Lullaby by Claire Seeber Page A

steak and cherries dipped in chocolate followed, but my heart was in my mouth throughout the meal and I soon found I’d lost my appetite. Out in the spring breeze Mickey bought me wild roses from a sweet-smelling stall on Piccadilly—so many I could hardly hold them all. Then he whistled for a taxi and sucked the blood, red as the roses that I clutched, from where I’d pricked my finger on the thorns. He took me home to Blackheath for the first time; let me into his own world a little, let his mask slip just a bit.
    Mickey went to change his shirt and pour us both a drink, and I’d made my way outside into the cool night air, to admire the lush garden. By the back door I passed a faded photo of a small boy in dungarees. He was laughing at the camera, a front tooth missing, a cheeky grin below his pudding-basin hair, pigeon feathers tucked behind each small ear, Red Indian style.
    ‘Who’s that?’ I asked, pointing behind me as Mickey came out into the night. He didn’t turn to look.
    ‘My big brother, Ruari.’ I felt his fingers tighten over mine as he passed me a glass.
    Later, Mickey put on some music and danced me slowly round the kitchen. I leant against his chest; I drank in his heady smell.
    ‘Your brother. Where is he now?’ I asked quietly, but I think I knew already. He let me go.
    ‘He…’ he took a sip of his whisky, moving away, ‘he died. Quite soon after that was taken. He was only eight.’ A muscle jumped in his cheek.
    ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry, Mickey.’
    ‘So am I. He drowned. Fishing. Determined to get the biggest one, stupid bugger. Hopped school that morning.’ He downed the rest of the drink in one, and wandered back out onto the porch steps. I waited, watching him. I think, for a while, he forgot I was there.
    ‘We were best mates, you know. But I wasn’t with him that day.’ He was talking to himself now, leaning over the railing, staring into the darkness. ‘Some things—some things you never recover from, do you know what I mean? My ma never did. It killed her in the end.’
    I walked out to him, slid my arms around him, rested my head on his warm back. I could sense his heart beating through the soft cashmere of his sweater. I wanted more of this man. However much I kept fighting it, as he opened up a bit, I began to fall.
    In the morning I woke sated, utterly spent, and yet still he came for more. I was limp and yielding in his hands, sticky with lust, half-asleep, basking in abandonment as his fingers played me like someinstrument constructed purely for his pleasure. He looked down at me with an intensity I’d never known and I yearned for more—finally, utterly lost. So didn’t it make sense that the best sex of my life should bring me my son? Unbidden, initially unwanted—but irrefutably there, hurled suddenly into existence.
    The hospital insisted I see a psychiatrist. According to them, I’d attempted suicide, and no matter how hard I denied it, they weren’t going to budge. I tried everything I could to put it off until eventually the only thing left was pleading to see Mickey before I spoke to any other doctors, and reluctantly they agreed.
    The ICU was as quiet as ever as Sister Kwame took me in to see my husband. Despite the sun that shone so bright outside the shuttered windows, it was completely dim in here, church-like in its reverence for the sick.
    ‘He’s sleeping now,’ she murmured, looking down at him with fondness. ‘Why don’t you wake him, my dear? Just do it gently, yes?’ Then she vanished, starched skirt whispering, left me standing alone there by his bed.
    Mickey’s bruises were starting to change colour now, purples starting to yellow just a little round the sides like some over-ripe exotic fruit. Tentatively I put my hand out and softly stroked the skin around his sore eye. He stirred a little and I resisted a strange urge to press down hard.
    ‘Mickey,’ I said quietly, after a while. He muttered incoherently and rolled his head