Nicola Barker - Wide Open

“We killed it,” Lily announced brashly, “on the beach.”

Connie gave her a thin smile.

“And I saw you in the road with Ronny before…”

“With Ronny?” Connie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Lily’s eyes tightened. “I’m not stupid. I saw you.”

“But I wasn’t with Ronny,” Connie stuck her two hands defiantly into the pockets of her robe, “which means that, yes, Lily, you must be pretty stupid.”

“That’s my father’s bathrobe,” Lily said thickly, “take it off.”

“Gladly.” Connie pulled off the bathrobe and dropped it on to the floor. She wore nothing under it.

“Happy now?”

Lily was not happy. Connie was so neat, so little. She hated her for it. Her completeness . “Why won’t you leave Ronny alone?” she snarled. “He doesn’t like you. He doesn’t trust you. None of us do.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Connie grinned. “You’re snapping it in two. You stole my letters and now you feel the need to lecture me on issues of trust?”

Lily growled, grabbed the box and headed upstairs with it.

Once she had gone, Connie’s grin disintegrated. She pulled the robe back on again. She was shivering. She walked to the doorway. Outside she could see Sara unlocking one of the larger outhouses and Nathan, sitting inside his car with the door wide and the light on. He was staring straight ahead of him, through the windscreen. Into the rain and the darkness beyond it.

Connie wrapped the robe tight around her and then jogged out to the car, still barefoot. She climbed in on the passenger side. “I can’t pretend to understand any of this, Nathan,” she said calmly, slamming the door shut behind her. “How about you?”

Nathan did not look quite himself. He seemed ravaged. He didn’t make eye contact. “You probably won’t believe me,” he said, reaching out and closing his own door, “but I didn’t know Ronny would be here.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. We didn’t speak.”

“Then why did you come if not for Ronny?”

Nathan had a book on his lap. His hands were stretched across it.

“I came for you. I needed to show you something.”

“Me?”

He passed Connie the book. She took it, handled it briefly, closed her eyes and sniffed it.

“Italian,” she said, exhaling.

“Why do people always do that?”

Nathan thought of Laura for a split second. Poor Laura.

“It’s a hardback,” Connie fingered the book’s spine. “I love the aroma of hardbacks. Especially art books. They smell like wax and hamsters. My dad used to buy books like this. Our house is still full of them.”

Nathan reached out his hand and pulled the book open at a place marked by the jacket flap. Then he glanced up and admired Connie’s fine little face in profile. She seemed exhausted. He felt a strong urge to stroke her cheek. But instead, to compensate, he stroked his one hand with his other.

Connie’s eyes gradually ingested the glossy illustration. “That’s Jesus,” she said finally, “and he’s gorgeous .”

Nathan opened his mouth to say something but was pipped at the post by Sara, who suddenly materialized at Connie’s window, rapped on it and tried the door handle. The door opened.

“You’ll catch your death wearing only that thing,” she muttered tartly. “Where’s Lily?”

Connie closed the book. “Inside. Upstairs.”

“I’ll need her to give me a hand with the carcass. And you…” she leaned forward, “you too, Nathan, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“No,” Nathan said, automatically, “I don’t mind.”

Connie peered over at him. He looked like he minded.

♦

Lily placed the box on her bed and sat down next to it, her expression staunch, but cautious, as if she and the box were on a first date together and she wasn’t exactly sure what its intentions might be. She stared at it for a long while, quite gravely, and then stood up, walked over to her chest of drawers, opened the third drawer down and inspected its contents. She picked up a penknife — but she was frowning as she handled it — then rifled with great care through the rest of the drawer’s jumble. For all her carefulness, she failed to locate what she wanted and finally, abandoning her search, huffed frustratedly.

She went and sat down on the bed again, repositioned the penknife in her hand, pulled it open, but instead of applying it to the box, applied it lightly to the very tip of her own tongue.

“Ow!”

The blade was sharp. She blotted her tongue on to her hand and studied her damp skin to see if any trace of blood remained. None. She smiled, then took the knife and applied it with a grand flourish to the brown tape on the box. She cut with a light, measured stroke; one side, two sides, three sides. She snapped the knife back into its shell and dropped it carelessly on to the counterpane.

She stared at the box again, took a deep, preparatory breath and then reached out a tentative hand to pull the flap open.

“Lily!”

Connie’s voice, in the hall.

She frowned.

“Lily!”

Connie’s voice again, on the stair.

“What?” she barked.

“Your mother wants you. She’s outside.”

“Tell her I’m busy.”

“Tell her yourself. They’re heading back down to the beach again to fetch the carcass.”

Lily said nothing.

“If you don’t want to help them then I’ll go.”

“No!” Lily stood up. “Tell her I’m coming.”

She yanked on her shoes, picked up her rain mac, slung it over her shoulder, and was just about to leave her room when something struck her. She turned and stared at the box on her bed. She grimaced. She took the key from the small lock on the inside of her bedroom door, reached around and pushed it into the outside lock. She turned off her light, closed the door behind her, twisted the key and pocketed it.

Connie sat at the kitchen table with Nathan’s book closed in front of her. She heard Lily cantering down the stairs, the front door slamming and a short while after the sound of a car’s engine firing. Her nose was running. She sniffed. She went upstairs to the bathroom for a tissue, but instead of finding herself at the bathroom door, she found herself turning the handle to Lily’s room. Jammed. She twisted the handle and pushed a little harder. Not jammed, locked. She kicked the door.

“Damn her!”

She went into her bedroom, took off the robe and pulled on some jeans and a jumper. She sneezed. Her eyes began watering. She cleared her throat but it would not clear completely. She went into the bathroom and lapped at some water from the cold tap.

On her way back downstairs she thought she heard something. A knock. A clatter. In the kitchen? Perhaps it was Sara, home again, having forgotten something? She tried to recollect whether she’d left the back door open. It’s a cold night, she thought, a wet night. Her nose was still running. She blotted at it with a fistful of toilet paper, then slowly made her way down the last of the stairs. She paused for a moment in the hallway and listened. Everything was still.

The door through to the kitchen was slightly ajar. She pushed it with her foot and walked inside. The light was on. The Aga grumbled. It was still warm, but the back door was swinging on its hinges. She walked over and closed it, then returned to the table.

Nathan’s book. She put out her hand and pulled it open. The beautiful Jesus. She looked more closely. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open. Why should that one particular combination prove so fiendishly sexy? She smiled to herself, slightly perplexed. The wound under his right nipple…wasn’t it too artificial-looking? Too gaudily ornate? And the sparse cloth barely covering his groin? Creased with the precision of a concertina. A red-head. Jesus? And the angel. His small face so tragic, his arm so protective, and the delicate tracing of a single tear…