Angels in the Architecture

by Sue Fitzmaurice

  He was only metres from the President now. Sadat had been brought to the ground by those around him. When he was nearly on top of them and he smelt their blood and fear, he emptied his assault rifle into the bodies before him. The bounding of his heart and head rose louder in his ears almost than the sound of the rifle.

  He threw his arms into the air, as a victor.

  ‘I have killed the Pharoah! I have killed the Pharoah!’

  White light shone and took over the view before Khalid. A weight crashed into him, and the heaviness of it surprised Khalid.

  All praise be to Allah and to Muhammad his Prophet.

  15

  He who cannot change the fabric of his thought will never change reality, and will never, therefore, make any progress.

  Anwar Sadat, third president of Egypt (1918–1981)

  Tuesday, 6 October 1981

  Another world leader being shot at and surviving, although only just it seems. How any idiot thought they could actually get to someone as heavily guarded as Anwar Sadat, I can’t imagine. Seems others around him took the bullets. With things the way they are in the Middle East it would have been all downhill. I’m sure if someone of his stature was assassinated right now – one of the few voices of reason…

  Eleven were killed, and twenty-eight wounded. Two of the would-be (actual?) assassins were shot and killed. Sadat was in surgery for eleven hours. Amazingly close obviously; must have been touch-and-go.

  There is some significance in all these near-misses; some forces for good are at large in the world; that we are being saved from these particular losses. Maybe. How doe we know what worse tragedy is averted from the grace of saving one life. Perhaps even decades from now… I can’t help but wonder at this turn of events. It just seems a dead Sadat would mean a spiralling out of balance and control Middle East. I don’t know why I think that. He’s not so well liked, but there’s a steady hand there just the same.

  Wednesday, 7 October 1981

  Timmy seems especially tired today. Wonder if he’s coming down with something. He is changing so much lately. I don’t know that anyone else would notice, but I do. There are changes in his awareness I think. It’s as though he is seeing and understanding more. There is some part of him that’s very in touch. It’s amazing to watch him sometimes, and especially to see him with Jillie. There’s such a connection there. She said the other day ‘When I play with Timmy, it’s the happiest time ever’. What an amazing thing to say! And it seems so true. When she gets home from school, she goes straight away to play with him, and he brightens up when he sees her. I love it. I just love watching them. Sometimes I think Jillie teaches him more than any of the rest of us, simply because she always gets his complete attention. I feel privileged to have both of them in my life. And I’m sure Jillie came as a special gift for Tim. Lucky boy.

  Right now he’s just fallen asleep on the rug on the kitchen floor, curled up with a big soft Edward bear, with his mouth open and his nose squashed sideways. Exhausted, poor fella. I’ve noticed if he’s a bit ‘off’, once he’s over it, that is to say, these periods when he’s a bit ill – then he’s more aware – as though either the illness is a result of some internal struggle for awareness, or recovering from illness provokes a new awareness. Not sure which; bit of both maybe.

  Friday, 9 October 1981

  Well, whatever it was, Tim’s fine now. More than fine. He called me ‘Daddy’. You’d think he’d always called me that, he was so nonchalant. Followed by another couple of words – only about three times his record. ‘Daddy forgot sugar.’ I hadn’t sprinkled sugar on his cornflakes. It seemed so natural that I was halfway to the pantry to get the sugar before I realised. He’s a different boy.

  He blew the therapists away at the psych meeting today. Must remember to tell Lissie. Tim’s progress seems counterweighted by her withdrawal. I want her to see what’s happening for him. I feel a little angry and disappointed that he’s not in her view of the world right now.

  Saturday, 10 October 1981

  An IRA bomb exploded at Chelsea Barracks in London and killed a woman pensioner. The Maze hunger strike ended a week ago after ten deaths. Most of their demands – not to wear prison uniform, and so on – have finally been met. Several prisoners were eventually taken off the strike by their families. Most of them were in prison for ‘possession of a firearm’.

  Monday, 26 October 1981

  Another IRA bomb exploded in a Wimpy bar in London and killed a bomb disposal ‘expert’. In fact, correctly: ‘Provisional’ IRA. ‘IRA’ is really the turn-of-the-century force – the ‘PIRA’ emerged out of a 1969 ideological split. Not quite sure how it is that British newspapers are describing the end of the hunger strike as a victory for Thatcher – the IRA’s membership and activity both seem to have been given quite a boost. Danny Morrison has described Thatcher as ‘the biggest bastard we have ever known’.

  Thursday, 12 November 1981

  The Church of England General Synod has decided to admit women to holy orders. Celebrations tonight with Rose and Loraine – expect they will both be up for it.

  Alicia had noticed some change in her son and felt compelled to acknowledge, if only to herself, that Pete’s attentions, and those of Tim’s many therapists, were bearing fruit. Correspondingly she also knew that any development in the behaviour of her disabled child was not particularly due to any effort of hers. She wondered when it was that she’d forgotten to love her children; when she’d last felt the depth of adoration, she knew she’d once had. She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped being emotionally available to those that needed her most or why this had happened or how. It was manifestly not right, but to find it, to even look for it, seemed exhausting. And her response to exhaustion lay mainly in work, coffee, and a certain indulgent aloneness that she persuaded herself – and others – was the need of any professional, especially an academic.

  It did seem a lie, but one Alicia was unprepared to challenge at the present, despite that she knew her current modus operandi was clearly going to make things worse. A deepening gulf between her and Pete only reinforced for her the selfish value of sinking further into her self-exile.

  Sometime or other, Alicia knew she would have to deal with what she’d created.

  For the time being at least, she felt some relief from the pressure to have to make a greater difference to Tim’s existence. The essence of a certain esteem that she once felt from being a mother now sought its affirmation in the adoration of students and even the begrudging respect of a few of her colleagues. To have been at the centre of new science was preferable, but her position at its periphery still had enough hold on her.

  A knock at her office door turned Alicia back to her current real world.

  Gerry Bernstein opened the door slowly, putting his head around as he did so.

  ‘Oh, hello. You are here.’

  ‘Hi. Come in,’ responded Alicia.

  ‘You’re awfully quiet in here, y’know.’ He was mock serious.

  ‘It is a university,’ Alicia said.

  ‘Oh, riiight.’

  ‘Having trouble coping?’ Alicia wondered if she was discovering a fellow rebel.

  ‘Potentially. There’s a lot of very stern, sober sorts around here I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve discovered the secret of our success then?’

  Gerry grinned. ‘Oh, dear. That bad?’

  ‘Oh, not always.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d explain Paris to me,’ he queried.

  ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘How about a drink this evening. Staff Club?’

  ‘Sure. Love to,’ responded Alicia.

  ‘Splendid! As they say.’ Gerry smiled and left with a wave.

  Definitely a new accomplice!

  Alicia returned her attention to the journals on her desk.

  Later, as the floor emptied, Alicia knew from the cheery farewell that emanated from Gerry’s office door a short way down the hall that probably there
was only she and Gerry left. Would she saunter down to his office and casually say she was wandering over to the staff club now and she’d see him there, or would she wait and see if he came by?

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Chill out.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Hey!’ Turning, taking her mouse with her and trailing her keyboard half off her desk. ‘Whoa!’ Replacing things, and turning back to the door with a smile.

  ‘You ready then?’ Gerry stood in her doorway.

  ‘Sure.’ Alicia reached round under her desk for her purse. Wow. She decided her purse was unnecessary and grabbed her office keys.

  ‘You comin’ back later?’

  ‘Probably. I’ve got a mountain of marking.’

  ‘Same. Okay, let’s go. Better make it a quick one.’

  Whatever you say!

  The staff club was an old homestead, once the residence of the Chancellor. It wasn’t so busy, and they ordered beers and sat on the verandah. A pretty path wound past leading down to the river, and students and others passed by occasionally. It was a still evening with a warm sun, despite mid-autumn, lending a lazy feel to the evening.

  ‘Paris then.’

  ‘Huh? Oh yes. What takes your fancy?’ What a dumb fucking thing to say.

  ‘Well, it’s on the edge of my interest, I have to say. But it’s apparently your thing, so…’

  He said thing ‘thang’, and she wasn’t sure whether she detected a sense that her life’s work was viewed as lacking in seriousness, as a play ‘thang’. If it seemed arrogant, it seemed vaguely attractive at the same time.

  Taking a different tack: ‘Have you heard the local story about the Bishop of Lincoln?’ Not sure why I’m going here.

  ‘Which Bishop?’

  He just checked out my tits.

  ‘Well, there’s one story in particular that’s mildly famous among those in the know about these things. Bishop Hugh – he was French. He came here in 1181, a few years before the earthquake that destroyed the Cathedral. He was responsible for rebuilding it into substantially what it is today. He was canonised some years later and is still revered as a saint by many.’ He did it again. ‘There’s a lot of stories about him actually, but a lesser known one is about a child who’s buried in the Cathedral – it dates from Hugh’s time – and they say that on the anniversary of the child’s burial, you can hear weeping from Hugh’s grave – well… apparently some people say they’ve heard it, and probably not for centuries, anyway… Ah…’

  ‘Sorry, I’m listening. Go on.’

  Not true.

  ‘Actually, you know, it’s dull. Tell me what brought you to Lincoln.’

  ‘No, no. I’m interested. It’s a good story. What’s it got to do with Paris?’

  ‘Potentially, Paris suggests the truth of such a story. Well, no, that’s not really true. I’m making a giant leap into science fiction. But Paris tells us, put simply…’

  ‘Because I’m simple.’

  ‘Very funny. You’re interrupting. Paris tells us that two particles may continue to have influence over each other from significant distance, and potentially across time, as long as they were previously, at some point, in the same place and time.’

  ‘And that connects with the Cathedral…’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Popular science. Not serious stuff. Don’t go there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ll be isolated by the… what did you call them? The “stern, sober” sorts that inhabit this place.’

  ‘That can’t be so bad.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s not so good either. You’ll need their support some day. Heavens. Listen to me – the rebel – I’m getting soft!’

  ‘Listen. I’ve been there. Just do your thing. No point doing work you’re not happy in. Another drink?’

  ‘Sure.’ This would be her third and a known tipping point.

  A hazy pink dusk was descending, but the air was still warm and quite quiet. There certainly didn’t seem to be any reason to want to be anywhere else.

  When Gerry set two more beers down and noticeably eyed her neckline for she didn’t know how many times, she looked him back in the eye with a face that said that’s fine.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you in a minute.’

  Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you?

  She smiled slightly and sipped her beer, looking him in the eye. There was no nervousness now, no wondering what would happen next or wondering how to behave. Whether it was the beer or whether she was just swept up in someone’s charm, or both, she didn’t care. It seemed very easy.

  They stayed quietly, sipping, the occasional glance, the odd not-so-coy smile. A couple trundled past, their feet crunching the fine gravel of the path. It seemed the right sound in the right place. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Alicia took in Gerry’s shape, the colours and texture of his casual linen shirt and trousers, an obvious tan, arms that belonged to a builder not an academic.

  ‘Shall we walk back?’ Gerry proffered.

  ‘Of course.’ Of course.

  They stood up and wandered off the end of the verandah, on to the gravel path, headed back towards the science block. No hurry.

  ‘I feel like a teenager.’ Gerry grinned.

  Good, that means I don’t have to.

  The main door was still unlocked. Gerry pulled one side door open for Alicia to pass, and they walked the few metres to the elevators. They didn’t speak. Alicia wondered and didn’t wonder.

  Getting into the lift, Gerry placed his hand lightly on Alicia’s lower back. It all seemed very normal. Alicia looked vaguely to the lights above the elevator door, watching the numbers climb. Alcohol disguised each moment as pleasure, a euphoric camouflage. The elevator announced their floor with a quiet ping, and the doors opened. As they rolled out, they instinctively listened for other signs of life, but no lights were left on. Even the cleaners had by now come and gone.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Gerry asked, clear that ‘this’ was understood to both of them.

  ‘We’re both adults.’ Alicia was momentarily surprised at her lack of consideration of any other consideration, and then that consideration disappeared too.

  How is this so easy? Never mind.

  They turned the corner corridor that led to her office. Alicia unlocked it and stepped in, Gerry following and closing the door. She dropped her keys on her desk and turned.

  Gerry leant against the door and for a moment they just looked at each other. In the same second they moved together. His arms were right around her and his lips instantly on hers. There was no space between them and no thought. Alicia felt another energy that was not her own free will controlling her actions – controlling both of them.

  Gerry pushed her against the wall and the length of his body pressed on hers. She put her hands on his biceps, feeling the strength of his arms and up to his shoulders and neck. His hands grabbed her arse and then lower, up under her skirt, sliding the material up, handful by handful.

  Jesus!

  His kisses lowered to her neck, and she arched with pleasure. When a hand slid into the front of her knickers, she instinctively moved her legs apart, and he reached further in. Alicia reached down to Gerry’s belt and fly and undid them, pushing him back from her briefly to slid his trousers down over his arse. She reached for his cock, which clearly knew where it was going. He bent his knees and, with both hands on her arse and hips, hoisted her off the floor and brought her down on him. She was pinioned to the wall now as he slid in and out of her, his face buried in her hair and neck. He moaned and let out enticing profanity.

  ‘God, you’ve got a great arse.’

  He came with a groan, and with only a second for her to wonder that that was a little early he grabbed her to him, still with her legs off the ground, squatted and turned and had her on her back on the floor. He was still in her.

  Jesus!

  ‘Bit of a sprinter. Sorry.’

  He p
ushed up on to his hands and started to grind slowly into her again.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going again?’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby.’

  He lowered to his elbows, smiling at her and moving still.

  ‘Nice,’ Alicia responded, smiling back.

  ‘Just nice?’

  ‘Very nice.’

  His hand prised at her blouse, rescuing her breasts from beneath her bra. Instead of fondling them, as she expected, he watched them, and their gentle movement spurred on his until their bouncing released him again. Again he continued to move inside her slowly, and when his erection returned, he slid out of her, reached behind and grabbed a cushion from her sofa, scrunching it beneath her hips. With her hips high and kneeling between her legs, he entered her again, deftly massaging his fingers across her, sliding her own wetness up her clitoris. He was intent on his task, looking first to his fingers and then again to her gently rolling breasts. She felt her own surge start and unfold and explode, and she grabbed his hand away from her. He laid over her and finished again, staying still this time, breathing heavily into her shoulder. Alicia revelled in her moment, until he began again, hoisting himself to his elbows once more.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Yes, way.’

  ‘Wow!’

  Alicia slid her hands under his shirt, holding his hips. This time he was longer, slower. His eyes roamed every part of her that faced him. They kissed, and she moved her hands across his back and arms and hips. When he finished again, he held his weight and her eyes a few moments longer and then rolled on to his back, sliding one arm beneath her neck and rolling her into him.

  Alicia felt warm and wet, from sweat and saliva and semen, and her oblivion held only one other being, with an emotion in it shared only with him. There was only her office and the dark and the floor and strong, warm arms that held her.

  ‘Well, ladies. Unaccustomed as I am …’

  ‘Oh, very funny,’ said someone amid several titters, as Maitland rose from his seat at the familiar dining table setting.

  The group was gathered as usual at Rose and Loraine’s cosy house, the news of the Synod’s decision having quickly circulated, and the assumption made by all that this was a moment of particular celebration for their hosts.