Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

She swallowed past a raw spot in her throat. “I can’t. I can’t see you alone. I promised.”

“Why?”

“Because…Nick, you know.”

His hand was against the window glass, and he dropped it to his side. “But I just wanted to show you…Oh what the hell.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Never mind.”

“Nick, tell me.”

He turned his head away. He wore his hair bobbed, overlong on the top the way the rest of the boys did, but it never looked trendy on him. It looked right, as if he’d been the style’s inventor.

“Nick.”

“Just a letter,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

“A letter? From who?”

“It isn’t important.”

“But if you’ve come all this way—” Then she remembered. “Nick, you’ve not heard from Lester Piggott? Is that it? Has he answered your letter?” It was hard to believe. But Nick wrote to jockeys as a matter of course, always adding to his collection of letters. He’d heard from Pat Eddery, Graham Starkey, Eddie Hide. But Lester Piggott was a plum, to be sure.

She flung up the sash. The cold wind gusted like a cloud into the room.

“Is that it?” she asked.

From his ancient leather jacket — long claimed to be a gift to his great-uncle from an American bombardier during World War II— Nick took an envelope. “It isn’t much,” he said. “Just ‘nice to hear from you, lad.’ But he signed it real clear. No one thought he’d answer, remember, Mag? I wanted you to know.”

It seemed mean-spirited to leave him outside when he’d come on such an innocent errand. Even Mummy couldn’t object to this. Maggie said, “Come in.”

“Not if it’ll make trouble with your mum.”

“It’s all right.”

He squeezed his lanky frame through the window and made a deliberate point of not closing it behind him. “I thought you’d gone to bed. I was looking in the windows.”

“I thought you were a prowler.”

“Why’n’t you turn on the lights?”

She dropped her eyes. “I get scared. Alone.” She took the envelope from him and admired the address. Mr. Nick Ware, Esq., Skelshaw Farm was written clearly in a firm, bold hand. She returned it to Nick. “I’m glad he wrote back. I thought he would.”

“I remembered. That’s why I wanted you to see.” He flipped his hair off his face and looked round the room. Maggie watched, in dread. He’d be noticing all the stuffed animals and her dolls sitting upright in the wicker chair. He’d go to the bookshelves and see The Railway Children along with the other favourite titles from her childhood. He’d realise what a baby she was. He wouldn’t want to take her about then, would he. He probably wouldn’t want to know her at all. Why hadn’t she thought before letting him in?

He said, “I’ve never been in your bedroom before. It’s real nice, Mag.”

She felt dread dissolve. She smiled. “Ta.”

“Dimple,” he said and touched his index finger to the small depression in her cheek. “I like it when you smile.” Tentatively, he dropped his hand to her arm. She could feel his cold fingers, even through her pullover.

“You’re ice,” she said.

“Cold outside.”

She was acutely aware of being in the dark in forbidden territory. The room seemed smaller with him standing in it, and she knew the proper thing to do was to take him downstairs and let him out by the door. Except that now he was here, she didn’t want him to go, not without giving her some kind of sign that he was still hers in spite of everything that had happened in their lives since last October. It wasn’t enough to know that he liked it when she smiled and he could touch the dimple in her cheek. People liked babies’ smiles, they said so all the time. She wasn’t a baby.

“When’s your mum coming home?” he asked.

Any minute was the truth. It was after nine. But if she told the truth, he’d be gone in an instant. Perhaps he’d do it for her sake, to keep her from trouble, but he’d do it all the same. So she said, “I don’t know. She went off with Mr. Shepherd.”

Nick knew about Mummy and Mr. Shepherd, so he knew what that meant. The rest was up to him.

She made a move to close the window, but his hand was still on her arm, so it was easy enough for him to stop her. He wasn’t rough. He didn’t need to be. He merely kissed her, flicking his tongue like a promise against her lips, and she welcomed him.

“She’ll be a while then.” His mouth moved to her neck. He gave her the shivers. “She’s been getting hers regular enough.”

Her conscience told her to defend her mummy from Nick’s interpretation of the village gossip, but the shivers were running along her arms and her legs each time he kissed her and they kept her from thinking as straight as she’d like. Still, she was in the process of gathering her wits to make a firm reply when his hand moved to her breast and his fingers began to play with her nipple. He rolled it gently back and forth until she gasped with the hurt and the tingling heat and he relinquished the pressure and started the process all over again. It felt so good. It felt beyond good.

She knew she ought to talk about Mummy, she ought to explain. But she couldn’t seem to hold on to that thought for longer than the instant in which Nick’s fingers released her. Once they began to tease her again, she could think only of the fact that she didn’t want to risk any discussion standing in the way of the sign that things were right between them. So she finally said from somewhere outside of herself, “We’ve got an understanding now, my mum and I,” and she felt him smiling against her mouth. He was a clever boy, Nick. He probably didn’t believe her for a moment.

“Missed you,” he whispered and pulled her tight to him. “God, Mag. Give me some hard.”

She knew what he wanted. She wanted to do it. She wanted to feel It through his blue jeans again, going rigid and big because of her. She pressed her hand against It. He moved her fingers up and down and around.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus. Mag.”

He slid her fingers along Its length to the tip. He circled them round It. He felt heavy against her. She squeezed It gently, then harder when he groaned.

“Maggie,” he said. “ Mag .”

His breathing was loud. He tugged her pullover off. She felt the night wind against her skin. And then she felt only his hands on her breasts. And then only his mouth as he kissed them.

She was liquid. She was fl oating. The fi ngers on his blue jeans weren’t even hers. She wasn’t the one easing down the zip. She wasn’t the one making him naked.

He said, “Wait. Mag. If your mum comes home—”

She stopped him with her kiss. She groped blindly for the sweet full weight of him, and he helped her fingers stroke down and round his globes of flesh. He groaned, his hands went under her skirt, his fingers rubbed hot circles between her legs.

And then they were on the bed together, Nick’s body a pale sapling above her, her own body ready, hips lifted, legs spread. Nothing else mattered.

“Tell me when to stop,” he said. “Maggie, all right? We won’t do it this time. Just tell me when to stop.” He put It against her. He rubbed It against her. The tip of It, the length of It. “Tell me when to stop.”

Just once more. Just this once. It couldn’t be such a horrible sin. She pulled him closer, wanting him near.

“Maggie. Mag, don’t you think we ought to stop?”

She pressed It closer and closer with her hand.

“Mag, really. I can’t hold off.”

She lifted her mouth to kiss him.

“If your mum comes home—”

Slowly, deeply, she rotated her hips.