No Cherubs for Melanie (26 page)

“Don't talk to me about survival. You'd be dead on that beach…” He bit off the rest of his reply; there was no point. She didn't need this.

You've no idea what it's like being on your own,” she sobbed.

She was right, it was beyond the scope of his imagination that anybody would volunteer for a life such as hers. “I can't imagine —” he began, but she cut him off angrily. “You're damn right you can't. So keep your fuckin' nose out.”

Her rage inflamed the little scar and puckered her upper lip, drawing his eyes, capturing his heart. She misunderstood and her hand flew to her mouth. “Don't look at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

He didn't know. All he knew was that he was very near to planting a kiss smack on her mouth. Then her face suddenly changed. The anger evaporated, replaced with distress as she relived the fire in her mind. She paled, and began shivering violently. Bliss recognized the clinical signs of delayed shock — the autonomic nervous system spinning out of control. She'll throw up in a minute, he thought, or faint.

“You need a drink” he said, drawing a blanket warmly around her then scrabbing under the couch for the bottle, knowing very well that he shouldn't give her alcohol, but feeling the need to do something. His hand collided with a small book then he found the bottle and pressed it to her lips.

“Drink this,” he said solicitously. She swallowed obligingly then choked in a paroxysm of coughing.

Cradling her protectively he waited until she seemed asleep on the couch then crept into the bedroom and fell exhausted onto the bed.

Later, though not much later, the squeak of the slowly turning door handle grabbed his attention. It stopped. The unseen hand hesitated. “Dave,” she called, tapping lightly.

He looked up. “Yes.” The door opened slowly revealing the iridescent whiteness of her panties in the glow of smouldering log fire from the main room. She slid into the bed beside him.

“Hold me,” she said, turning her back and pertly sticking her backside into him. His pulse went from sixty to one hundred and twenty in a beat but his arms instinctively enfolded her, his blistered fingers stinging at the touch of her bare flesh. His mind spun. Was she giving herself, offering herself, in gratitude? What on earth did she expect to happen? Maybe the locker-room sex-maniacs were right, he thought, maybe she does need a good screw. Maybe it's what I need as well. Apart from a couple of false starts that had ended disastrously, there had been no one since Sarah. And now celibacy was part of his overall plan in preparation for Sarah's eventual return. To prove his love for her. There would be no-one else, he'd decided. He'd show her. Gangly George's novelty would wear off eventually, then he'd be there waiting for her, still unsullied. Maybe Samantha had been right. “Get over it Dad,” she had said, and now he lay, marvelling at the amazing twist of fate that had stuck Margaret's hot round bum into his groin.

Was she giving, or was she taking? She lay still, offering no clues, but her presence seared into his mind and her backside burned into his lap.

She doesn't want to, he decided finally, she simply feels obliged to offer herself as a reward. She had hung a “do not disturb” sign on her heart a long time ago. Then he flattered himself: maybe she does want me. I'm not bad looking, especially considering the competition: the two Indians, Stacy and his obscene paunch, the rest of the shaggy-haired freaks hanging around his store.

Weighing this all up he wondered whether she would be more offended if he did make a move, or if he didn't, but he failed to reach a sensible conclusion. Or, he wondered, would she wake in the morning and accuse him of rape? “Margaret,” he crooned softly.

She was asleep, her breathing still deep from exertion. Her heart still raced, bumping up against her ribcage and pulsing through his fingertips as they rested under the fold of her breasts.

He tried to take his mind off her by reliving the battle against the forest fire in his mind. Branches whipping their faces, flames licking their clothes, sparks searing their flesh, fear burning their minds. They had fought the elements together — fought and won. The memory of the fire's noise beat in his brain, a terrifying whooshing, pounding sound, as if he'd stuck his head in a coffee grinder. But now he was fighting his own fire.

There was something tantalizing about her, he admitted. He'd felt it from the first moment of meeting her; the seductive allure of the unattainable he had assumed. But now he brushed the thought aside. She's just a lonely woman living on an island seeking physical support at a traumatic time. But that's it, he realized: she isn't just living on an island, she
is
an island. Just as her mother had turned herself into a prisoner, Margaret had become a hermit and, in the process, fulfilled her own prophecy. If her own father hadn't wanted her, why should any other man? She's dug a moat around herself, and tonight, possibly for the first time in her life, she's lowered the drawbridge. But what did she want, what did she expect? A knight in shining armour, charging with his lance?

He had second thoughts. Was she asleep or just feigning? Was this her way of surrendering her virginity without volunteering herself? A ploy to avoid responsibility; blaming him or blaming the heat of the moment. Enabling her to remain a virgin in her own mind regardless of the state of her hymen. Was she desperately hoping to ‘wake' with his lance pumping away inside her,
too late to protest? Or was she merely seeking the warmth and comfort of another human?

“Go on, touch her,” he told himself. “Feel her. Squeeze her. Hug her. It's what she wants.”

“Leave her alone,” another part of him wanted to shout. “She's suffered enough.” But he couldn't unstick his fingers from her breasts.

You're going home tomorrow, he told himself. Margaret won't leave her island and animals. In the long run it would just make things worse for her. More rejection, more loss. Just another kick in the crotch. Anyway, you're in enough trouble with everyone already. Haven't you done enough damage?

The storm had passed in the night stealing the remains of the summer. Bliss woke just before dawn, at a time eager newlyweds engage in passionate re-runs of the night's activities, and errant husbands test the plausibility of prepared alibis as they slink back to sleepy wives. He drowsed awhile, probing his thoughts for what had occurred during the night, letting the music of Margaret's breathing keep him on the edge of sleep. He felt the rhythm of her heartbeat under his fingertips, and the silkiness of her panties teased the length of his erection. He needed a cold swim in the lake, a piss, or… Quelling all thoughts of the third alternative he settled for the swim, slid out of bed, shielded his embarrassment with a hand, and skulked into the living room. Bo, on his couch, opened one eye and stared at him insolently, letting him know he was not worthy of the effort it would take to raise his head, let alone growl. Grateful, Bliss cloaked himself in the blanket from
Margaret's couch, slipped outside, and was jolted by the coolness of the atmosphere. The morning air, freshened by the presence of the lake, gave him goosebumps and he had second thoughts about the swim. The vision of Margaret's body in bed suddenly seemed particularly inviting but he steeled himself and made his way down the trail to the beach.

Leaving the blanket bundled in a heap atop a reasonably dry rock he swam naked in the lake, wishing she was with him, glad she was not. The water's coldness was iodine to his burnt hands and arms, yet he held them under, anaesthetizing the pain, washing away the smell of the fire and the scent of Margaret. He tried to wash away the memory of the night, but found himself wishing it could happen again, while hoping it would not. A tingle of freshness rippled through him as the cool water scrunched his testicles in spasm. He looked back at the island; everything had changed. The oppressiveness of the forest had lightened. The wind had bared the trees, clearing away the red shroud, leaving only bones. Everything was spotless. The smoke-filled air had been filtered and the lake, rejuvenated by rain, sparkled.

A golden sunburst spread across the lake from the horizon as suddenly as if someone had switched on a searchlight and a flashbulb went off in his mind. This was what life was supposed to be: bright, cool, fresh and clean and above all, free of stress. A toothpaste commercial.

His mind cleared in one cathartic moment and he took a mental leap forward. The past puddled around his ankles like a dropped pair of dirty pyjama bottoms, all he had to do was step out of them and walk away. His life could begin again. The martyr's chain binding him to Sarah had snapped with the realization that he had slept with another woman, that he could have had
sex with her if he had chosen to and, when he got back to the cabin, he would, if that was what she wanted.

Tipping back his head he floated with his eyes shut, revelling in the freshness and his newfound freedom. I will miss this, he mused, feeling like a vacationer making the most of a last minute dip in some idyllic setting, delaying the inevitable return to the daily grind, etching the experience permanently into their mind lest they should never return. I'm leaving today, he thought. Then reality struck. No, he wasn't. The canoe! Repairing it would have to be a priority. How? He had no idea. But without a boat or a phone he could be stuck for days, or forever! Alice would be pissed off, he thought, as would Samantha and, with his daughter uppermost in his mind, he scanned the horizon. Surely he would be able to hail a passing boat and bum a ride to the settlement, although, he told himself, apart from the Indians' canoe, he'd not seen any others — not near the island anyway.

Thoughts of the Indians made him jumpy and he swam warily for a while, watchfully keeping his head above water, concerned they might have seen the fire in the night and returned to investigate. It wasn't every day he had a couple of rifles trained on him by hostile Natives.

Bo was gone when he got back and although he poked his head into the bedroom for confirmation he knew what to expect. Bo wouldn't go anywhere without her. Without bothering to dress he flopped onto the couch, irrationally feeling let down. It was as if she had slunk away as soon as his back was turned. Why? They hadn't done anything shameful — yet. Maybe she regretted sleeping with him. Even allowing a man to touch her would have been a traumatic turnaround if his assessment of her had been correct. Then he pulled himself together; she's gone to check on the animals, you idiot. He half rose, tempted to find her, wanting to
share news about his catharsis, but fear of the bear pits quashed the notion. He could wait.

With time on his hands he began to explore. An old dictionary caught his attention and he looked up the word he thought one of the Natives had used. “Wampum — Algonquian Indian for money.” Then he remembered the book under the couch, the one that had brushed his hand as he searched for the whisky the previous night.

The word “Private,” stencilled heavily across the front cover, struck him as soon as he dug it out and his first instinct was to return it unopened, but his inquisitive side wouldn't allow that. After all, it wasn't as though he was unused to delving through other people's confidential papers; he had done so numerous times in the hunt for information and clues. But this was different, he argued to himself, this was just being nosy. Despite a creepy feeling that he was betraying her hospitality, he was eventually able to pretend that what he was doing was in the line of duty; he even managed to convince himself of the need to discover more about this eccentric woman in order to aid his understanding of her father's murder. “Nonsense,” he declared aloud to himself, but nonetheless struggled to untie the intricately knotted shoelace that was bound so tightly around the book it had eaten into the binding.

Two unopened envelopes fell out. Strange, he thought, recognizing them as the ones Alice delivered on the day of his arrival. He scrutinized them with a practised eye. One, an ordinary white Bond, had no return address but was postmarked London, August 14th. “That was the day after her dad died,” he remembered aloud. He studied the small neat handwriting with its aggressive forward slope, which suggested that the writer had been in a determined hurry to reach the end of each line. He unsuccessfully tested the flap with his
finger then balanced the envelope in his hand, speculating about the kettle on the stove.

The other letter he would have easily recognized as from a solicitor even without the embossed crest and legend. He even knew the name. Gosforth, Morgan, and Mitwich, the same firm Gordonstone had used at the time of Melanie's death, with an address near enough to hallowed chambers of Lincoln's Inn to add a hefty surcharge to any bill, yet sufficiently far away not to put off potential clients. Why she had not opened the letters was beyond him; he could only assume she had forgotten them in all the kerfuffle of the past few days.

Putting the envelopes aside for future consideration he turned his attention to the book itself. It was straightforward, so far as he could see: a personal scrapbook like millions of others. A series of photographs celebrating life's stepping stones, with a short handwritten notation under each. “Me, aged 30 minutes.” The harelip clearly visible. His heart sank for her mother and he sat for a moment thinking how glad he was that Samantha had been perfect. Then he shuffled through the scrapbook's first few pages — just pictures of Margaret and her sorry little smile. No shots of mother and daughter. No raw pictures of Betty-Ann with eyes still bloodshot from the birthing pains; face still bloated from the tears. What, he wondered, would she have looked like? She would have smiled in relief, of course. But it would have been a forced smile nevertheless, her joy tempered by a deep pang of jealousy, her smile wracked with guilt and tainted by failure. “Why wasn't my baby perfect like the others?” she might have asked herself. “Was it something I did during pregnancy? Is it something to do with my genes? Why couldn't I have produced a normal kid?”