Peter May - Runaway

But I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. ‘Well, let’s take a nice democratic vote on it in the morning. I might even tell you we’re having it. Unlike some people.’

‘Jack—’

‘Fuck off, Luke.’ I kicked off my shoes and dropped on to the settee, pulling my coat over me and burying my head among the cushions. ‘And switch off the light.’

He stood for a while without moving, then I heard him cross the room to the hall, and the light went out.

I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I felt her fingers on my neck, cool and trembling. I awoke with a start and sat up suddenly, almost cracking my head on the underside of her chin.

She giggled in the dark. ‘What are you trying to do? Knock me out?’

I caught hold of her arms and pulled her down on to the settee. And somehow, without being able to see her, I found her lips. It was a hungry kiss, full of lust and impatience, and I don’t think I have ever been so awake so fast in my life. ‘Do you want me to come through?’ I whispered.

‘No. The bed’s far too small.’

I was disappointed. ‘The settee’s even worse.’

She giggled again in the dark, and I would have given anything to see the light in those big, full-moon eyes. ‘It’s our first time, Jack. We deserve something a little better.’

My mouth was so dry I had difficulty swallowing. ‘First time?’

I heard her smile. ‘Well, not for me. For you. For us.’ And then a deep sigh. ‘We’re in a house full of bedrooms that nobody’s using.’

‘The doc’ll kick us out, if he catches us.’

‘Maybe. And maybe it’ll be worth it.’

I discarded my coat and stood up, feeling for and finding her hand. ‘Come on, then.’

And we both had trouble stifling our giggles as we snuck out of the basement flat and started up the stairs. Maybe it was a residue of our acid trip, but I think more likely it was nerves.

Light from street lamps outside laid down long, elongated rectangles through the glazing in the door, and our shadows danced along the hall like cartoon silhouettes as we ran barefoot along it, the deep-pile carpet soft under our feet. The curving sweep of the stairs took us up to the first floor. A night light burned dully somewhere at the end of the hall. This was the floor where Dr Robert said he spent his time. One of these rooms would surely be his bedroom. The living room stood in darkness, but I saw a pencil line of light beneath the door of his study and heard the hushed sound of distant voices.

Rachel pulled my hand and we moved quickly to the next flight of stairs. In a whispered exchange, we decided to go all the way to the attic. After all, as far as ‘class’ was concerned, our parents were far more likely to have been employed by Cliff Robert’s folks than be their peers. So it seemed appropriate that we should make love where the maid might once have slept. But before we climbed that final, narrow flight to the servants’ quarters, she pulled me back.

‘Stop!’ There was an imperative in her whisper. ‘Wouldn’t it be more fun to do it in the master’s bed?’

‘What? In Robert’s own bed?’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.

‘No, silly! Not his. Not exactly. But one of the pukka guest rooms. One with a nice big, soft bed and feather pillows and a quilt to wrap ourselves up in.’

We checked out three rooms on the top floor before finding a large bedroom at the front of the house with a four-poster bed. Neither of us could believe it. A real four-poster! I had never seen one in the flesh before. It was the sort of thing you saw in period dramas on TV, or at the flicks. It was covered with a canopy and had drapes at the four corners. And judging by the way it creaked when we threw ourselves on it, it could have been a genuine antique. It almost sucked us down into its bosom, with the soft-sprung mattress positively enveloping us.

The curtains were open, and light from the street flooded in. Somewhere above the rooftops I could see an almost full moon rising into a diamond-studded sky. But we were driven now. Pulling clothes off each other, discarding them carelessly on the floor. And then I felt her skin on mine, smooth and cool, like a thousand tiny electric shocks. I am not sure I have ever felt quite so hopelessly aroused — so lost in lust and the moment — that my brain seemed to have given up on all rational thought.

Over the years I have read many accounts of young men and women losing their virginity. For the most part they seem to have been fumbling, frustrating encounters that ended prematurely, often in pain and blood. Perhaps it was Rachel’s experience that saved us from that.

Because of the complete disconnect between me and my brain, she was in total control. In as much as our passion would allow. And she almost forced me to wait, and savour. To linger over our kisses, holding my head to her breasts, urging me to bite, then pulling my head away when there was too much pain, before drawing me to her again to salve teeth marks with my lips and tongue.

All my primitive sexual instincts wanted me simply to be inside her. But she made me wait for that, teaching me instead that we could give and receive as much pleasure with our mouths. Things I would never have known, or thought to do. But which, ultimately, led to the most heightened moment of release when finally I was inside her, feeling her grip me with her muscles as my hips rose and fell to the most ancient rhythm known to mankind.

I can’t imagine what kind of noise we must have made, but we were unrestrained in giving voice to our passion, and neither of us cared.

When it was over, we lay breathless and sweating, wrapped in each other’s arms, a tangle of legs. Kissing and whispering words that came without thought.

‘I love you.’ Had I really said that? It sounded like me, but I had no idea where it came from. After all, what could I possibly know about love? I was barely seventeen and had just lost my virginity to a girl I’d known for two days.

She said, ‘Shhhh,’ and held my head and kissed me. ‘Time enough for that.’

But we had no time even to register the opening of the door before the room was flooded with hard, cold electric light. I turned over quickly on the bed, naked, exposed and feeling horribly vulnerable. Dr Robert stood in the doorway looking at us. We were on top of the bed and so had no way of covering our nakedness. Rachel didn’t seem to care. She just lay there, brazenly returning his stare. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of any words.

There was the slightest lascivious smile about his mouth as he ran his eyes over us and appeared to consider the situation. In the end, all he said was, ‘Enjoy,’ and pulled the door shut.

We were picked up the next morning in a Volkswagen minibus driven by a young man with incredibly long hair. Dr Robert sat up front and we all piled into the rear. As we headed down to the Old Brompton Road he leaned back over his seat. ‘Just popping up to Abbey Road to collect some demo tapes, then we’ll head out to Bethnal Green and you can meet Johnny.’

Abbey Road, it turned out, was a tree-lined suburban avenue north-west of Regent’s Park. Just beyond a zebra crossing our driver pulled off, inching through a sizeable crowd of teenagers standing outside black wrought-iron gates. The gates opened, allowing him into a small parking area outside a white-painted villa. Steps led up to the front door. Above it, a white-glazed panel bore the legend Abbey Road Studios .

Dr Robert jumped down on to the tarmac and leaned back in, grinning at us. ‘This is where the Beatles record, you know.’ And then he laughed at the expressions on our faces. ‘It’s a bit of a Tardis inside.’