Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Mid-light?

Hang on…

It was evening–

But of course

— definitely evening. The giant hall was suddenly illuminated (or had it always been?) by a thousand flickering candles. He sniffed. He could smell cheap tallow. He could smell burning honey.

And then–

What?

— without any kind of warning, the echo from his footsteps faltered slightly — it adjusted itself; it missed a beat. He glanced anxiously behind him — with a start. But there was only his shadow–

My shadow?

Really?!

He gingerly lifted an arm. His shadow’s arm lifted. It was a tiny arm. He kicked out his leg. His shadow’s leg lifted. It was a curiously feminine leg. He pushed back his hood and tried to inspect his profile, but every time he posed (to get the best possible slant on his features) the shadow — like a twig in a game of Pooh-sticks — drifted gently out of view.

He inspected his hands. His hands were very beautiful; a scholar’s hands. A gentleman’s hands–

Still a gentleman’s hands, eh?

After all this time?

— and there — very reassuringly — further up on the forearm; his burn. He fondly recalled how he’d acquired it; setting fire to the barn–

Barn?!

His eyes quickly returned–

No.

That’s just silly.

It wasn’t…

— to those fine, scholarly hands. He smiled down at them, proudly, spreading out his fingers and quietly perusing his uncallused palms, his neat, clean nails…

A sudden rustle—

What?!

— from directly behind him–

Who?!

— caused him to spring sharply back, but way too late. She was already hard upon him; a woman, lean; dark; distinguished; dressed, from head to toe, in deepest mourning. He froze, certain he’d be exposed–

Exposed for what?

To what?

— but she hurried straight on by him, as if she didn’t even see him.

He turned and observed her rapid progress down the aisle (her skirts were long and black, the fabric seemed heavy— shiny— almost as if wet, as if water logged. He stared at the floor, anticipating some kind of damp trail, but there was nothing, only tiny tornadoes of dust which danced and spiralled gaily in her wake).

The woman— The Mourner (he didn’t know why he felt the strong urge to call her that) hastened on towards the altar, drew to an abrupt halt in front of it, crossed herself and fell into a deep curtsey. Her dark skirts rose around her like a singed blackcurrant soufflé.

As he watched her he felt something unexpected rise within him. A naughty urge? A cackle , perhaps? He held his breath, purely out of instinct, to curtail it, and as he held it he slowly began to— Wa-hey!

— to levitate.

He lifted straight up into the air; 2 feet, 4 feet, 10 feet, 20. He rose so high that he disturbed a wood pigeon from its roost. It clapped its wings, furiously, as it flew on by (and this single clap resounded around the ceiling, like a flurry of gunshot).

Then he panicked–

Oh shit…

How the hell will I come down again?

He exhaled, sharply — alarmed — and then he dropped–

Woah!

He suspended his breath again and held steady. He experimented with this system a few times–

Okay…

— then he tried to move forward, but it was difficult. He performed a kind of clumsy breast-stroke with his arms and made gradual headway.

Soon (in a blink) he was suspended directly above her–

The Mourner…

Who’s she mourning for?

He exhaled gradually. It was a good feeling, a warm feeling. He slipped lower and lower, like the mercury in a cooling themometer. Twenty feet, 10 feet, 5 feet, he wobbled on 3. His shoes finally touched the ground, but so lightly . He stood on his toes, holding out his arms (like the poignant Christ carved in exquisite marble behind the altar).

He was mere inches from her. He breathed out — slowly and deeply — from his loin, from his belly, and then he inhaled the scent of her. He smelled…

Peppermint?

Clove?

Lavender?

He rose a delighted inch and then landed. He was aroused by her. She was standing now, and there was this irresistible sliver …

Uh…

— of white flesh on the back of her shoulder, peeking out like the slip of a moon from between the gloom of her dress and the pitch of her shawl. He fluttered out his hand and landed on it — like a moth, drawn to the light — with the soft pads of his scholarly fingers. She didn’t move. She didn’t react to the moth. She was muttering a prayer.

He rose and then fell again–

Ahhh…

This time, as he landed, he reached out both hands and slid them around her waist’s tight hourglass. Her waist was so tiny he thought he might almost… almost fasten his hands around it. So he did. He clamped his hands around her, hearing — and thrilling to — the resisting creak of her corset; the aching groan of her stays…

His middle fingers touched each other. His scholar’s thumbs touched each other…

Ahhh

He moved in still closer — so close now he was literally shoved up against her. He slid his hungry palms over the swell of her belly and then up, towards her breasts. His fingers pitter-pattered like rain on the gently rising dough of her chest.

Still, she did nothing. So he shoved his hands down–

Hard

— on to her breasts, from above, almost viciously, as if trying to push those neat, white buns back into the stern corset that supported them. Then he lifted them, sharply, and freed her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, with a satisfied grunt. Her nipples felt hard between his fingers as two cultured pearls.

He rose and then fell away.

Ahhh

He rose and then fell.

Because it was all in the breathing, see? Each breath sending a tiny pulse, a thrill, to his belly and his groin.

He breathed. He breathed . He squeezed her breasts. He pushed his face and lips into the tender white skin on the side of her neck.

And then suddenly, just when it seemed like he could do exactly as he liked, that he would do as he liked (that he might no longer be able to stop himself from doing so), she gasped and her head snapped around. Her eyes were wide. She seemed terrified. He saw her, in profile, and he knew her, but just as with his own shadow — when he tried to see her, to recognise her completely — the face lost focus and she was only…

Uh…

She struggled to turn and confront him, but he couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t stop what he was doing–

Just can’t…

Just need to…

— so he grabbed her arms, roughly, and pinned her to him, bruising her (he could feel the savage squeeze and crush of his grip against the milky blancmange of her skin). He ground himself into her, into the blackness of her skirts, into the softness and the muffledness, like a ravenous man trying to land a fish from a fast-flowing river; and the fish is resisting — as all fishes naturally must — the fish is pulling the line taut — still tauter — but he counters, hungrily, he lugs, he wrestles, he strains, he heaves , and then, and then, and then… smack! –

Oh God!

Thank God!

— the fish jumps, it springs , spontaneously, unrestrainedly, out of the water.