Hakan Nesser - The Stranglers Honeymoon

And now this Benjamin Kerran.

When she thought about him, it occurred to her that this was the first time during all those years that she hadn’t heard the shout for her father echoing inside her chest. Her own shout inside her own body.

Benjamin? The only thing she had against him was in fact his name. He was much too big to be called Benjamin. And vigorous and warm and lively. A Benjamin ought to be small and skinny with misted-up glasses and a face covered in pimples and blackheads. And bad breath — just like Benjamin Kuhnpomp, who had spent a term in her class in year five, and who was, as far as she was concerned, the model for all Benjamins the world over.

But now here she was, cooking a meal for a quite different Benjamin.

A Benjamin who was her mother’s lover, and was welcome to stay with them for as long as he wished.

As far as Monica was concerned, she was keen to do her best not to frighten him off — that much was clear, and she was determined to carry it off. She checked the temperature and put the casserole with the chicken into the oven. It was only half past seven: if she skipped washing her hair, she would have time for a shower before he arrived.

‘You don’t need to sit here entertaining an old fart just because your mum was delayed. You mustn’t let me interfere with your plans.’

She laughed and scraped up the final, runny lump of sorbet from her plate.

‘You are not an old fart, and I don’t have any plans for this evening. Have you had enough?’

He smiled and patted his stomach.

‘I couldn’t even force down another raisin. Is it your mum who’s taught you how to cook? That was really delicious. An old bachelor like me isn’t used to feasts of this quality, believe you me.’

‘Oh, come off it!’ she managed to come out with, and could feel that she was blushing.

‘Let’s put some foil over the remains, so that we can warm them up when your mum gets back. I’ll see to the washing up.’

‘No, I. .’

‘Enough of that. Sit down and watch the telly, and I’ll sort all this out. Or read a book. Incidentally, speaking of books. .’

He stood up and went out into the hall. Fished around in a plastic carrier bag he had left on the hat shelf, then came back in.

‘Here you are. A little present as a thank you for the meal.’

He placed a flat, gift-wrapped little parcel on the table in front of her.

‘For me? But why?’

‘Why not?’

He started clearing the table.

‘You might not like it, but you sometimes have to take a chance.’

She ran her finger over the fancy ribbons.

‘Aren’t you going to open it? I’ve got something for your mum as well, so she won’t need to feel jealous.’

She slid the ribbon over the corner of the packet and tore open the wine-red paper. She took out the book, and couldn’t conceal her delight.

‘Blake!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you know?’

He came over to her and stood behind her with his hands on the back of her chair.

‘ Songs of Innocence and of Experience . I happened to notice that you had Tyger, Tyger, burning bright pinned up on your noticeboard — it was your mum who insisted that I should take a look at your room — forgive me for intruding. Anyway, I thought he must be a favourite of yours. . And it’s a beautiful book, with all the paintings and so on.’

She started thumbing through, and when she saw the mystical illustrations and the ornate script, she could feel that tears were not far distant. In order to keep them at bay she stood up and gave him a hug.

He laughed, and hugged her as well.

‘So there, little lady — that wasn’t much, let’s be honest! Time to leave me in peace now here in the kitchen.’

‘You’re so nice. I hope. .’

‘Well, what do you hope?’

‘I hope everything goes well with you and my mum. You would be so good for her. . For us.’

She hadn’t meant to say that, but it was done now. He held her shoulders, at arm’s length, and eyed her with a somewhat confused expression on his face.

‘We’ll see what happens,’ he said.

Then he steered her out of the kitchen.

When he came and sat beside her on the sofa, it was twenty past ten. There was over an hour to go before her mother would arrive. She had started watching a French film on the telly, but switched off after a quarter of an hour. She switched on the reading lamp and went over to Blake instead.

‘Read something for me,’ he said.

She suddenly felt her mouth go dry.

‘My English isn’t all that good.’

‘Nor is mine. But I think all young people speak like native Brits nowadays. Do you have a favourite poem? You don’t need to feel embarrassed if you slip up.’

She thought for a moment, then leafed back through a few pages.

‘Maybe this one.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

She cleared her throat, closed her eyes for two seconds, then started reading.

‘

O Rose thou art sick

The invisible worm

That flies in the night

In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy

’

She closed the book and waited for his reaction.

‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘And sad. It’s called “The Sick Rose”, isn’t it?’

She nodded.

‘But it’s really about people. I realize that you’ve had a bit of a rough time. If you want to tell me about it I’d be glad to listen.’

She knew immediately that that was exactly what she wanted to do. But was it appropriate? she wondered. And if she did tell him, how far should she go? And where should she begin?

‘If you don’t want to, then of course you shouldn’t. We can sit here in silence, Or talk about football. Or ropey TV programmes, or the perilous state of hedgehogs in the contemporary world. .’

‘You are just like my dad,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You really are. We used to sit here on this sofa, reading aloud to each other. When I was little, that is — he did most of the reading, of course. I used to sit on his lap.’

Three seconds passed before she burst out crying.

Then she sat on his lap.

Afterwards she had trouble in remembering what they had talked about.

If they had said all that much in fact, or just sat there in silence for most of the time.

Probably the latter.

But she remembered that he smelled nice. She remembered the rough texture of his shirt, and his regular, deep breaths against her back. The warmth he radiated, and his strong hands that occasionally caressed her arms and her hair.

And she remembered that it was shortly after the old wall clock over the television struck eleven that she felt that sudden movement inside her that ought not to have stirred at all.

And that at almost exactly the same moment a part of him also moved and made its presence felt, in a way that was absolutely forbidden.

He rang to apologize the very next day.

In the late afternoon: her mother was at some preliminary meeting for people who had been out of work for quite a long time, but were now being launched back into the labour market. Perhaps she had told him about that, so that he knew when it would be a suitable time to phone her.

‘Please forgive me, Monica,’ he said. ‘No, you shouldn’t do that, in fact. It was unforgivable.’

She didn’t know what to say.

‘There were two of us involved,’ she said.

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It was entirely my fault. I don’t understand how I could have let it happen. I was a bit tired, of course, and I’m only human — but for God’s sake, that’s no excuse. It’s probably best if you don’t ever see me again.’