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Authors: G. L. Watt

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BOOK: Live to Tell
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We ran on more slowly now, keeping to the main road and trying to avoid the New Year revellers who were prancing about all around us. I was desperate to rest and to relieve myself. I pulled at his jacket.

“Stop,” I said again. “I can’t go on. My lungs are bursting. And, I was just about to go to the loo when this whole thing started. I’ve got to find a toilet.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “Every where’s shut.”

“Look, there’s a church. I can nip behind one of the gravestones. Be a dear, and keep watch.”

From the look on Aidan’s face I think he would rather face the collectors than desecrate a churchyard but my aching bladder swept away all such inhibitions. When I rejoined him I placed my arm around his neck and started to laugh at his dejected expression.

“Come on. Let’s go home.” I began to giggle. “I liberated a bottle of wine from Dad’s wine rack, and we can celebrate the New Year with that. Come on!”

Aidan was sweating and looked terrified. “You don’t realise what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve only fucking upset the fucking IRA! What the fuck are we going to do?”

I stared at him, in surprise. “Don’t be a silly boy. This is England. They can’t hurt us here.”

Aidan shook his head in disbelief. “You’re something else,” he said.

It was late January and cold and wet, the sort of weather that seems to seep under your clothes, leaving you no place to hide. Although the confrontation on New Year’s Eve had a real effect on Aidan’s confidence, nothing tangible had happened as a result of it and I thought he was being over anxious.

One wet dark night I was on my way home from college, when Aidan caught up with me. “I saw you in the distance,” he said, “and I couldn’t wait to give you the good news.”

“Let’s get in first,” I said, hunching my shoulders up to avoid the rain. “It’s too cold to linger around outside. Here, grab the door.”

We struggled into the lobby, loaded down with bags and artwork and dripped onto the white tiled floor before managing to open the inner door to our apartment. Inside I tugged off my over-sized khaki greatcoat, a great jumble sale find, and shook my head upside down to disperse the rain from my hair. Aidan’s wispy black mop clung to his head and he dabbed at it with a tea towel.

“It’s just not fair. You’ve got acres more hair than I have, yet yours never seems to get wet.” He leaned over and flicked the switch on the kettle. I laughed and shook my tousled mane in his face.

“Go on then. What’s this news?”

“The best! Guess what? I’ve found a new lodger, subject to Madam’s approval of course.”

My heart fell. Don’t let it be another woman, I prayed.

“Go on, then,” I said. “Tell me all. Is it someone I know?”

“No, it’s the brother of one of the lads in my class, Volker. He, that’s Jurgen, is at The London School of Economics and needs a crashpad for the duration. There’s just one snag, though.” He hesitated.

“Well? What is it?”

“Well, he’s German, isn’t he?”

“German? And don’t you like Germans?”

“I don’t mind them. I thought, well, with the war and everything, and you being English and everything, I thought you wouldn’t like them.”

“I’m younger than you. What’s the war got to do with me? It’s been over forever.” I couldn’t remember how long the war had been over but knew it was a long time. “I won’t mind a German, as long as he’s good looking, good between the sheets and reasonably rich. Oh, no. He’s not gay is he?”

“We-e-ll, would that matter? I mean we wouldn’t disturb you—much.”

I must have pulled a face even though I tried not to, because Aidan grinned.

“No, don’t worry he isn’t. Well not according to Volker. Anyway, he’s coming round tomorrow so I’d better move my stuff out tonight.”

“Need a hand?”

“You’re an angel. Jesus, she’s an angel.”

The doorbell rang, as our prospective tenant arrived and Aidan raced me to get there first, but I barged him aside and won. I opened the door and ushered in our smiling Teutonic hero, well Aidan’s anyway. With a look he must have intended to be professional—like an Estate Agent—Aidan took him into the room we had carefully prepared the night before, while I left them alone and waited in the kitchen. I think I’d better make him a cup of coffee, I thought; make him feel welcome. He seems nice enough, clean and presentable. Gosh, I’m thinking like my mum.

I spooned out the coffee and shook my head. They re-joined me in the kitchen and I passed around the milk and sugar.

“This is a beautiful building, Aidan, very similar to a German design called Bauhaus school,” Jurgen said. “Do you know of it?”

Of course, as art students, we worshipped at the shrine of Bauhaus, but Aidan was coolly polite and agreed that in principle the building was not unlike one of the earlier designs. I guessed that secretly he was probably biting back his words. He was really good at expounding the subtle differences between types of architectural style, although not everyone appreciated his efforts.

“Well,” I said, when Jurgen had driven—yes driven-off in his car. “He seems alright. Is he going to take it?”

“Of course he’s going to take it. It reminds him of Bauhaus. How can he not take it? Yeah, he’s moving in at the weekend. I think I’ll put up a couple of Schiele prints in his room. Make him feel at home. Oh, I hope this is alright. We’ve been sort of okay on our own, haven’t we? Still the money will be our salvation. Can I have some of it?”

“No. It’s going in the pot,” I said. “Anyway, Schiele prints cost a fortune! I hope he appreciates them. He might think we’re a couple of perverts.”

“Yer a hard woman,
begorra
,” he joked, and I was so happy for him. It was the brightest I’d seen him for a long time.

“Shall we push the boat out and get an Indian takeaway tonight?”

He nodded enthusiastically and grabbed my hands. He swung me around the kitchen, whooping as he went.

“Stop it. You’ll be dancing a jig next.”

When Jurgen moved in our lives improved beyond measure. He led by example, regularly cleaning the bathroom and kitchen, as well as his own bedroom. Aidan gave him maximum benefit and privacy with his own TV, music system and desk for his personal computer, while Aidan and I shared the communal sitting room.

Sometimes when Aidan was out and we were on our own together, I found Jurgen watching me, but although I thought he was rather delectable, I would not mix business with pleasure. I kept my distance, hoping he wouldn’t make a move on me. Aidan and I needed his money too much for me to risk losing it through an ill considered fling, and I still felt Joe was the only man in my life, even though I had heard nothing from him since we said our tearful goodbyes six months earlier.

Jurgen seemed to have an amazingly high success rate with the opposite sex. He had many overnighters that he discreetly took straight through to his own room, but apart from polite yet friendly “good evenings”, we left him and them alone. Aidan worried that the Schiele prints might offend some of them.

He and I were watching TV together, sitting on the sofa, discussing our new lodger and the “problem”.

“What do
you
think? About the number of girls, I mean,” he asked. “Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

“To be honest, they’ve usually gone before I get up in the morning.”

“Lazy madam,” he said. “But is it normal? To have so many.”

“You’re a man. You should know. I’m an only child. I went to a girls-only school.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I was an altar boy in downtown Cork. What do I know about such things?”

We heard Jurgen open the front door. “Another conquest,” Aidan whispered.

“Look,” I said, as a particularly sweet looking girl trailed in after the blond warrior. “If they are not willing to be seduced, it would take more than a couple of pictures to lead them astray. If anything, they’d put
me
off.”

“We-e-ll, I’ll ask him if they offend. Offer to take them down. Then it’s up to him. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. What do you think?”

“He certainly gets through a lot. I never see the same face twice, but I’d rather that than a regular girlfriend who might want to move in. Do you feel cold? I’ve been shivering all day.” I pulled my dressing gown around me and shuddered.

“Is it because of what happened New Years Eve—delayed reaction,” he said.

“What? ’Cause not! Don’t be silly.”

“Well, it is freezing for spring but I think you’ve probably got a cold coming on. Why don’t you have an early night? Shall I make you a cup of cocoa?”

“No, I’ll be alright. I’ve got some orange juice in the fridge. I’ll have some of that. But I think I will go to bed and try to sleep it off. Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I’m going to pop out to the “offy” for ten minutes. Just you feel brighter in the morning, okay? Sleep well.” He kissed my cheek.

Aidan had a friend who sometimes worked in the liquor store and I guessed he was going to meet him. I put the lights out and crawled into bed. Snuggled under my duvet I seemed to fall asleep straight away. Hours later I awoke with a dry throat and a thick head. Must get some more juice, I thought. I wonder what the time is? I switched on the light. Ugh, it’s five thirty. Bet it’s cold in the rest of the apartment. Still, I won’t be long. Then I can go back to sleep and be warm again.

As I crept down the hall, trying not to wake the others, I could hear a strange scratching noise. Then I heard a thump. I stopped and looked about me not sure where the sound came from and realised it was from the direction of the front door. With two men in the house, even if one of them was Aidan, and another girl there as well, I felt confident I could deal with whatever lay beyond.

I opened the door and peered out. In the dim light I saw what seemed to be a large bundle of rags. Then it moved, and Aidan lifted his blood soaked arm to me.

 

CHAPTER THREE
 

I fell on the floor beside him and started to scream. Aidan raised his head; his hair caked in black dried blood, and tried to drag himself across the threshold. From somewhere behind, Jurgen ran out from his room and caught hold of me. He dragged me, still screaming, away from the door and shouted, “Emma, Emma, Em. Emma please come. Help me. Look after her, please!”

BOOK: Live to Tell
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