a small cry welcomed its approach. He touched, lingered, entered when her risen hips urged him. She opened to him and his fingers pierced, his thumb caressing her sensitive outer regions, using soft, smooth friction to make her gasp, to clutch him tightly, to grip his body with all her limbs.

  Amy’s breath was fast, shallow, and she groaned in disappointment when he released her, craving more, more touching, more feeling, but he needed her, wanted to be engulfed by her. She realized his intent and helped him free himself from his remaining clothing, reaching for him when the swimming trunks were gone and guiding him down to her.

  He entered and there was no hindrance, the journey into her liquid-smooth, and the motion causing them both to murmur. Childes forced himself to stop, wishing to see her face, her love, to show his. They kissed once more and the tenderness was soon overtaken by driving need.

  He felt the hot, pliant softness of her thigh around his own and he ducked low to kiss her breasts, their taste a bitter stimulant; he supported himself on his elbows so that their stomachs parted while their bodies remained locked together, with no intention of separating. The sight of her beneath him was exquisite and his thrusting became hurried, Amy soon matching him. He collapsed onto her, his chin pressing into the side of her neck, and she revelled in his strength, holding him to her, their bodies moving against each other’s, their gasps filling the room, her appreciative whimpers driving him on, their final cries resounding off the walls, their slow, sinking sighs whispering their contentment.

  After a while, they drew apart, kissing as they did so. They lay on their backs, both allowing the excitement to ebb away, each catching their breath. Childes’ chest heaved with the exertion and there was a faint shine to his dampened skin. Amy recovered more quickly and turned to him, a hand draping loosely over his waist. She studied his profile, loving the roughness of his chin, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. She traced a finger across his open lips and he bit softly, his breathing slowing down.

  ‘Seconds?’ she asked mischievously.

  He groaned and slid an arm beneath her shoulders. Amy settled against his chest.

  ‘Sometimes, you know,’ he said, ‘you look about fifteen.’

  ‘Now?’

  He nodded. ‘And a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Does it put you off?’

  ‘Far from it, because I know different. I know the woman inside.’

  ‘The whore in me?’

  ‘No, the woman.’

  She nipped his skin. ‘I’m glad it pleases you.’

  ‘You’ve made an old man very happy.’

  ‘Thirty-four isn’t exactly ancient.’

  ‘I’ve got eleven years on you.’

  ‘H’mn, on consideration maybe that is a little old. I may have to rethink my plans.’

  ‘You’ve made plans?’

  ‘Let’s say I have intentions.’

  ‘Care to tell me what they are?’

  ‘Not at the moment. You’re not ready to hear them.’

  ‘I wonder if your father would approve.’

  ‘Why does he always have to come into it?’

  ‘He’s an important element in your life and I don’t think you enjoy his disapproval.’

  ‘Of course I don’t, but I have my own life to live, my own mind to make up.’

  ‘Your own mistakes to make?’

  ‘Those too. But why are you such a pessimist? Do you think we’re a mistake?’

  Childes propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. ‘Oh no, Amy, I don’t think that at all. It’s so good between us lately that sometimes it frightens me – I get scared I’m going to lose you.’

  Her arm tightened around him. ‘You were the one who put up barriers that had to be broken down.’

  ‘We both held back part of ourselves for a long time.’

  ‘You were a married man when I first met you at the school, even though you were separated from your wife and daughter. And you were something of a mystery, but maybe that aspect attracted me initially.’

  ‘It took me a year to ask you out,’ he said.

  ‘I asked you, don’t you remember? The beach barbecue one Sunday? You said maybe you’d turn up.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, yeah. I was keeping pretty much to myself those days.’

  ‘You still are.’

  ‘Not as far as you’re concerned.’

  She frowned. ‘I’m not so sure. There’s a corner of you I’ve never managed to reach.’

  ‘Amy, without sounding too self-absorbed, I often feel there’s a point inside me that even I can’t reach. There’s an element in me – I don’t know what the hell it is – that I can’t explain, a factor that’s tucked away in the shadows something dormant, sleeping. Sometimes it feels like a monster waiting to pounce. It’s a weird and uncomfortable sensation, and it makes me wonder if I’m not just a little crazy.’

  ‘We all have areas inside that we’re not certain of. That’s what makes humans so unpredictable.’

  ‘No, this is different. This is like . . . like . . .’ His body, having become tensed, seemed to deflate. ‘I can’t explain,’ he said at last. ‘The nearest I can get is to say it’s like some eerie,
hidden power – maybe that’s too strong a word, too definite. It’s so insubstantial, so unreal, it could be my imagination. I just sense there’s something there that’s never been explored. Perhaps that’s common to all of us, though.’

  She was watching him intently. ‘In some ways, yes. But has the feeling got anything to do with these “sightings”, as you call them?’

  He thought for a few moments before answering. ‘The awareness seems stronger then, I must admit.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever looked into it further?’

  ‘How? Who do I go to? A doctor, a shrink?’

  ‘A parapsychologist?’

  ‘Oh no, no way would I jump on that particular roundabout.’

  ‘Jon, you’re obviously psychic, so why not contact someone who knows about these things?’

  ‘If you had any idea of the crank calls and letters from so-called “psychics”, not to mention those who turned up on the doorstep to torment my family three years ago, you wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean those kind of people. I meant a genuine parapsychologist, someone who makes a serious study of such phenomena.’

  ‘No.’

  She was surprised by the firmness in his voice.

  He lay back looking at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to be investigated, I don’t want to probe any deeper. I want it left alone, Amy, so maybe the feelings will fade, die away.’

  ‘Why are you so afraid?’

  His tone was sombre and his eyes closed when he replied. ‘Because I’ve got a peculiar dread – call it a sense of foreboding, if you like – that if this unknown . . . power . . . really is discovered in me, is aroused, then something terrible will happen.’ His eyes opened once more, but he did not look at her. ‘Something terrible and unthinkable,’ he added.

  Amy silently stared at him.

  Later that evening, Amy cooked supper while Childes restlessly mooched around from sitting room to kitchen. The mood had changed with their earlier talk although the closeness between them remained. She was both puzzled and anxious over his remarks, but decided not to press him further. Jonathan had his problems, but Amy was confident enough in their relationship to know that when the time was right, he would unburden himself to her. In a way, she was sorry the conversation had taken place, for he had become introspective, pensive even. When they ate supper, it was she who did most of the chatting.

  They made love again before she left, this time downstairs on the sofa, and with more ease, less hurriedly, both prolonging their release, savouring every moment of their shared pleasure. The bond between them had become strong and there was no element of doubt in their feelings for each other. He was tender and caring, his mood eventually reverting to its earlier relaxed state, and he loved her in a way that made her quietly weep. She told him it was joy, not sadness, that caused the tears, and he held her so tightly, so firmly, that she feared her bones might break.

  When he finally drove Amy home it was in the late hours and both felt as if a warm mantle of euphoria had been drawn over them, joining, combining their spirits.

  She lingeringly kissed him goodnight in the car, then left him sitting there, having to wrench herself away. He waited until she reached the front door before turning out from the drive; only when the red tail-lights disappeared did she insert the doorkey.

  Before entering the house, Amy took one last look at the night, the landscape somehow magical under the flooding light of the full moon.

  The old man heard the door open, but kept his eyes closed tight, pretending to be asleep. Footsteps came into the room, that curiously lumbering shuffle he had come to hate, causing him to stiffen against the restraining straps of the narrow cot. The odious smell confirmed his suspicions and he gave the game away, unable to keep his tongue still.

  ‘Come to torment me again, have you?’ he rasped. ‘Can’t leave me alone, can you? Can’t leave me in peace.’

  There was no reply.

  The old man strained his neck to get a clear view. The overhead bulb, protected by a tough wire covering, burned low and was no more than a dimmed nightlight, but he could see the dark form waiting by the door.

  ‘Ha! I knew it was you!’ cried the recumbent man. ‘What d’you want this time, heh? Couldn’t you sleep? No, you couldn’t, that’s what they say about you, did you know that? Never sleeps, prowls all night. They don’t like you, you know, none of them do. I don’t. As a matter of fact, I detest you. But then, you’ve always known that!’ The old man’s laugh was a dry cackle.

  ‘Why are you standing there? I don’t like being stared at. That’s right, close the door so no one can hear you torment me. Wouldn’t want to wake the other loonies, would we? I’ve informed the doctors, you can be sure of that. I’ve told them what you do to me when we’re alone. They said they’d have words with you.’ He sniggered. ‘No doubt you’ll be got rid of, and pretty soon, I should think.’

  The figure moved away from the door, towards the cot.

  ‘Bet you thought they wouldn’t listen to me,’ the old man prattled. ‘But they know all the lunatics aren’t locked away at night. There’s them that roam the corridors when others sleep, them that pretend sweetness and kindness in the day. Them whose brains are as crazy as the maniacs they guard.’

  It stood over him, blocking out the dim light. It carried a bag in one hand.

  ‘Brought me something, have you?’ said the old man, squinting his eyes in an attempt to discern features in the blackness hovering over him. ‘More of your nasty little tricks. You left marks on me last time. The doctors saw them.’ He chuckled triumphantly. ‘They believe me now! Couldn’t say I hurt myself this time!’ Spittle crept from the edge of his mouth, slithering down the cracked parchment of his check. He felt the weight of the bag on his frail chest, heard the metal clasp snapped open. Large hands delved inside.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ the old man demanded. ‘It’s shiny. I like shiny things. I like them sharp. Is that sharp? Yes, it is, I can see it is. I didn’t really tell the doctors, you know. I only pretended just now to upset you. I wouldn’t, no, I really wouldn’t tell them about you. I don’t mind you . . .’ the words came out like short gasps ‘hurting . . . me. We . . . have . . . fun . . .’

  He twisted against the stout straps, his wasted muscles having no effect. Strangely, the terror in his eyes gave him an expression of clarity, of saneness.

  ‘Tell me what that is you’re holding?’ His words were fast now, almost strung together, rising in a whine. His shoulders and chest heaved painfully against the binding leather. The figure bent low and he could see its features. ‘Please, please don’t look at me like that. I hate it when you smile at me that way. No . . . don’t put that across my . . . across my . . . forehead. Don’t. It’s . . . it’s hurting. I know if I scream no one will hear me, but I’m . . . going to scream . . . any . . . anyway. Is that blood? It’s in my eyes. Please, I can’t see . . . please don’t do that . . . it’s hurting . . . it’s cutting . . . I’m . . . going . . . to . . . scream . . . now . . . it’s going . . . too . . . deep . . .’

  The scream was just a gurgling retch, for one of the old man’s bedsocks, lying close by, had been stuffed into his open mouth.

  The figure crouched over the cot, its patient sawing motion regular and smooth, while both inmates and staff of the asylum slept on undisturbed.

  The nightmare came to Childes that night, but he was not sleeping. It hit him as he drove towards home.

  A feeling of cloying heat gripped him at first, the atmosphere becoming heavy as if thick with unpleasant fumes. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and, although clammy with dampness, the fingertips seemed to tingle. He concentrated on the moonlit road ahead, trying to ignore the building pressure inside his head. The pressure increased, a cloudy substance expanding in his brain, and his neck muscles stiffened, his arms became leaden.

  The first vision flashed before him, dispersing the pressure for an instant. He could not be certain of
what he had seen, the moment too soon gone, the dark heaviness quickly crowding back, causing him to swerve the car; bushes and bramble on the roadside tearing and scratching at the windows as if attempting to break in. Childes slowed down but did not stop.

  He thought the vision had been of hands. Large hands. Strong.

  His head now felt as if it were filled with twisting cotton wool that was steadily pushing aside his own consciousness as it grew in ill-defined shape. There was not far to go to reach home and Childes forced himself to keep a constant though reduced speed, using the centre of the narrow road, knowing there would be little other traffic that late at night. His mind saw the sharp instrument wielded by the big hands, a brilliant vision that struck like lightning and excluded all else.

  He fought to keep the car straight as the manifestation just as abruptly vanished. The heaviness was less dense when it returned, although the tingling sensation in his fingers had travelled along his arms.

  Not far to go now, the road leading to the cottages was just ahead. Childes eased his foot from the accelerator and began to brake. A sweat droplet from his soaked forehead trickled down to the corner of one eye and he used the back of his hand to clear his sight. The movement was slow and deliberate, almost difficult. He turned the wheel, the Mini’s headlights revealing the row of small houses in the near-distance. He was aware of what was happening to him and dreaded what images were to be further unveiled. He experienced a desperate need to be safe inside his home, feeling terribly exposed, vulnerable to the luminescent night, the moon’s stark glare causing the surroundings to appear frozen, the trees oddly flat as if cut from cardboard, the shadows deep and clear-edged.

  Nearly there, a few more yards. Keep it steady. The car pulled up in the space before the cottage and Childes cut the engine, sagging forward, his wrists resting over the steering wheel. He drew in deep breaths, the pressure at his temples immense. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he staggered from the Mini, moonlight bathing his head and shoulders silvery white. He fumbled with the lock, finally managed to turn the key and push open the door, falling to his knees in the hallway when the full force of the vision poured into his mind.