Stephan Collishaw - Amber

He shrugged, taking a larger piece of amber from his pocket. It was orange and clear, with only a few blemishes in it.

‘Look,’ he said, leading me outside into the sunlight. He held up the amber so that it caught the sun. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? So warm; it is like a piece of sunlight solidified. From this we get the word electricity. The Greeks called it elektron when they discovered it, lustrous metal. And look.’ He rubbed the amber hard against the ripped woollen jumper he wore and then held it over a little fluff. The fluff clung to the amber. ‘Static electricity. It is a source of power, of healing, of life. It is an elemental force for good, preserved from the very beginnings of time, from the prehistoric forests which grew thickly here, across the plains to Scandinavia before the sea poured over them.’

His eyes glowed. He folded the amber into the palm of his large hand. ‘I will teach you how to work amber,’ he said. ‘I will you teach you how to make jewels. We will be jewellers, the two of us, craftsmen of the highest order, the best jewellers on the Baltic coast. I will teach you all you need to know.’

Sleep came quickly in those days, unaided by narcotics or spirits. The tranquillity of the village and the compassionate solicitude of Vassily encouraged the slow process of healing, closing the wounds, slicking over the pale ghosts of our past. And when the dreams came, he woke me and held me through the dark hours.

Tanya was the centre of attention in the small cottage. Her grandparents doted on her, and it had not escaped my notice that when she entered the room, or addressed Vassily, his face flushed with pleasure. When he spoke to her he was especially polite and she, when she addressed him, was playfully rude. She was beautiful. When she smiled, the smile would grow from her eyes and spread down across her glowing cheeks to her lips. Fearful of the feelings she stirred in me and of hurting Vassily, I stifled my attraction to her.

In the modern bar on Gedimino I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and wept, my body stiff and awkward, aware of the scene I was causing. Vassily, my friend, my teacher, was gone.

I did not return home until late that evening. Daiva was already in bed. She lay silent in the darkness, and though she said nothing, I knew she was awake. As quietly as I could, I undressed, sitting on the edge of the bed so I would not stumble. I opened a window and kept a distance from Daiva so she would not smell the vodka on my breath.

When I slipped between the sheets, she turned to me. ‘Vassily?’ she asked quietly.

‘He died this morning.’

For some moments she said nothing, then, half turning away, she said, ‘And how is Tanya?’

She attempted to control the tone of her voice, but it shook with the force of the repressed accusation.

‘Tanya was upset when I saw her this morning,’ I said.

‘This morning?’ Daiva shot back bitterly, propping herself up on her elbows. ‘You didn’t spend the day comforting her?’

‘No,’ I said, quietly, ‘I didn’t spend the day comforting her.’

We lay, then, for some time in silence. I moved my hand over to touch hers, but she drew it away sharply.

‘I can’t stand it any more.’ ‘What?’

‘I can’t stand this deception.’ She turned her back on me. In the light of the street lamps that glowed dimly through the gap between the curtains, I saw her figure outlined. I felt a heavy weight settle on my chest, press down on it. I felt weary.

‘I can’t do this, Daiva,’ I whispered, my voice tight. ‘I don’t want to talk now.’

Daiva sat up. I saw the stiffening of the muscles in her neck, her jaw jutting forward slightly.

Her voice was low and measured when she spoke. ‘You never do want to talk about it.’

I eased myself out of bed and went over to the window. Pulling back the thin curtain, I looked out blankly into the night.

‘You never want to confront things,’ Daiva said. I lifted my hand.

‘Daiva,’ I said, finding my breathing constricted, feeling the heavy hand pressing down on my chest, squeezing the breath from me, ‘I don’t want to talk just now. Let’s stop.’

‘I need to talk.’ Her voice was furious. Quiet, low, controlled, but furious.

I balled my fist and pressed it hard against my chest. A sharp pain pierced through the muscles above my heart.

‘For five years now we have been walking around each other. I have kept my mouth shut, watched you drinking more and more, sitting here in silence because I’m not allowed to talk. It’s killing me, Antanas. It’s killing me.’

I spun around.

‘Killing you?’ I spat at her. ‘Killing you? You don’t know the meaning of that word.’ My voice rose. ‘Do you want me to tell you what that word means? Do you want to know what killing means? Do you?’

‘Don’t you shout at me,’ she said, her voice very low and tight now.

I was trembling. My pulse raced; my teeth were gritted so tight against each other they hurt.

Daiva pulled the sheet away and got out of bed. She moved silently across the room to the crib. The baby had stirred. I could hear her moving, a small snuffle. Daiva leant down, arranging the covers over her, muttering soothingly. I turned back to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, trying to control the rage.

The door of the bedroom clicked and a light came on in the hallway. I turned to see Daiva entering the kitchen. I followed her. She had opened the window and was staring out, a soft breeze blowing her fine light hair away from her face, making the silk of her pyjamas shiver. Hearing me enter, she picked up the kettle. Filling it from the tap, she placed it on the hob and struck a match to light the gas. Only then did she turn to me.

Leaning back against the sink, she folded her arms across her chest. For some moments she did not say anything. I stood in the doorway, my pulse racing.

‘It can’t go on,’ she said at last.

She pushed her hair back from her face. Her cheeks were flushed delicately pink. Her throat was the colour of marbled amber.

‘I can’t live like this any more.’

‘You think I can?’ I retorted, wounded by the implication of her words. I felt the ripple of desperation pass beneath my feet, the swell of the bubble of darkness. ‘You think I can live like this?’ I repeated, not knowing what else to say.

The gas flame roared faintly. A gust of wind blew through the window, billowing the net curtains, rasping the gas.

‘It’s not just the drinking, Antanas, although God knows the drinking is difficult enough to bear. I just can’t stand how you give in to her.’

‘Give in to who? What are you talking about?’

‘She calls and you come running.’

‘Daiva, her husband just died today.’

‘And you can’t keep your hands off her. Straight over.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I can’t stand it any more,’ she screamed. Her face was set and brutal with pain. Tears flowed down her cheeks and her whole body was rigid, her hands clasped before her, pleading. ‘Go to her,’ she whispered. ‘Go fuck her. I don’t care any more.’

‘You’re twisted,’ I shouted. ‘You’re twisted, you know that? ’

‘You’re killing me,’ she whispered, her voice dissolving in her tears. She pulled her hands up to her face and buried it in them.

An intense wave of fury ripped through me. I stepped across the floor to her and pulled the hands from her face.

‘You listen to me,’ I said, my voice trembling with rage. ‘You can’t just go saying things like that. You know what you are saying is not true.’

‘Really?’