Mark Burnell - Gemini

The windows are open. I can hear the distant murmur of traffic on the Gloucester Road, a phone ringing, the dull drum-roll of a helicopter passing overhead. Mark looms over me, enters me and kisses me. I can taste myself on his tongue.

Already flushed, I break into a sweat, our skins soon slippery, the sheets beneath us crushed and damp. I push my fingers through his dark hair and they come away wet. At first I’m content to let his weight pin me to the bed; I snake my arms around his neck and pull him down onto me. Later we roll over and I’m in charge, swiping away his hands from my hips so that I decide how hard we go, how deep, how fast. Which is when I seize up. Suddenly I’m no longer in his bedroom and I have no idea how it’s happened.

I try to escape his grasp but he doesn’t get it. He hardens his grip so I grab the fingers of his right hand and twist violently. I lurch forward and we separate. Still clutching his fingers with a force that amazes both of us, I wrench again, clamping my other hand over his, straining the tendons in his wrist.

‘Jesus … Stephanie …’

He rolls with the pain. He has to, otherwise the wrist would snap. I know that for certain. It’s a move I’ve used often. I let go just in time, but he’s hurt. And in shock. For a second or two neither of us does or says anything. Then I stumble off the bed and scramble to the bathroom, where I lock the door.

I’m trembling but I’m not sure whether it’s anger, sorrow or surprise. I lash out at the shelf above the basin, scattering two plastic mugs, a can of shaving foam and a half-used bottle of Listerine.

I don’t know what to think. Or what I can say to him. Because whatever I do, I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t share my day’s work with him. I can’t say what I’ve learnt after ten hours, or excuse my behaviour by telling him that all I could see was a Bosnian school-teacher being gang-raped by a Serb paramilitary unit. Or a little boy lying in the dirt next to his father, his head severed.

There’s a knock on the door. My breathing is slowing but my skin still gleams with sweat. He murmurs my name. I stare into my reflected eyes – my most potent weapon – and take control again.

Then I turn round and open the door.

Mark had pulled on a pair of cotton trousers. Stephanie was still naked. Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘I want you to talk.’

‘It would be easier to go.’

‘I’m sure it would.’

He offered her an old shirt of his. She pulled it around her damp body. When she said she was sorry, she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. He asked if she needed a drink. She did but she declined. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him.

‘You know that feeling, when you’re almost asleep but not quite? And you’re not actually sure whether you’re awake or not. And then you picture yourself tripping or falling, and even though it’s your imagination your whole body lurches … that’s what it was like.’

‘I know the feeling. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

Mark said it was okay. When it clearly wasn’t. Or, at least, shouldn’t have been. He should have asked questions. Or shouted. Something. Anything. But he didn’t because he didn’t have to. He understood without the details.

From the very start there had been a condition, laid down in her bed in the hotel in the Dolomites. Don’t imagine you’ll ever get too close to me, Mark. No matter what happens to us, there are whole areas of my life that I will never be able to share with anyone. He’d said he didn’t care.

Now, despite what she’d said, he had got close. Far closer than she could have anticipated. But not to her past. The condition remained intact.

He opened a bottle of wine to soothe the tension. Later, he cooked for them and they relaxed a little, a second bottle helping.

They went to bed just before midnight. With the curtains open, a street-lamp washed the ceiling dirty orange. They lay tangled together, her head on his chest, his fingers in her hair.

He said, ‘You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met.’

‘I’m not half as strange as you.’

‘I don’t think I’m strange.’

She looked up at him. ‘Do you really think I am?’

‘One moment you’re one person, the next moment you’re somebody completely different. That seems to me to be strange. Then again, it is who you are.’

‘Trust me, Mark. You have no idea.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.