Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  They all looked away and resumed muttering. Rosie dropped her head onto one hand. “All right,” she said. “I’ll give you a break. Tell me.”

  “I came home and there was a burglar,” he said very quietly. “He was about to go upstairs and do god-knows-what to my father. I didn’t even know if Jon or anyone else was in the house. What was I supposed to do? So I tried to stop him and he attacked me. I’d like to tell you that the magical mist of Dumannios came down and turned us into demons, but it didn’t. It was just ugly.

  “He had a huge knife. If I hadn’t got the knife off him, I’d have been dead—and I didn’t intend to stab him, but it happened.” Sam leaned farther forward. She strained to hear him, moving closer but looking at the tabletop, not at his face. She felt his breath on her ear. “He tried to get away by throwing himself through a window, so I pulled him back and throttled him. Don’t suppose you’ve ever experienced the red mist like that? Only he was ten times more scared than me, and that’s why he fought so hard and why I ended up killing him. What do I tell the court, except the truth? He took the knife from our kitchen so I can’t prove he had it first. It was only when he lay bleeding and my father put the light on that I realized what I’d done.”

  In the eerie light, all color bled out of his face “I’m not very good at remorse,” he added. “But I didn’t get up that morning intending to kill anyone, Rosie, I swear.”

  “You were defending your family,” she said.

  “If I’d let him go, so he bled to death on our lawn instead of on our carpet, I might have gotten away with it. But I didn’t, because I was too furious at this fucking toe-rag for invading our house. So, five years looks pretty lenient. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Rosie groaned. “What are you angling for, forgiveness or condemnation? Part of me thinks it’s completely unfair, because he shouldn’t have been there. Part of me thinks that if you hadn’t ended up here for this, it would have been for something else.”

  “God, you really think I’m that scummy, don’t you?”

  “Don’t pull that face,” she said. “Anyone could see it coming.”

  “And you’re probably right.”

  “What are you going to do when you get out?” she asked angrily. “Carry on as you have been until you finally talk yourself into a life sentence?”

  “Rosie,” he said acidly, “can you guess what I was doing while I was away? Not beating, robbing or murdering anyone. I was trying to forget about bloody Stonegate and being a flaming Aetherial. I’ve been picking olives, oranges, apricots, you name it, I’ve picked it. Then I come home, filial duty and all that, and I walk into this.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. This situation is crap for everyone.”

  She folded her arms and looked away, but from the corner of her eye she saw his regard on her, cool and steady. “Don’t let’s talk about it any more,” he said. “How are you? What have you been doing? How’s your little brother?”

  She let her arms drop and composed herself. Arguing with him was pointless and yet it was incredibly hard to stop, like the excruciating thrill of scratching a rash. “Luc’s fine, but he doesn’t say much about . . . you know. We’ve all got used to the idea now, but it was a hell of a shock at the time. You probably thought it was a big laugh, and I expect you’ve known for years.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Sam.

  She frowned at him. “Lawrence telling Lucas that he’s his father, of course.”

  “What?”

  He looked genuinely confused. Rosie’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Oh my god, they haven’t told you? All this time and they haven’t—?”

  “You tell me. I have absolutely no clue what you’re on about.”

  She began, then shook her head. “No. You know, all right. You’re just playing games.”

  “Rosie, I swear to all the gods I’m not! All we’ve talked about is my stupid trial! My father said what to Lucas?”

  A bell shrilled. The physical shock seemed to tear loose a veil, and she suddenly saw the room in its square, banal reality, with ordinary prison officers standing about. This time the change held. Only Sam looked the same. “Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” said an officer.

  “That was never an hour,” Sam said, jumping to his feet. “Rosie, please tell me.”

  There was noise around them as chairs were pushed back and tearful farewells made. Rosie tried to speak over the hubbub. “Apparently Lawrence had a fling with my mother—look, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “Fuck!” said Sam. “This is crazy. You can’t just tell me that and walk out.”

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” came the command. Rosie glanced around at the glaring lights, disoriented. Sam saw her expression.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Go out the way you came, don’t look back, and you’ll be fine. Thanks for coming.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Rosie, you have got to come back and finish the story,” he added softly. “Please.”

  She hesitated. “No,” she said firmly, turning away. “It’s your family you need to see, not me.”

  When Rosie reached the cottage that evening, Jon was still there. He looked better, eyes bright and skin radiant, and he’d washed and combed his hair back to shiny chestnut glory. He thanked her profusely for making the journey.

  “Is it all right if I stay the night again?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, stunned. “Stay as long as you like. I’m knackered. Let me freshen up then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  She ran upstairs, showered, dressed in her best peasant skirt and clingy black top. She dabbed her mouth with lip gloss, brushed out her hair to a softly swinging, burnished veil and had to admit that, for a ten-minute makeover, she looked okay. However horrible the situation, she couldn’t return to Jon looking a wreck.

  As she left the bathroom, she bumped into Clive, one of her housemates. “Wow, look at you,” he said. “Is that for”—he aimed his thumb at the stairs—“your boyfriend down there? Lucky him.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend.”

  “Right.” Clive gave an insinuating grin and a wink. “Mind you, he’s a bit strange, isn’t he? Looked like he’d slept in a hedge. Just lay on the sofa all day.”

  “Has he had anything to eat?”

  “Jill did him some soup. Doesn’t say much, does he?”

  “He’s having a difficult time. His brother’s in prison.”

  “You go and take his mind off it, then.” Clive gave her a conspiratorial pat on the shoulder. “I’ll keep the others down the pub for a while, know what I mean?”

  “You’re a saint,” she said.

  Rosie opened a bottle of wine, sat beside Jon all swinging hair and perfumed skin. She felt spacey with tiredness, yet managed to be cheerful and consoling as she told Jon about the visit—giving him a selectively edited version without gargoyles, hellfire or sniping—in the hope that he would feel better. She moved closer as she answered his questions. She became the warmest, most seductive Rosie she could possibly be. If love would comfort him, she was ready to do anything.

  Jon did not respond at all. He didn’t even seem to notice. He looked pale, preoccupied and shivery. She felt as sexy as a block of wood.

  “You’re so good to do this,” he told her. “I’m sorry, d’you mind if I go to bed? I can’t keep awake.”

  She jumped up. “Urm, there’s only my room tonight. Everyone’s home, so no spare beds.”

  “I can sleep on the sofa.”

  “No, you can’t. They’ll come in from the pub, make a noise and sit watching TV for hours. And it’s freezing down here. Come on. This way.”

  She led Jon upstairs to her tiny room. She felt unreal. She’d dreamed for years of doing this and it was nothing like the dream, nothing. They stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the narrow bed. Moonlight dazzled through the window.

  “I can
sleep on the floor,” he said.

  “No, no,” said Rosie, “you have the bed. You’re obviously not well.”

  “Thanks. Getting a cold, I think. There’s probably room for us both, anyway,” he said. “Yes, come on Rosie, we’ll both fit in there fine.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll just, er . . .” She went to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and slipped into blue cotton pyjamas. She was shaking. This was surreal.

  When she returned to the bedroom, Jon was already asleep.

  He lay in her bed, on his side facing away from her. Jon, naked in her bed.

  He was so thin that he left acres of space and she could easily lie beside him without touching him. She couldn’t sleep a wink. The room felt close and alien. She lay there listening to her housemates coming in, messing about, finally going to bed. Then the cottage was quiet, but she was wide awake.

  Rosie sat up and looked at Jon. The bronze waves of his hair spread over the pillow and down his back. She’d never seen him naked before and he really was slender, barely a hint of muscle on his body. Every notch of his spine showed. His skin looked colorless.

  She reached out stroked the silk of his hair. Her hand touched his shoulder. He twitched but didn’t wake. His skin felt cold and clammy; he had hardly any scent, except the faintest hint of fresh sweat.

  What would he do if she turned him over and started kissing him? Would he fight her off with protests that he didn’t feel like that about her? Or would she awaken some sleeping serpent of passion, make him realize what he’d been missing?

  The most disturbing thing of all was that she didn’t want to.

  He looked vulnerable. He looked unhealthy. She just . . . couldn’t.

  Rosie slipped off the bed and went downstairs. It had been an experiment, the sexy clothes, the perfumed hair; something she’d had to try, even though her heart had not been in it. She looked back on it with a stale taste in her mouth. If you truly love someone, she thought, shouldn’t you love them no matter what?

  She spent the rest of the night on the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest. Perhaps she slept, but when morning came she could only remember staring at the darkness.

  When Jon appeared the next morning, he didn’t comment on her absence from bed. He was quiet, nervous and kept sniffing. He refused Rosie’s offers of tea or coffee.

  “You know, if you’ve got a cold, you need fluids.”

  “Have you got any cola? I need the sugar,” he said with a wan smile.

  “Clive might. I can’t stand the stuff. Very unhealthy.”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve really got to go.”

  She rose, worried now. “I think you should stay in bed. You look awful.”

  “God, will you stop fussing?” he said with a flash of temper she’d never seen before. “You’re worse than Sapphire. I have to go.”

  Rosie withdrew to the kitchen and put the kettle on, to steady herself. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” she called.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll get a taxi to Gloucester station.”

  She was too tired to argue. As she poured a glass of cola, hoping at least to keep him alive, she heard him making a phone call. Then he appeared in the doorway in his coat, smiling sheepishly.

  “Be about fifteen minutes. Thanks for everything, you’re a real friend,” he said. “Thing is, Rosie, I’m a bit stuck. You couldn’t lend me some money, could you? Say thirty quid?”

  9

  Blackdrop

  “What was I thinking?” Rosie groaned. “Please shoot me.”

  “Ro, it’s not that bad.” Mel leaned over to refill her glass with white wine.

  “It’s worse,” said Rosie, tucking her feet under the hem of her long burgundy skirt. “What’s wrong with me? How could I be so selfish?”

  Mel’s apartment in Nottingham was tastefully minimalist, open-plan with cream decor and subtle lighting; the fruit of a well-paid job she had landed as a conference organizer. Rosie and Faith were curled in the corners of a big leather sofa, Mel cross-legged on the rug. She was perfectly groomed in white trousers and pink top, fingernails and toenails varnished pearly pink to match, her golden hair aglow.

  “Selfish?” Mel gasped. “You offered him your body and that was selfish, how?”

  “What I mean is that Jon was in a state, distraught about Sam, and yet all I could think about was getting him into bed and in love with me. I’m vile.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Faith, cradling a full glass that she hadn’t touched. Living at Oakholme, she’d picked up Jessica’s taste for hippie-ish dresses, favoring rustic browns and blues. Her hair was brunette and sleek, her glasses stylish with thin black frames. Despite the changes, her shyness lingered. “You love him. You wanted to comfort him.”

  “Yes,” said Mel, “and if the roles were reversed, what man wouldn’t take advantage of a female in distress if he fancied her?”

  “That’s exactly my point!” Rosie exclaimed. “I’d like to think I’m better than that, but apparently I’m not!”

  Mel topped up her glass and waved the bottle. “Come on, Faith, you’re slow tonight.”

  “Oh, you know me,” said Faith, turning pink. “One drink and I’m plastered.”

  Sliding the bottle onto the coffee table, Mel continued, “So, to recap—you took Jon in and comforted him, you drove four hundred miles to visit a horrible prison on his behalf, you offered him a night of passion and then, to top it off, you gave him money? Pure evil, Rosie. Yes, someone was taking advantage, all right, and I don’t think it was you.”

  Rosie felt the glow of wine loosening her tongue. “I don’t know what to think. I always had this hope that he’d open up to me, and we’d talk and talk, and the sex would be wonderful and natural because there were no barriers between us . . . And you’d think any man would be glad of an affectionate female to take his mind off things, wouldn’t you? But not Jon. He didn’t even notice. I felt about as sexy as a lump of concrete. A rock in a frock.”

  They laughed. Rosie sipped her wine, savoring its cold, sweet acidity. “When he was there in my bed, though . . . I didn’t even want to. He looked so thin and lifeless.”

  “Oh, no kidding,” said Mel.

  “I mean, what is love? It’s hard to keep feeling passionate about someone who gives you nothing back. If I truly loved him, I wouldn’t have been considering my own desires at all. The Jon in front of me wasn’t the Jon I’d fantasized about, but if I don’t desire him, all I feel is sorry for him . . . I’m so confused.”

  “Rosie, will you stop beating yourself up?” Mel said fervently. “The guy is a loser! He doesn’t deserve all this agonizing. You must know it’s not you. I think he’s one of those people who’s not that bothered about sex. They do exist.”

  Stung, Rosie said, “You’ve got strong opinions, considering you hardly know him.”

  She happened to catch Mel’s eye and found the strangest light there. Mel’s china-doll face blushed bright red. “What?” said Rosie. “What?”

  Mel’s lips parted as her color continued to rise. She blurted out, “Rosie, I’ve slept with him.”

  Rosie felt the blood draining from her head, the room spinning. “With Jon? You can’t have. When? How?”

  Her friend’s head dropped as she made the quiet confession. “About six months ago. He turned up here one night looking bedraggled and I felt sorry for him. So I fed him and let him stay. I suppose we had too much to drink and it just . . . happened.”

  All Rosie could do was stare at her. Faith stared too, one hand over her mouth. “The point is,” Mel went on, “to be blunt, he wasn’t much good. He was terribly skinny and kind of passive, almost squeamish about touching me. Quite honestly, I had to get myself off, because he didn’t try at all.”

  “But he wanted you,” Rosie whispered.

  Mel shrugged. “Apparently, but he seemed to find the whole experience as thrilling as a cup of tea. Okay, he’s sweet and angelic-looking, but it’s not enough. I need a bit of enthusiasm.”<
br />
  “Are you saying he didn’t feel anything?”

  “I suppose he did when he was, you know, climaxing, but otherwise he was about as dynamic as a length of wet spaghetti.”

  Rosie felt an urge to laugh. If they’d been talking about someone else, she would have. The laughter congealed in her throat. Jon climaxing inside Mel, taunted her imagination. Jon, climaxing. Inside Mel.

  “How could you, when you knew how I felt about him?”

  “Rosie, I’m sorry.” Mel sounded devastated. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”

  “Have you seen him again?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

  “He came round a couple more times uninvited, sat on my sofa and lit a joint without even asking, and you know how I hate smoking! Oh, nothing else happened.” Rosie believed her; the image of dainty, house-proud Mel falling for a scruffy art student was ludicrous. “It was a mistake, Ro. I told him it wasn’t going to work and he just shrugged and left.” Mel bit her lip. “Please forgive me. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “It did to me,” said Rosie. Calmly she got up and walked into the bathroom, where she stood at the sink breathing hard and pressing cold water onto her face until the welling tears subsided.

  “You okay?” said a cautious voice after a few minutes. Faith came in and sat down on the closed loo seat. “Mel’s upset.”

  “She’s upset?”

  “Are you furious with her?”

  “No, not really.” Rosie breathed in and out, looking at her blotchy face in the mirror. “It’s not as if Jon and I were together and he cheated. I don’t own him. It’s just—what’s Mel got that I haven’t? I can’t believe Jon’s so shallow as to prefer blondes, but maybe he is. I would have done anything to be with him. Instead he wants Mel, and she’s not even interested!” She growled, low in her throat. “Did I want to hear that he and Mel are blissfully happy together? No. Do I want to hear that Jon’s a hopeless sponger who’s also rubbish in bed? No, I don’t. Life refuses to fit my vision. Big deal. But it still hurts.”