pushing
her away. “No, I don’t want it too soon, wait.” She felt his mouth
on her nipples, felt his hands moving over her stomach. His mouth
went down: Kevin had never done that to her; she had read about it
but now was ashamed that Tom was doing it to her, until she felt
his tongue inside her and, oh, God, she had to delay him as he had
delayed her.
In the dark he moved away and then lifted her up in
the bed, positioning her with her back to him, his hands holding
her waist. She heard the bed, the rotten bed, grinding and jiggling
so loud there was no question the people in the rooms on either
side must hear it too. But in her joy she forgot that, she heard
nothing, and soon she had to make him wait, hold still, hold still,
and then there must have been all the noise in the world as she let
him start again inside her, driving to the climax, how many times
today, there is no past, there is this, just this.
Later, she slept. In her dream, Kevin waited for her
in the Great Northern Railway Station, standing at the end of the
platform under signs advertising the
Daily Express
and the
Belfast Telegraph
. There was something familiar and
threatening in this waiting, something which told her it had
happened before. The station was very dirty and smelled of
cigarette smoke, and on the deserted platform lay dozens of crushed
empty cartons which had once held fish and chips. She wore black:
she was coming home from Uncle Dan’s funeral in Dublin, and as she
came up to the ticket barrier she thought she had lost her ticket
and was hunting through her purse for it. Kevin would be angry if
she had lost her ticket again. When she could not find it, the
guard at the gate smacked his chrome ticket punch irritatedly into
the palm of his hand, then motioned her aside to let other
passengers pass in front of her. She found money and paid again to
replace her lost ticket. She hoped Kevin didn’t see her pay. She
went out to him and kissed him, but Kevin, looking strange, said,
“I heard you were not coming back.” Who could have told him that?
“I heard you were off dancing in the dark in France.” “I’m home,”
she said. “Then it’s over, let’s go home,” he said. They got into
Kevin’s new Audi and drove away from the railway station. It was
raining, it was always raining. They were coming up Duncairn
Gardens and a Jock soldier stopped them, signaling to them to pull
over. The patrol was not doing a search; they were in an awful
hurry, shouting in their Scots voices. And then, as Kevin pulled
the car in to the curb, the car shook and she saw a big gray cloud
of dust or smoke up ahead. It was the Swan pub that had been
bombed: she knew the people who owned it, one of the daughters had
gone to Glenarm convent with her, years ago, Nan Gallery, a
red-haired girl, but her picture in the
Irish News
next
day was black and white. In the black and white picture she did not
look a bit like herself. PUBLICAN AND TWO DAUGHTERS KILLED IN
EXPLOSION
It was a dream, she was dreaming it, she had dreamed
different parts of it again and again since the bomb in the Swan
and the picture in the paper. And now, in her dream, she was on a
road in a bus, all alone, no Kevin or Danny, she was coming up to a
barrier, it wasn’t a police barrier, it was the Irish border,
customs men came out and did not look at her but waved the bus on.
She had no ticket. Then there was an English soldier up ahead in
the middle of the road. The bus slowed and stopped, with an
airbrake noise. The soldier came onto the bus and pointed his rifle
at her, ordering her out. She screamed.
She woke in a dark room. She did not know if she had
screamed out loud. She turned on her right side, expecting to see
the phosphorescence on Kevin’s alarm clock, but felt her body touch
a naked body. There was no clock.
He was asleep, one arm across his chest as though he
were about to draw an invisible sword. In the predawn light
her away. “No, I don’t want it too soon, wait.” She felt his mouth
on her nipples, felt his hands moving over her stomach. His mouth
went down: Kevin had never done that to her; she had read about it
but now was ashamed that Tom was doing it to her, until she felt
his tongue inside her and, oh, God, she had to delay him as he had
delayed her.
In the dark he moved away and then lifted her up in
the bed, positioning her with her back to him, his hands holding
her waist. She heard the bed, the rotten bed, grinding and jiggling
so loud there was no question the people in the rooms on either
side must hear it too. But in her joy she forgot that, she heard
nothing, and soon she had to make him wait, hold still, hold still,
and then there must have been all the noise in the world as she let
him start again inside her, driving to the climax, how many times
today, there is no past, there is this, just this.
Later, she slept. In her dream, Kevin waited for her
in the Great Northern Railway Station, standing at the end of the
platform under signs advertising the
Daily Express
and the
Belfast Telegraph
. There was something familiar and
threatening in this waiting, something which told her it had
happened before. The station was very dirty and smelled of
cigarette smoke, and on the deserted platform lay dozens of crushed
empty cartons which had once held fish and chips. She wore black:
she was coming home from Uncle Dan’s funeral in Dublin, and as she
came up to the ticket barrier she thought she had lost her ticket
and was hunting through her purse for it. Kevin would be angry if
she had lost her ticket again. When she could not find it, the
guard at the gate smacked his chrome ticket punch irritatedly into
the palm of his hand, then motioned her aside to let other
passengers pass in front of her. She found money and paid again to
replace her lost ticket. She hoped Kevin didn’t see her pay. She
went out to him and kissed him, but Kevin, looking strange, said,
“I heard you were not coming back.” Who could have told him that?
“I heard you were off dancing in the dark in France.” “I’m home,”
she said. “Then it’s over, let’s go home,” he said. They got into
Kevin’s new Audi and drove away from the railway station. It was
raining, it was always raining. They were coming up Duncairn
Gardens and a Jock soldier stopped them, signaling to them to pull
over. The patrol was not doing a search; they were in an awful
hurry, shouting in their Scots voices. And then, as Kevin pulled
the car in to the curb, the car shook and she saw a big gray cloud
of dust or smoke up ahead. It was the Swan pub that had been
bombed: she knew the people who owned it, one of the daughters had
gone to Glenarm convent with her, years ago, Nan Gallery, a
red-haired girl, but her picture in the
Irish News
next
day was black and white. In the black and white picture she did not
look a bit like herself. PUBLICAN AND TWO DAUGHTERS KILLED IN
EXPLOSION
It was a dream, she was dreaming it, she had dreamed
different parts of it again and again since the bomb in the Swan
and the picture in the paper. And now, in her dream, she was on a
road in a bus, all alone, no Kevin or Danny, she was coming up to a
barrier, it wasn’t a police barrier, it was the Irish border,
customs men came out and did not look at her but waved the bus on.
She had no ticket. Then there was an English soldier up ahead in
the middle of the road. The bus slowed and stopped, with an
airbrake noise. The soldier came onto the bus and pointed his rifle
at her, ordering her out. She screamed.
She woke in a dark room. She did not know if she had
screamed out loud. She turned on her right side, expecting to see
the phosphorescence on Kevin’s alarm clock, but felt her body touch
a naked body. There was no clock.
He was asleep, one arm across his chest as though he
were about to draw an invisible sword. In the predawn light
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