The Quiet Man

Perchance

“John.”

The light is on. I’m in bed, the rough wool blanket is heavy against my legs. It keeps me pinned down, which is good. I feel safe, pinned into this little bed. The branches of the tree outside are tapping in Morse code against the glass: he doesn’t understand. Of course I don’t. I never do.

There’s danger out there, somewhere. The water is coming in. But not here. You’re standing by the wardrobe, your shirt is unbuttoned and loose around you. Am I watching you undress? I am. I have been. I always do. Like a predator. A lover.

That’s not what we are. I don’t do this. This isn’t how it is.

“Sorry,” I say. And try to look away. But I can’t. I turn my head but you’re still there. Your chest, your stomach, your exposed hip bones: so close I could touch them. I am touching them: I’m holding you. Otherwise you would float away, you would vanish. I press my face against your thigh. You smell like the moor: terrifying. You put your hand on my head and I shiver.

“John.”

“I’m sorry.” I lean back against the mattress and stare at you sideways.

You pull your shirt off altogether. This is a strip tease; I didn’t know you had it in you. I stare up at the curve of your spine sideways; I can imagine wings sprouting from your back. Wings would help you fly: you’d never fall.

You’re more muscular than people give you credit for. Tough and strong, agile. Alive. Beautiful, that’s what you are. Beautiful.

“You’re beautiful.”

“John.” Reproach in your voice. How embarrassing. Why do I say these things? I don’t know. I don’t know.

“I’m sorry.”

There are three dogs lined up by the door; none of them are the dreaded hound. These dogs are quiet, they just watch you, like I do. A poodle, a beagle, and an Irish wolfhound. In a row. Waiting. Guarding the door.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“I trained those dogs for years. They would die before they let anything happen to you.” You sit down on the bed next to me. You put one hand on my hip, then you lean down and kiss me. You taste like scotch and woodsmoke. That’s nice. Your tongue is rough in my mouth. I can feel you in my veins. You’re so beautiful. Why are you kissing me?

You kiss my jaw. Your breath is hot on my neck. “It’s how they’ll know to protect you,” you say.

“Kiss me again. So they’re sure.” You crawl into bed with me, you’re naked. You curl up against me, and kiss me again. There is a world between us, between these sheets. Pinned down by the heavy blanket. I could live here. But I don’t. I never have. The sadness of it makes me sob. There are tears on my face. I can’t help it.

“They’re sure,” you whisper into my ear. You pull me against you, and I cry like a child. We fit together like we were built to. But we weren’t. We weren’t.

*

“John.”

I was somewhere else a moment ago. Wasn’t I? Where was I? I can’t remember. Now I’m here. Of course I am.

I’m in the sitting room, in my dressing gown. I remember now; I just stepped out of the shower. The wall is broken; did I do that? I think I did. I took the cow’s skull off the wall. It was structurally important. The wall’s collapsed now. There’s a big hole there instead, like some monster took a bite out of it. There’s layers of wallpaper visible; pink and red and green; black and purple. Paisley and check. It turns out the walls are made of layers upon layers of wallpaper. Mrs Hudson couldn’t make up her mind; every new tenant, new wallpaper. Over a century. The flat must have been getting progressively smaller with each new layer; rooms hidden in layers of pattern and colour.