TAINTED LOVE

by Anna Chilvers

  Richard said he wanted to go up first. He asked me to wait at the bottom and watch for him to appear before I started coming up.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Just humour me,’ he said.

  I hugged my coat around me. It was freezing, but Richard didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. I hopped from foot to foot and kept looking up but the sky made my eyes water. I wouldn’t hear him if he shouted. The wind would carry his voice off as soon as it left his lips.

  It seemed ages but eventually he was there, waving at me over the stone balustrade. I raced around to the other side and into the stairwell. The wind stopped instantly. I could hear it, but it was on the other side of thick stone walls and I was enclosed in stillness. I was warmer already.

  I always loved doing this. There’s the point, half way up, where everything closes down and it’s pitch black. I’ve been here with friends and torches, once even with a candle that flickered and made shapes on the black walls, but it’s best without. The darkness is utter and complete but momentary. Two steps, or three and then there’s a glimmer of light from above.

  Today the glimmer didn’t come. I took another step and it was still dark. I stopped and felt the stone wall on my right. I slid my foot to the left and felt the narrowing of the step towards the centre of the spiral. I closed my eyes, swallowed and opened them. It was utterly dark. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and felt for the next step with my foot, then the next. Three steps and still no light. What had he done? I could feel something growing in my chest and I was scared to move in case it got too big. But I couldn’t stay here in the dark. I breathed in and felt again with my foot, moved up another step. At least I think I did, though it was hard to tell what my movements were in the blackness. I was disorientated.

  I have no idea how long it took me to walk up the stairs. I lost track of time as well as anything else. It can’t have been long. It only takes a minute or so normally, and even going that slowly it can’t have been more than two or three. But I can’t believe it was only three minutes of my life. By the time the light appeared I’d stopped hoping for it. It crept around the central column towards me as I neared the top of the steps. Then there were a few steps growing brighter each time before rounding into full sunshine and Richard was standing there with a grin on his face.

  His smile faded when he looked at me, and I fell against him shaking. He held me.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  I could feel that I was crying and my wet face slid against the leather of his jacket.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  He showed me what he’d done. There’s a square hole cut into the stone floor of the balcony, covered with an open grid, its purpose to act as a skylight for the stairwell. He’d covered it up with a slab of stone.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s how it used to be, when they first built the monument. It was symbolic, the dark climb, then the amazing view. Like blindfolding. Masonic.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve been reading about it. This hole was cut much later, when they were doing repairs.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be scared.’

  He moved the stone and leaned it against the central column.

  ‘Did you carry that up?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I found it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back down.’

  He held out his hand and I took it. The light shone through the grid. We followed the curve of stairs and the light dimmed. A few steps more and it went completely. I breathed in. My hand was inside Richard’s and he was in front of me, my body slightly twisted as I followed him along the widest edge. When I took another step he hadn’t moved forward. We were both on the same step and he had turned round so our faces collided. In the pitch black he kissed me. I could feel his teeth on my gums, his warm tongue. He kissed my face, my ears, my neck. His skin was smooth against mine and I pushed him away.

  ‘No. No, this isn’t right.’

  He held me against his body, his face buried in my hair. My fear of the dark had evaporated.

  ‘Richard, we should go.’

  I pushed his chest with my hands and he stepped back. Another step and the light was coming up from below.

  Back outside we laughed and ran, down the hill away from the wind’s ferocity. The heather screamed after us and I ran faster. By the time we reached the track the day had shifted back into place. I looked at Richard as we walked, fast along the path now so we could get back down before nightfall. He was very good looking, but I couldn’t imagine him kissing me.

  When we reached the town it was nearly dark. Richard took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. His eyes were blue and clear. He caught me looking.

  ‘I’d better go home,’ I said.

  ‘Ok.’

  We were standing near the entrance to the park on Market Street and neither of us moved.

  ‘Thanks…’

  ‘Thanks to you too. Sorry I scared you.’ He reached out and touched me lightly on the neck.

  ‘No, I was silly. It was only dark.’ Then I remembered Dad waiting at home to talk to me and I had an idea. ‘Richard, do you want to come for dinner?’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry Lauren, I can’t. Another time.’

  He leaned in, kissed me on the cheek and left.

  I watched him walk away and put my fingers on my neck where he’d touched me.

  Everything’s starting to die back in the garden. The ramsons have disappeared and are now just roots and bulbs beneath the soil waiting for next year. The wormwood has grown leggy and the foxgloves and poppies have mulched into the ground. I collected their seeds by hand when they were at their summer ripest. The vervain will soon be bare stalks and the monkshood leaves have turned black, their roots dormant now for winter.

  Mr Lion was pan-frying salmon steaks and the smell filled the kitchen. Dad was laying the table. They both looked up when I walked in.

  ‘Hi Lauren,’ said Mr Lion.

  I threw my coat over the back of a chair.

  ‘Hang it on the peg, love,’ said Dad. ‘We’re going to eat in a minute.’

  ‘Hiya,’ I said.

  I hung the coat up and sat down on the chair.

  ‘Do you think you could get some plates out?’ Dad said, and his lips went into a straight line. Sometimes that meant he was angry, but right now he looked nervous. Mr Lion was busy at the cooker and had his back to us. There was clearly no escaping The Conversation.

  I got three plates out and Mr Lion served up salmon steaks with red peppercorns, gratin dauphinoise and broccoli with garlic. I sat at the table and looked at my plate. Mr Lion poured us all a glass of wine. If he was trying to soften me up with food and drink he was going about it the right way.

  I took a sip of wine then a mouthful of salmon. It melted into oily softness in my mouth. A peppercorn burst its flavour between my teeth and my tongue tingled. I kept my eyes on my plate.

  ‘Lauren.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I ate a forkful of potatoes.

  ‘Lauren, look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  I raised my eyes. Dad hadn’t started his food.

  ‘You should try this,’ I said. ‘It’s fantastic, Mr Lion.’

  Mr Lion was eating and watching. He smiled at me. Dad picked up his fork and looked at the food on his plate, then back at me.

  ‘Lauren, your mother…’

  I put a broccoli tree in my mouth. It was too big and I should have cut it in half. I chewed with my mouth closed and my cheek bulging.

  ‘I know you’ve been to see your mother. She told me. You see, I’ve been seeing her.’

  I swallowed the broccoli a bit too soon and it hurt my throat as it went down.

&n
bsp; ‘Seeing her?’

  ‘Well, no.’ My dad was going red. ‘We’ve met a couple of times and we’ve talked. About the past mostly.’

  I rested my wrists on the table and waited. He swallowed.

  ‘Things aren’t always what they seem,’ he said.

  I pushed some salmon onto my fork and put it in my mouth without looking at it.

  I shrugged.

  ‘I want to invite her round. For a meal.’

  ‘I’ll make myself scarce.’

  ‘No. I want you to be there. All of us. Mr Lion too, and Peter.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘He called round earlier,’ said Mr Lion, ‘looking for you.’

  I suddenly wanted more than anything in the world to be with Peter.

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ I asked.

  Mr Lion shook his head.

  ‘Well?’ Dad still hadn’t started eating. ‘Will you be here?’

  ‘Did he say he’d call back?’

  Mr Lion cleared his throat. ‘I got the impression he was off for a run.’

  I slumped in my seat. He’d be miles away by now. If I hadn’t gone with Richard I’d have been in when Peter called. I might have persuaded him to stay. I wanted to snuggle up next to him and feel his warm animal hair, rub my face against the stubble on his cheeks.

  ‘Lauren, can I count on you?’

  I sighed. ‘Yes Dad, I’ll be there. I’ll ask Peter.’

  ‘It’s a week on Saturday, the third.’

  ‘What do you want me to cook?’ asked Mr Lion.

  Dad sat up a bit straighter in his seat and pushed his shoulders back.

  ‘Actually, I think I will cook,’ he said.

  20. Meg

  It was his move. I watched him as he contemplated the board, completely absorbed, unaware. His hand was in his hair, teasing it into blond tufts. When he sweats his hair is darker. His eyes turn a darker shade of blue when he’s in the throes of passion. So I imagined. I imagined the push and snap of incision. Would his blood gush forth or just leak a drop or two on the tongue before his skin closed over again, resealing him? I put out my hand and stroked the skin of his arm, brushed his cells with my fingerprints, our bodies already mingling. He looked up and there was excitement in his eyes. I scraped the back of his hand with my fingernail and he looked at it, looked back at my face, my lips. We were only a few inches away from each other. I could feel his breath on my face and I smiled.

  He frowned and moved his arm away from me, leaned back. Then he took my bishop.

  I thought, if he won’t let me inside his skin, I might just help myself.

  21. Ali

  Hawtenstall is the village my gran came from, and that’s where I was living. If you could call it living. That’s where I was staying, hiding, only going out at night.

  I’d found an old abandoned cottage. Part of it had collapsed, the roof had fallen in and a tree had grown up and was bursting through the roof. I found that a bit freaky actually. I never went into that part of the house and I didn’t like looking at it. But the other half – I think there had only ever been two rooms – was a bit better. The roof was on, although there were a couple of holes where the slates had come off. The floor was littered with bits of rubble and animal droppings. Once there had been red tiles, but these had been taken up and there were just a few fragments here and there. There were holes in the floor. No one came this way much, and even if they did there was no way they’d come poking their nose in this old dump. There was a bit of wall sticking out where the fireplace used to be, and I could hide behind that if I needed to.

  It was cold though, even in the daytime, which was now my night. I’d become nocturnal, sleeping all day and going out at night to forage. It wasn’t easy. I’d found the place behind the supermarket down in Hawden where they threw out the out-of-date stuff at the end of the day, and that was the best place to go for food. I could live off it if I could get there often enough. But I had to get down to the town without being seen, and early enough that no one had got there before me and scoffed the lot. Weekends were a non-starter as there were people hanging around the town all night. I tried to get as much as I could on Wednesday and Thursday to last. It made for a strange diet. Last week I ate loads of blueberry chocolate muffin pie. Like loads, a whole pie every day. The first bit was fantastic, but by the fourth day I hated the sight of it. This week it’s mini pork pies and coleslaw.

  The third main problem, after staying hidden and finding food, was boredom. I’d finished Nicholas Nickleby and I needed another book to read. People don’t tend to leave them outside. I checked the charity shops when I could and looked through the bags people leave on the doorstep. I’d found some useful things like jumpers and trousers, a blanket and even a pair of wellies. But no books so far. So I was delighted one morning, coming back up from the town in the early hours with my haul, to see that it was recycling day and everyone had put out their green bags full of paper. It wasn’t even raining. I might find a newspaper or two that wasn’t soggy.

  I stashed the food at the cottage on a ledge by the bricked up window, out of the reach of foxes, then I went on a search for printed matter. It was really dark. I couldn’t see what was in the bags and I didn’t want to make a load of noise rustling through. They were mostly stuffed with packaging and junk mail, but there were a few newspapers here and there and I grabbed what I could. A carrier bag of what turned out to be dieting magazines made me laugh. I could give them a few tips.

  After the houses I had to climb over a wall and cross two empty fields. The first was pockmarked with hoof prints and you had to step from hummock to hummock, trying not to twist your ankle. I was beginning to know my way in the dark, but with my arms full I walked around the edge. Behind my cottage was an enormous tree that showed up against the sky even on the darkest nights, and I used that as a marker.

  When I got back it was too dark to read anything, so I ate some mini pork pies and then lay down and went to sleep. I’d never slept so much before, or had such an uncomfortable place to do it. I’d made a bed of sorts in the corner of the room by chipping away the sharp bits of tile and making a smooth hollow. I wore all of my clothes for warmth and the blanket from the charity shop. I’d got used to the hard floor; it was the cold that woke me up.

  It was getting late in the year and the days were getting shorter all the time. When I woke it was grey outside and raining. I sat up in my bed and gathered my recycling treasure around me. As well as the bag of magazines I had fifteen newspapers, including four Sundays with all the sections, two of which were identical. There were three Guardians and two copies of the Sun, and the other six were all back issues of the local weekly paper, Hawden Times.

  I ate a couple of pies and some coleslaw for breakfast. I would read for as long as I could see.

  It never got really light that day. The rain was persistent and steady, and the world outside my open doorway was grey and damp. It was damp inside too and I wished I had some chocolate to eat. I read sports pages and financial pages and recipes and TV guides, and scrabbled in the bottom of my rucksack for a pencil so I could do a crossword. I saved the travel pages and book reviews for another day. Something to look forward to. By the time the light failed I’d still not got through all the Sundays.

  It took me most of a week to read them all, even without the diet magazines. I knew I had to do something else and couldn’t just hide out reading yesterday’s news forever. I wanted to find out something about my gran for a start. But it felt kind of safe here, and I was reluctant to change anything. I could hide here on my own, grab more papers each recycling day, and become a current affairs expert in my lonely den, cut off from twenty-first century life.

  It was an article in the Hawden Times that kicked me out of my lethargy. The paper was a few weeks old, and full of stories about talented children, proposed changes to the town and
outraged locals. I was flicking through, unable to summon up much interest, when I saw picture of an elderly woman and a headline: Hawtenstall Mourns Library Hannah. The picture took up half a page. The woman had short cropped hair and was sitting next to a pile of books, smiling at the camera. I read on.

  The Hawden Times is sad to report the passing of Hannah Chandler, librarian at Hawtenstall Library for nineteen years until she retired in 1991. During retirement she was an active member of the community. Hannah, a widow, died at home last Wednesday. She leaves one daughter, Amanda.

  I used to go to the library at home. Mum never bought me books as she didn’t read and so she didn’t think of them. Gran sometimes did, but mostly I got my books from the library. Our librarian was quite scary. She wore a tweed skirt, and once she peered over her glasses and said, ‘Are you sure you want to read this book? Don’t you think it’s a bit old for you?’

  The book was Wuthering Heights. I ran to my gran’s house with it under my arm and she told me about her friend, Hannah, who worked in a library, and how she would have loved it that I wanted to challenge myself, would have made suggestions of other books for me to read. I said I wished Hannah worked in our library.

  This had to be the same woman. I stared at the picture and tried to imagine her and my gran being friends. Sharing a cup of tea or laughing at a joke. She looked like she might have been fun – there was a spark of mischief about her. I checked the date of the paper. It was over a month since she’d died.

  I went on another newspaper raid the next night and set myself up with a new pile of papers to read. I found they had a dual function in that they also made good insulation. With them layered under and over my bed at night, I slept more cosily, and after I’d read each one I added it to my den. But as I read about atrocities and injustice at home and abroad, my mind kept coming back to Hannah. I wished she could have lived just a bit longer so I could have met her and talked to her about Gran. They had been friends. She wouldn’t have hissed at me and ordered me out of the house like Sally. Would she?

  On the way back from a night time food raid in the town I suddenly thought of the daughter, Amanda. She would have known Gran too. But how could I find her? I dug out the article and looked at it again, but there was no more information. I had no access to the internet. I couldn’t go to the library. I didn’t even know if Amanda had the same surname as Hannah. She might not live locally. The paper didn’t say.