knack of switching off. Of stepping outside himself and looking on. That knack of saying it’s not me doing this, it’s him , and believing it for the time it takes to get you there and back. He’s lost it. And couldn’t get it back even if he wanted to. Not now.
And so he lies awake in the dark and listens to the engines fade into the night until all becomes silent again. It all fades like another life. Was that him? Was that them — ‘F’ for Freddie? And just as he could when he walked back to the base a few weeks before, he can hear them and see them. He closes his eyes and wishes he couldn’t. There is a country field. A full moon. A voice is calling out in his ear telling him it’s going to go up any minute. All of it. Then everything explodes and the world turns black.
He hears a bird, opens his eyes and the room is light. At first he doesn’t know where he is and he is numbering the rooms of his life, wondering which one he’s in. And then he sees her. She is wrapped in a blanket and has just flung the window open. She is grinning, eyeing him and looking up from the window at the bird, then back to him.
‘It’s a shame to be sleeping. We can sleep later. But not through this. You can’t sleep through this. It’s not allowed.’
The ARP coat is hanging from the bedroom chair. Their things are either on the chair or the floor. The pillow is soft; there is a faint, flowery scent in the air. The bird sings. It is like music on a Saturday morning. And for a moment he is both here and transported back to his home, to those Saturday mornings past, when the light was always bright — football weather — and the music that was playing was Saturday morning music. Then he remembers it’s Sunday, that he must return to his base soon. His face darkens and she drops the blanket and is suddenly beside him.
‘No dark faces,’ she grins. ‘They’re not allowed either.’
But, she adds, they’re the only rules — because rules also aren’t allowed. Not here. They can do and say what they like in the domain of this room. They are both naked. Here the whole room is lit with a bright autumn sun. Nothing to hide. Everything — birthmark, moles, hair, forbidden frowns — clear as day. So this is it, that secret society she’s never gained admission to. This is it: two naked people in a sunlitroom. She reaches out and strokes him, he staring at her, eyes lingering here and there on her body, she studying his like some young art student in a life-drawing class, seeing a naked man for the first time. No words. No desire for words. No need of words. She strokes him, and at the same moment his fingers slip easily into her and she closes her eyes. And just then, quite suddenly, in the no-rules, clear light of the room, just when she’s banished words from the moment, words well up in her. Delicious, forbidden words. Three of them. And she silently mouths them as his fingers push further into her, three delicious, forbidden words: cunt, cock, fuck. She silently hums them, again and again. A forbidden mantra. Almost a game. On and on. Three words. Basic, like bread. Almost like reciting Chaucer. So this is the secret society of love. So this is it. No wonder nobody ever explained it to her, because to explain it, to really explain it, they’d have to speak of two naked people in a bright clear room, and they’d have to use words like cunt, cock and fuck. And nobody does. And nobody has. Not until now.
Then her mind floats free of her, drifts away … somewhere, words echo. Faintly. Somewhere … thereis a room, there is a window, there is a bird … out there. Her mind floats free. Her chin sinks to her chest. Her eyes close.
Why you? An hour later, half an hour — who knows? — she’s staring at the open window, listening to the same birdsong, giving the question both serious and fleeting thought. He’s holding her hand, eyes half open, or half closed. Why you? Why anybody? Why bother asking? It’s a
And so he lies awake in the dark and listens to the engines fade into the night until all becomes silent again. It all fades like another life. Was that him? Was that them — ‘F’ for Freddie? And just as he could when he walked back to the base a few weeks before, he can hear them and see them. He closes his eyes and wishes he couldn’t. There is a country field. A full moon. A voice is calling out in his ear telling him it’s going to go up any minute. All of it. Then everything explodes and the world turns black.
He hears a bird, opens his eyes and the room is light. At first he doesn’t know where he is and he is numbering the rooms of his life, wondering which one he’s in. And then he sees her. She is wrapped in a blanket and has just flung the window open. She is grinning, eyeing him and looking up from the window at the bird, then back to him.
‘It’s a shame to be sleeping. We can sleep later. But not through this. You can’t sleep through this. It’s not allowed.’
The ARP coat is hanging from the bedroom chair. Their things are either on the chair or the floor. The pillow is soft; there is a faint, flowery scent in the air. The bird sings. It is like music on a Saturday morning. And for a moment he is both here and transported back to his home, to those Saturday mornings past, when the light was always bright — football weather — and the music that was playing was Saturday morning music. Then he remembers it’s Sunday, that he must return to his base soon. His face darkens and she drops the blanket and is suddenly beside him.
‘No dark faces,’ she grins. ‘They’re not allowed either.’
But, she adds, they’re the only rules — because rules also aren’t allowed. Not here. They can do and say what they like in the domain of this room. They are both naked. Here the whole room is lit with a bright autumn sun. Nothing to hide. Everything — birthmark, moles, hair, forbidden frowns — clear as day. So this is it, that secret society she’s never gained admission to. This is it: two naked people in a sunlitroom. She reaches out and strokes him, he staring at her, eyes lingering here and there on her body, she studying his like some young art student in a life-drawing class, seeing a naked man for the first time. No words. No desire for words. No need of words. She strokes him, and at the same moment his fingers slip easily into her and she closes her eyes. And just then, quite suddenly, in the no-rules, clear light of the room, just when she’s banished words from the moment, words well up in her. Delicious, forbidden words. Three of them. And she silently mouths them as his fingers push further into her, three delicious, forbidden words: cunt, cock, fuck. She silently hums them, again and again. A forbidden mantra. Almost a game. On and on. Three words. Basic, like bread. Almost like reciting Chaucer. So this is the secret society of love. So this is it. No wonder nobody ever explained it to her, because to explain it, to really explain it, they’d have to speak of two naked people in a bright clear room, and they’d have to use words like cunt, cock and fuck. And nobody does. And nobody has. Not until now.
Then her mind floats free of her, drifts away … somewhere, words echo. Faintly. Somewhere … thereis a room, there is a window, there is a bird … out there. Her mind floats free. Her chin sinks to her chest. Her eyes close.
Why you? An hour later, half an hour — who knows? — she’s staring at the open window, listening to the same birdsong, giving the question both serious and fleeting thought. He’s holding her hand, eyes half open, or half closed. Why you? Why anybody? Why bother asking? It’s a
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