Double Vision by Pat Barker Page A

set off across the field. It would have helped to talk, but he couldn’t think of anything to say, and anyway needed his breath for the climb. He didn’t want to be too obviously gasping for breath. The moon filled the sky, casting their shadows long and black against the snow. Once they were in the copse, he stopped and listened, but, apart from the creaking of the branches, there was no sound. ‘Up there,’ he said.
    They found the tree, and groped about in the snow between its roots to find the pellets. She stuffed about a dozen into her pocket. ‘That’ll do.’
    It was harder going down. Once she tripped and he put a hand out to steady her, but she moved away again as soon as she recovered her balance. They came out from between the trees and stopped for a moment, gazing down over the white fields. Suddenly she caught his arm. ‘Look,’ she said.
    A barn owl, perhaps even the owl that owned this nest, was hunting, quartering the frozen fields, relentless in its precision. Nothing that lived and moved could hope to escape its beak and feathered claws. He pictured it eating, the obscene delicacy of the raised claw feeding a recalcitrant tail into its beak, huge golden eyes slowly blinking. Backwards and forwards, up and down. It was an illusion, probably, that he could feel the ripple of disturbed air across his face. At last it detected movement and stooped to the kill, scattering snow, huge wings flapping and beating the air as it struggled to lift off, something small and warm wriggling in its claws.
    ‘Isn’t it odd?’ Justine said. ‘You always feel lucky when you see something like that, and yet it’s bloody horrible, really.’
    As they started to walk down the hill, he said, ‘Would you like a drink before you go? You must be frozen.’
    ‘In the cottage?’
    ‘Yes. Or we can go out. Whatever.’
    She considered, the roundness of her cheek in the pale light making her seem momentarily no older than Adam. ‘In would be fine,’ she said, and smiled.
    She surprised him. He’d been prepared for anything, even virginity. Instead there was a swift, almost soundless orgasm, followed by sharp fingernails clutching his buttocks and urging him on. And it took him a long time. The last thing he’d expected, after several weeks of celibacy, was to be left standing on the starting blocks with his running shorts around his ankles. Evidentlyshe felt extra help was required, because at the last moment she shoved her forefinger hard into his anus. When he was at last able to speak, he said, ‘Bloody hell, woman.’
    She looked up at him like an affronted kitten. ‘Some people like that.’
    People? She was the vicar’s daughter, for Christ’s sake. They lay, side by side, watching snowflakes fumble at the pane. The room was full of moonlight reflected off the snow. She’d asked him not to turn the lamps on, and at the time he’d thought he understood her shyness. Now he wasn’t so sure. After a while, he started to laugh, deep convulsive laughs that banged the headboard against the wall.
    ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What?’
    ‘That was wonderful.’
    Snow had been falling steadily for the last hour, muffling every sound other than that of their own breathing. He saw how the moonlight caught the whites of her eyes. Anchoring himself in the present, he concentrated on the briny smell of her on his fingertips, closing his eyes.
    Abruptly, in a single powerful movement, she launched herself off the bed, pulled on her T-shirt and raced downstairs.
    Following her, a few minutes later, feeling sticky, drained, spindle-shanked and middle aged, he found her in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs.
    ‘I’m famished,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’

Eleven
    During the first few weeks of their working together Peter seemed simply bored. He turned up on time, fetched, carried, lifted, mixed plaster, held buckets, cut cloth and, when not required, retreated to the corner of the room, between the plaster figures, so