Lover

The Lover

Laura Wilson

F
ELONY
& M
AYHEM
P
RESS
• N
EW
Y
ORK

T
he alley was pitch dark. The two men, hats and overcoats wreathed in a post-pub fug of cigarettes and beer, lurched along the broken pavement, leaning on each other for support.

‘I said to her,' slurred George, ‘I said, “You want to stop thinking of what you'll look like blown to pieces, that's what you want to do.” I said, “You go down the shelter if you want. I'm not getting out of bed for bleeding Hitler.” I said to her, “You've got too much imagination, that's your trouble.”'

Bob belched. ‘Shouldn't have had that last.'

‘There's no talking to her,' said the other. ‘Ever since they copped it three doors down, she's been that bad with her nerves…'

‘They're bastards, that's what they are… Do you know something?'

‘No, what?'

‘I can't see a bloody thing.'

‘Nor me.'

They stood together, swaying and peering hopelessly into the black void.

‘Got a torch?' asked Bob.

‘Can't get the batteries. Shop's had nothing for two weeks and there's sod-all chance elsewhere.'

‘Oh, well…' Bob stepped forward. ‘Long as we don't walk into a wall.'

‘No bloody walls left, after the last few nights. I heard a good one yesterday, did I tell you? There's three blokes, all in the pub, they've had a few—'

‘—Like us—'

‘Well, they make this…pledge…when they get home, each man, whatever his wife tells him, he's got to do it. The one that doesn't, he's got to buy the drinks. So off they go, and the next day, they meet up. The first man says, “Well, I did it.” He says, “I've got home, and I'm a bit…you know…I piss in the sink, and the wife says, ‘That's right, piss all over the place.' So I do—the table, the chairs, the curtains, the rugs—” ‘

‘Steady!' George's foot slipped, and he cannoned into Bob, who grabbed his arm.

‘Whoa! Sorry, mate. Bit slithery round here.'

‘It's you, you daft berk, you've had a skinful.'

‘No, it's the ground. Something down here, slippery… So then the next man, he says, “I did it, too—I've got home, and I'm the same, so I go to light a cigarette and I drop the match on the rug. And my wife, she says, ‘That's right, burn the bloody house down.' So I do. The whole lot, up in smoke.” Then the third man, he's a bit quiet, so they say, “Well, what about you?” And the third man, he says, “Well, I've gone home, and the wife's in bed, and I fancy a bit of the other, so I put my hand between her legs, and she says, ‘Cut it out, Sid…”'

‘Cut it out! Cut it out… Steady the Buffs, for Christ's sake, or we'll both go over.'

‘It's a good one, though. Blimey, this pavement…'

‘Just a bit of rubbish. One of the shops.'

‘Aren't any shops. Not down here.'

‘Yes there are…aren't there?' They halted again. The darkness was impenetrable, like a barrier. ‘Christ, where are we?'

‘We're bleeding lost is where we are.'

‘Amazing…' Bob sighed. ‘We could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.'

‘Well, we've made a balls of this, all right. I'll be the one who cops it tonight, I'm telling you. I promised Edna I'd be home before the next lot.'

‘You got a match?'

‘What?'

‘A match. There
is
something down here, an' all… Ta.' There was a scraping sound, followed by a brief flare of light.

‘Watch it! You nearly had my eye with that. What's down there?'

‘Dunno. Butcher round here, is there?'

‘Not down this way, there isn't.'

‘Well, somebody's been and dropped their supper. Liver, by the looks of it.' Bob staggered backwards as his companion bumped against him and slid down onto the pavement. There was a wet, slapping noise. ‘Sounds like my dog licking its bits… You all right?'

‘Christ, it's… Oh,
Christ
… My hand, my hand in it, Jesus, oh Jesus…'

‘What are you talking about, your hand?' said the other, impatiently. ‘You've come a cropper on a sandbag, that's all.'

‘Sandbags…don't…wear…nylons… God, I'm going to—'

‘Here, not on my shoes, you bastard! You finished, are you?' Bob bent down and felt for his companion in the darkness, gagging at the stink of vomited ale. His fingertips brushed over something viscous and then felt thick material—wet, soaking—a coat pooled out over the grimy stones. His hand travelled along its length and he felt the bony lump of a hip, the slope of a thigh— chilly, doughy skin—and then the top of a stocking. ‘Sorry, love. Thought you was a sandbag. It's just my pal, he's—'

Footsteps. The man turned and saw a dim pool of torchlight moving towards them, dark shoes and uniform trousers behind it.

‘You the warden?'

‘Yes. What's going on?'

‘You tell us, mate. Woman here fallen down. My pal tripped over her.' He took a couple of steps towards the light and said in a low voice, ‘I think she must have had a few herself.'

The warden sniffed. ‘Dear oh dear. Let's get some light on the subject.' Watching the little beam from the warden's torch skip over the stones, Bob had a sudden image of his children playing hopscotch in the road, of grubby knees, flashes of knicker and bunched, bouncing hair, extinguished in a gasp as the light caught the edge of a puddle of dark fluid, thick and shining. The warden stopped. ‘Blimey!'

‘That's blood, that is.'

‘Blimey,' repeated the warden. ‘Blimey O'Reilly.' His torch played across the pavement, and stopped. In the centre of the pool of light lay a bloodstained metal claw. ‘Tin-opener,' he said, flatly.

The men kept silent as the torch beam moved again, this time catching the hem of a blue coat with a pinkish tangle of bulging, glistening flesh that seemed to be slithering out from beneath it.

Bob clutched the warden's arm. ‘What's that?'

‘I don't know.'

The light fell on the woman's open palm, and beside it, a little piece of blue cloth, folded over like an envelope.

The warden drew in his breath. ‘My God…'

‘What is it, mate? What you seen?'

‘Never you mind,' said the warden, sharply. ‘Just stay back.'

The beam followed the greyish-pink flesh of a leg to a knee, streaked with blood and dirt, a nylon stocking rucked round an ankle, a high-heeled shoe lying on its side, and then traced its way across the blue coat to reveal a bloody mass of dark, clotted hair and a scarf, and then, incongruously, a fringe of shining, chestnut-brown curls and the clean, pale edge of a profile, the skin white and lustrous in the torchlight, the eyes closed and the expression almost passionate.

Greta Garbo, thought Bob, suddenly, before his eyes followed the beam down to— ‘Oh, Jesus
Christ
.' He took a step back. ‘Her neck—her throat—he's cut her throat—he's carved her up…with a
tin-opener
…' He staggered over to the opposite wall and sat down, his head in his hands.

George shuffled towards him on all fours and collapsed across his shins. He blurted, ‘It's him again, isn't it? He really cut it out this time, didn't he?' then raised his head and vomited again.

The warden ignored them both. He turned off his torch and, standing quite upright beside the body, he took off his helmet and clasped it against his chest. ‘No,' he whispered into the darkness. ‘It can't be…'

‘A
re you going to let me walk you home?' he asked.

‘Why would you want to do that?' As if she didn't know the answer! He was keen on her, anyone could see that.

‘So I can kiss you goodnight.'

‘Ooh…' She leant back against the bar—you couldn't agree too quickly, that would look fast—but her elbow hit the edge and the jolt spilt some of her drink. She looked down at her arm, which didn't quite seem to belong to her, then edged carefully to one side. There was a puddle on the wood, and she didn't want her sleeve in it. She put her glass down and looked at him again, hoping he hadn't noticed the upset. ‘I'm not sure about that,' she said.

‘Which? Walking you home or kissing you?'

She giggled. ‘Oh…
you
…' Someone jostled her from behind, and she toppled forwards against his chest.

‘Careful,' he said, and put a hand under her elbow to steady her. ‘Time to go, I think.'

Suddenly, she thought so too. Time to go. She felt uneasy— tired, and, well…
peculiar
. She glanced round the pub. Nothing seemed straight, somehow, not the packed bodies of airmen and girls, the heads and shoulders wreathed in cigarette smoke under the low, dark beams, the jangle of the piano, the clatter of pewter mugs, the singing and the laughter. She'd wanted to be part of it so badly, to be grown-up, but now…now she just wanted to go home.

Her friend Mona was nowhere to be seen. They were supposed to be going to the pictures, and—cross your heart and hope to die—that's where they
were
going, until the car filled with blue uniforms had come barrelling up the road. Mona had whispered, ‘Pilots,' in an awed voice, and they'd stood back to wave. Then, miraculously, the car had pulled up in a cloud of dust, the window was wound down, and they'd found themselves gazing at three—three!—of these handsome, glamorous heroes, and even Mona, who was seventeen and had been to London and knew just about everything, couldn't think of a thing to say.

‘Come on girls, jump in!' That was all it took. They'd exchanged glances—too good to be true—propped their bicycles against a tree, and rushed to open the door. She'd kept quiet and let Mona make the introductions, and tried not to notice—or to look as if she noticed—the warmth and pressure of the man's leg against hers in the crowded back seat. She clenched her buttocks to try and shrink herself a bit, but it didn't make any difference: the pressure was still there, and anyway, the car kept jolting them together. Mona accepted a cigarette, so she had to have one too, or risk being thought unsophisticated. It had made her cough a bit, but she'd managed it all right. Then she'd watched, impressed, as Mona had opened her compact with a flick of her wrist and re-done her lipstick—perfectly, in spite of the bumps—and wondered if her own make-up, applied by Mona behind the apple tree in the garden, was still in place.

Then Mona had thrown back her head and laughed and tossed her hair, so she'd done the same. The pilots had laughed right along with them, and they'd roared down the road in the sunset and everything was lovely. And then the best one, the handsomest, and, she was sure, the bravest—any girl would have welcomed his attentions—had chosen her when they'd reached the pub. Not Mona, who couldn't keep the envy out of her eyes, but
her
. He singled her out, bought her a drink—drinks—and chatted to her. He'd said how nice it was to talk to a girl who wasn't in uniform, and how pretty her eyes were, and after a while he'd started telling her private, important things, like about his sister who'd been ill but was terribly brave and never complained, and how much he missed the poor kid and how he looked forward to her letters, and then he'd apologised for boring her and she'd just gaped at him—well, she hoped she hadn't actually gaped, because that was rude, but that's what it felt like—but she was so delighted to be there with all of them with
him
—and the whole thing was just…
heaven
.

All the same, she wished she were better at talking to him. She could chatter for hours at home, but here, with him, she couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound foolish, or… She'd thought it would help, having the drink, but it hadn't. It just tasted funny and after three of them everything started to blur—things and words. Only his face seemed still and clear, held in a sort of glow. He was
so
handsome, with his bright blue eyes, tanned skin and corn-coloured hair. I wish I knew his name, she thought. She'd missed it in the car. Awkward, and watching Mona for cues, she hadn't taken it in, and she couldn't ask him now.