The White Room (26 page)

‘I think you'd better sit down,' said Jack.

There was no chair in the room, so she sat back down on the bed. Jack didn't want to stand to say what he had to say, so he sat next to her. The enforced intimacy made him feel uncomfortable. He hadn't been this close to a woman in months: for all the touching he and Sharon had done, they may as well have been in separate beds. He tried to concentrate on what he had to say.

‘Your mam and dad have been trying to get in touch with you,' he said, ‘but since you haven't got a phone, I know it's difficult.'

‘I always go round on a Sunday, though. Well, usually.'

‘I know,' said Jack, ‘but this couldn't wait. They thought you'd want to know straight away. That's why I said I'd come round.'

He was aware of her eyes on him. The fear and apprehension contained within. He couldn't put it off any longer.

‘It's … Kenny. Your brother. I'm afraid he's dead.'

He looked at the carpet, unable to maintain eye contact with her.

‘Dead?' Her voice sounded brittle and small. ‘How?'

‘Some kind of bug he picked up in the home. Weakened his immune system. Caught pneumonia. Couldn't defend himself.' Jack sighed. ‘I'm sorry.'

He felt a slight movement on the bed beside him and turned round. Joanne was nodding silently, the movement spreading out from her head, threatening to turn into a full body rocking motion.

‘Hey …' he said, feeling he had to say something.

‘I should have been there …' Her face was screwed down tight, but still tears leaked from it. ‘I should have been there with them … with Mam …'

‘Come on, Joanne, it's not your fault. Kenny would have—' he balked at the word, but said it anyway ‘—died whether you'd been there or not.'

She was still nodding, still rocking.

‘It's not your fault.'

‘I … know. It's just … Mam and Dad. It's …' A huge sigh escaped her body. ‘I don't know. I never liked him. Kenny. Not really. Isn't that an awful thing to say? About your own brother?'

‘Not if it's true. There's no reason why you should like him. Just because he's your brother.'

‘He was cruel. When we were growing up. And sly. Cruel and sly. He would always try to hurt me. Try to get me into trouble. And Johnny. Do the same to him too.' Another sigh. ‘But I didn't want this to happen to him. Not this.'

Jack flexed and unflexed his hands. He felt useless. He wanted to comfort Joanne but knew there was nothing he could say or do. His sense of discomfort at the closeness of their bodies wasn't helping either.

‘Oh, God.'

Joanne was shaking her head. Jack thought it best to sit silently.

‘Oh, God.'

Jack flexed and unflexed his hands. He felt useless.

‘Oh, Mam and Dad … Mam and Dad … Oh …'

The tears continued. Jack watched steam rise and evaporate from Joanne's cooling mug on the dressing table.

‘Oh, God.'

Jack stared at the tea. At the painting.

Communication.

‘Will you hold me, Jack?'

He looked at her, startled at being addressed directly.

‘Please. Just hold me. I want to be held.'

He edged down towards her along the bed. She moved her body towards his. He placed his arms around her, delicately, as if she was Dresden china, and she allowed herself to sink into him, her head on his chest. He rested his arms about her. She encircled his torso with her arms, pulled him to her.

His sense of discomfort increased. He felt her breath on the skin of his neck, the wetness of her tears. Under his arms he felt the rise and fall of her whole body.

More human contact than he had had for months.

He began to get an erection.

He moved his legs, trying to conceal it, shame and embarrassment making him blush. His wriggling had the effect of holding Joanne tighter. She responded, clung to him.

She looked up, her eyes large and red-rimmed, her cheeks tear-tracked.

Jack looked at her; saw more than pain in her eyes.

And they kissed.

Talking afterwards, neither knew which had moved first. Neither cared. Their mouths were locked, eyes closed, tongues probing, like they were trying to suck the old life from each other, breathe new life in.

Jack felt his overcoat, his jacket, being pushed from his shoulders. He undid the buttons, helped the progress. His hands went to Joanne's clothes.

‘Slowly,' she whispered. ‘Please don't rush this.'

Jack gently moved Joanne's jumper up her back. Felt wool on his fingers replaced by skin. She reluctantly removed her mouth from his to allow it to come off. It did so, knocking the tie from her hair. She had nothing but a bra underneath it. Jack took in her body, her skin soft, white, young, her hair falling tousled about her shoulders, her face pretty and passion-hungry.

She was beautiful. Jack felt he hadn't known true desire until that moment.

He reached forward to undo her bra, but she gently pushed him back on to the bed, slowly undressed him. He felt her fingers trail on his body, the first time a woman had touched him for years. He sighed. She had him fully naked and erect. Joanne undid her bra, smiled as his eyes went to her breasts, let it drop, slid her jeans and panties over her hips and off.

Their mouths came together again. Jack wanted to grab her, devour her like a starving man in a four-star restaurant.

‘Shh,' she said. ‘Not so fast. Make it beautiful.'

He listened; reached out to touch her, stroke her. Felt the warmth, the smoothness of her skin. Enjoyed letting his fingers trace her. She returned the gesture.

The pleasure intensified. She touched him everywhere, as he had her. Soon, Jack could take it no more. He rolled Joanne over on to her back. He had to be inside her.

‘Wait …' Her voice half-whisper, half-pant.

Joanne reached across to her bedside cabinet, pulled a small package from the drawer, threw it at him.

‘Put this on,' she said, still gasping. ‘I don't want a baby.'

Jack ripped the condom from the packet, rolled it on to his stiff cock. Joanne watched him.

‘Come on,' she said when he was ready, opened her arms and legs.

Jack slid straight inside her. The condom barely muffled the sensation. He could feel her so vividly.

They both gasped, smiled. He locked his arms around her shoulders, she encircled him, limbs around his torso. They kissed. Jack moved slowly, almost delicately, incrementally pushing back the skein of her passion, allowing their mutual pleasure to increase. Joanne held on to him, he to her. He felt Joanne's fingernails dig into his skin. Her eyes closed. He moved faster.

‘Oh …'

Her body tensed, locked rigidly around his.

She came, clinging on to Jack like he was the last lifeboat on the
Titanic.
Eyes closed, she smiled.

Jack felt the pressure build within him. He came, pulling her to him, holding himself inside her until there was nothing left but quivering aftershocks. He opened his eyes. And found Joanne's staring straight into his.

She smiled.

He smiled back.

Contact.

‘Oh, sorry. I forgot, you don't.'

Joanne lit the cigarette, inhaled, blew smoke at the ceiling.

‘Smoking,' said Jack. ‘You're all grown up now.'

Joanne laughed. ‘Well, I would hope so. Especially after what we've just done.'

Later, in Joanne's bed. Both naked, covered by sheets and blankets. The fire on, a candle burning. Jack's arm around Joanne, Joanne snuggled into Jack's body. ‘Sketches of Spain' on the Dansette; Miles Davis blowing warmth into the room.

‘You feeling all right now?' said Jack.

‘About Kenny, you mean?'

‘Anything.'

Another inhale, another exhale.

‘I'm fine about Kenny. He's been lost for a long time, really. Should have expected something like this, I suppose.'

Another inhale.

‘Like I say, it's Mam and Dad I feel sorry for.' Exhale. ‘What about you? You OK?'

Jack smiled. ‘Well, I can't say I'm not taken aback by what's happened. University's certainly broadened your horizons.'

Joanne laughed. They slipped into an easy silence. Content to be in each other's company.

They had made love twice. Joanne's housemate had noisily left the house to meet her friends, obviously angry that Joanne wasn't accompanying her. Night had drawn in; the two of them had stayed where they were.

‘I felt a bit guilty at first,' said Joanne. ‘The first time. The look on your face, it was like you didn't know what had happened.'

‘I didn't.'

‘I suddenly realized who you were. What you were. Married. And I like Sharon.'

‘Like I said, don't worry about it.'

Joanne finished her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, an old tin one, obviously stolen from a pub, at the bedside. She propped herself up on one arm, uninhibited about her naked breasts, looked at Jack.

‘Are you and her not getting on?'

‘D'you think I'd be here now if we were?'

Silence fell again. Jack wasn't good at talking about his feelings. He kept too much inside himself, bottled things up. Joanne's silence told him he had said the wrong thing. Or it had come out wrong. But he could speak to this girl, he would try to say the right things. He took a deep breath, started slowly.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘that didn't come out right. Sharon and I aren't getting on. We haven't spoken properly for months. Haven't had … relations for ages. We're only staying together, I think, because of Isaac' He sighed. ‘And she's been seeing someone else.'

‘And now you're equal.'

‘No, that's not what I mean … I didn't mean it like that.'

Joanne smiled.

‘I was joking.'

Jack said nothing. The candle flickered, guttered, kept burning.

‘I think she was going out tonight. I think I was supposed to stay in and look after Isaac.'

‘Oh.' Joanne couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice. ‘So you'll be going, then.'

‘I don't think so,' said Jack. ‘It'll do her good. Remind her what a mother's supposed to do.'

Joanne smiled. ‘That's one of the things I've always loved about you. Real strength of character.'

‘Always loved?' said Jack. ‘To be honest, Joanne, I'm having a hard time accepting this is happening without you saying things like that.'

‘Sorry.' She smiled. She didn't look it.

‘It's all right. But I mean, I'm thirty-six. Old enough to be your dad, almost. Don't you have a boyfriend? Someone your own age? What are you doing in bed with me?'

‘I don't like the boys my own age. They're so … immature.' She affected a world-weary air that Jack thought made her seem younger. ‘I prefer men. Older men. I've had a few boyfriends older than me. One older than you.'

‘And married?'

Joanne shrugged. ‘Couple, maybe.'

Jack let the facts sink in. Older men. Married men. No commitment.

‘But you're different,' she said. ‘I like you a lot, Jack. I always have done.'

Her fingers began to stroke the hairs on his chest. For the first time he noticed how grey they were.

‘I hope today is the start of something special,' she said.

Jack pulled her closer to him. He could feel her heart beating. He could feel the hunger for her rising in him again.

‘Whenever you want me,' she said, whispering in his ear, sliding her hands down his body, ‘I'll be here. You'll always have me to come to. Whenever you want me.'

‘I want you now,' he said.

They began to make love again, slowly, like a symphonic overture.

He thought of her words:

The start of something special.

He hadn't answered her, didn't feel safe answering her. But there in that candlelit room, smooth, warm jazz blowing gently like soft dreams, paintings against the wall, he gave the answer to himself.

I hope so too.

Their bodies joined together, singing in harmony once again.

He put the key in the lock, turned it, dreading what lay on the other side of the door.

Jack stepped into his house, closed the door behind him, waited.

Nothing.

He went into the kitchen. A place had been set for him at the table. He checked the oven. The dried-up remains of his dinner sat in there. He closed the oven door. Whatever hunger he had felt had long disappeared or been sated.

He listened. No sound: the house was silent. It felt like it was waiting for him to speak, to tell it things, to explain himself. He looked around, saw familiar walls, appliances, cupboards. His kitchen. A place he was in every day. That familiarity felt suddenly alien to him: like he was visiting it in a dream or watching an actor playing himself in a film or play, moving around.

He checked his watch. Eleven twenty-five. He may as well go to bed.

He walked upstairs, each creak and groan sounding sharp and accusatory in his ears, checked on Isaac. His son was sleeping soundly, Thunderbirds toys, Daleks on the floor of his room. Isaac's face looked at peace, almost angelic, and Jack, for the first time that evening, felt a knife-stab of guilt. He wondered if what he had done was worth risking his son's future happiness for.

He wondered what he intended to do next.

But he didn't want to start thinking about that at this time of night. He would never sleep.

Back on the landing and into the bathroom, where he prepared for bed. He moved as soundlessly as he could into the bedroom. He made out the still figure of Sharon lying on her side of the bed, breathing evenly. He changed into his pyjamas and lay under the covers with his back to her, as he always did.

He needed to sleep, but his mind was spinning like a Catherine wheel. He tried to will himself to sleep but couldn't.