Moon

by Herbert, James

  And then his mind began to clear. He remained standing, leaning over the desk, breathing heavily, allowing the sensation to subside. It seemed to take a long while, but Childes knew it was no more than seconds. He waited until his quivering nerves had settled before crossing the room and pouring himself a drink. Strangely, the whisky was almost tasteless.

  He choked on the next swallow as the burning flavour came back at him at full strength. Spluttering, he wiped the back of his arm against his lips. What the hell was happening to him? He tasted the drink again, this time more carefully, sipping slowly. He was warmed.

  Childes looked around the room uneasily, not sure of what he was searching for, merely feeling another presence. Foolish. Apart from him, the room was empty, nobody had crept in while he had been hunched over paperwork.

  The shadows thrown by the metal desk-lamp made him uncomfortable and he went to the switch by the door, bandaged hand outstretched to turn on the overhead light. He stopped before touching the switch and stared at his fingers, surprised by the sudden tingling in them, as if they had received a mild electric shock. They had not touched the light-switch. He glanced down when the peculiar tingling began in the hand clutching the whisky glass and it seemed as though the glass itself was vibrating.

  The unseen, insidious fingers probed again.

  His body sagged and he quickly sank onto the nearby sofa, pushing into its softness as if trying to evade a pressing weight. The glass fell to the floor, the rug soaking up its spilled contents. Childes’ eyes closed as the sense of intrusion became intense. Images whirled inside his head, computer matrixes, faces, the room he was in now, numbers, symbols, floating in and out, something white, shimmering, past events, his own face, his own self, his fears, dreams long forgotten recalled and pried into.

  He moaned, pushing away the delving ice tentacles, forcing a calmness in his mind, willing the confusion to stop.

  Childes’ muscles relaxed a little when the cold probing faded once again, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated motion. He stared blankly at the shadows cast against the opposite wall. Something was attempting to reach him, something – somebody – was trying to know him.

  With scarcely any relief, the creeping sensation came back, tautening his body, infiltrating his consciousness. No! his mind screamed. And ‘No!’ he cried aloud. But it was there, inside, searching, sucking at his thoughts. He could feel its existence, delving into him like some psychic thief. It invaded him and dwelt on thoughts of the island, the schools he taught in, thoughts of Amy, of Fran of . . . Gabby. Of GABBY! It seemed to linger.

  Childes forced himself off the sofa, struggling against the extraneous consciousness, painfully dislodging each numbing tentacle as though they were physical entities. He felt their grip loosen and the effort sent him to his knees. He made himself think only of a white mist, nothing else, nothing to distract him nor give sustenance to the intruder, and soon his head began to clear.

  But before relief came fully, leaving him crouched and shivering on the floor, he heard a sound so real it caused him to twist his head and search the dark corners of the room.

  He was alone. But the low snickering seemed close.

  Jeanette was late. The other girls from her dormitory had already gone down and she was still in her dressing gown, furiously brushing her teeth.

  Today of all days! Exams! Maths! Aargh, maths! Jeanette sometimes wondered if she were a bonehead as far as figures were concerned.

  Morning sunlight poured into the washroom, reflecting off the rows of porcelain basins, making them gleam; water gathered in small pools on the tiled floor, liquid debris from the girls’ washing rituals. She was alone and preferred to be: the others often embarrassed her by comparing breast sizes and shapes, all of them eager competitors in the development race. Jeanette was a long way behind most of the other thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds in her class and did not care much for the comparisons. To add to her feelings of inadequacy, her periods had not even started yet.

  Jeanette rinsed her mouth, spat into the basin, dabbed her lips with a face-cloth, and dumped her toiletries into her pink plastic washbag. She padded to the door, bare feet nearly slipping on the wet tiles, then hurried along the gloomy corridor, leaving damp footprints on the polished floorboards in her wake. Bare feet were forbidden inside the school, but she had not had time to rummage beneath her bed for skulking slippers, and besides, everyone, staff included, would be downstairs by now tucking into breakfast.

  It was shivery in the dormitory she shared with five other girls, despite the bright sun outside, and Jeanette quickly laid out her underwear, plain regulation navy-blue panties and white vest, on the narrow, rumpled bed. Shrugging off her quilted dressing gown, she pulled her pyjama top off over her head without undoing the buttons and threw it onto the bed alongside the underwear. She briskly rubbed at the sudden goose-pimples on her arms as if to brush them off, then reached for the vest. Before pulling on the garment, she paused to examine her chest and sighed at its complacency. The nipples were longish, erect now because of the chill, but the tiny mounds they thrust from were, as usual, a disappointment. She tweaked the nipples to make them harder and tugged at the soft bumps to encourage growth. A delicate flush of pleasure warmed her and she imagined her breasts had swelled a little more. She sat on the bed, still in her pyjama bottoms, and cupped a mound in each hand. It felt pleasant and she wondered what it would be like if . . . No, no time for that – she was late enough already!

  She stripped off the pyjama legs and swiftly donned vest, panties, and white socks retrieved from the bottom drawer of her bedside locker. Since the weather had changed for the better, La Roche girls were allowed their light blue, short-sleeved summer dresses and Jeanette shrugged on hers, shoes, badly in need of a polish, following. She tidied the bed, hiding her nightwear beneath the sheets, then grabbed a brush and attacked her long, tangled hair, wincing at her efforts. The small blue-rimmed mirror, a china butterfly frozen on one top corner, standing on top of the locker, reflected the results, which were not pleasing. In spite of her haste Jeanette leaned close and examined her face for overnight blemishes. She had almost entirely cut out chocolate and did her utmost, puke-making though it was, to finish off all the green vegetables on her dinner plate, but the spots came up with predictable regularity, and nearly always on special occasions. But there – today wasn’t special, only rotten exams, and her skin was clear! She bet that on her wedding day there would be at least five zits to every square inch of flesh on her face and she’d have to wear a veil all through the ceremony and she’d be afraid to lift it afterwards for her husband’s kiss and when she eventually did she would look like an ice-cream topped with raspberry pips.

  Jeanette moved even closer to the blue-rimmed mirror, looking deep into her own dark eyes, dreamily wondering if she could see the future there. She had been scolded enough by her parents and tutors alike for spending too much time day-dreaming and not enough time thinking, and she had tried to concentrate on more serious things, but after a few minutes her mind always drifted inwards and became lost in her own fantasies. She tried, she tried, but it seemed her thoughts had a separate will. To look through a window at the sky meant seeing herself soar over tree tops, swooping down into valleys, skimming over white-crested oceans, not as a bird but as her own free spirit. The sun warming her face would evoke fiery deserts, golden beaches, sultry days spent with – a keen-edged excitement with the word – her future lover. To catch a flower’s fragrance initiated thoughts on the existence of all things, large or small, animate or inanimate, and her part in such order. To see the moon—

  A shadow passed behind her.

  She turned and there was no one there; save for her, the dormitory was empty.

  Posters and cut-outs of pop stars, movie stars, tennis stars, hair styles, fashion styles, crazee styles, covered the walls in carefully assembled groups. One or two raggedy teddy-bears and dolls, kept now as mascots rather than the cuddly, loved companions
they once were, watched with dead eyes.

  Colourful mobiles over beds stirred gently as if touched by a breeze.

  There was no one there; yet Jeanette felt there was.

  The goose-bumps had returned to tickle her bare arms. The sun did not seem as bright. She moved away from the locker, treading warily into the centre aisle between two equal rows of beds, examining the shadows beneath each one before passing, almost as if she expected a hand to emerge and snatch her ankle. Her pace increased as she neared the doorway.

  Then, with a rush, she was through, looking back and seeing only an empty dormitory, bright with posters, motionless mobiles and coloured quilts, the sun streaming in to warm and to disperse shadows.

  There was no one else there. Nonetheless she hurried away.

  She stood over him and vigorously shook her head, showering him with sea water. He opened one eye, shielding it from the sun’s rays which were still strong even though it was late afternoon, appreciating the cool droplets on his chest.

  ‘How is it?’ Childes asked.

  ‘Cold,’ Amy replied, dropping to her knees beside him and briskly rubbing her hair with a thick towel, ‘but lovely. Why don’t you come in for a while?’

  He closed his eye again and answered lazily, ‘Too much trouble to take out my lenses.’ He did not mention he hadn’t swum since his unfortunate experience of nearly a month before, when they had been snorkling; the near-drowning had left him feeling just a little too vulnerable in deep water.

  ‘Ah, come on, it’ll refresh you.’ She placed a flat, damp hand on his tummy and giggled as the muscles there quickly retracted.

  He pulled her down to him, enjoying her wetness, her salty, sea smell. ‘I need rest,’ he told her, ‘not exertion.’

  ‘Rest? This is exam week; you’ve never had it so easy.’

  ‘That’s right, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible.’

  Amy draped the towel around her head and shoulders, creating a shade over both of them. She crossed her hands on his chest, supporting herself, and pecked at his lips with her own.

  ‘Nice taste,’ Childes remarked. ‘Like kissing an oyster.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, so I’ll let it go.’ Her damp, tangled hair trailed across his cheek and he raised his head slightly to lick moisture from her chin.

  There were few people on the beach at that time of day, tourists from the mainland and the Continent not yet having descended upon the island in force, and most of the island’s working inhabitants being still trapped inside places of employment. The cove held a wide stretch of sand, one end guarded by a triple-level German bunker, a huge granite monolith facing the sea, and a grim reminder of recent history. Jagged rocks, as if freshly tumbled from the cliffs, blocked the opposite end.

  ‘You made it up with Daddy yet?’ asked Childes.

  Amy knew his use of the word ‘Daddy’ was only slightly mocking, a faint jibe that she was still her father’s little girl and still using the word herself, and she had long since given up taking offence. ‘Oh, he’s still huffy with me and I’m still huffy with him, but I think he’ll eventually come to accept the situation.’

  ‘I don’t think I quite believe that.’

  ‘He’s not an ogre, Jon, he doesn’t wish you any harm.’

  ‘That wasn’t the case a couple of weeks ago when he primed Victor Platnauer to complain to Miss Piprelly about me.’

  ‘Pip’s nobody’s stooge; she makes up her own mind about things. In fairness to Daddy, though – and I don’t condone for a minute what he did – your past is a tiny bit disconcerting.’

  He could not help but smile as he curled clogged strands of her hair around his finger. ‘Does it still bother you?’

  ‘How can it not, Jon? Especially after recent events. You know how much I care for you, so how can you expect me to put aside everything that’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened since, Amy, not after the dinner party. I don’t feel so uneasy any more, I’m not jumping at shadows. I can’t explain it, but I feel as though a huge pressure has been lifted from me. At least for the moment.’ He hadn’t told her of the night alone in his cottage when the strange tension in his mind had brought him to his knees. In the following days, the sense of foreboding had slowly dissipated as though he were being released from an outside force, a debilitating spell lifted. He felt the threat had somehow passed him by. And yet that malignant snicker of laughter still echoed inside his head.

  ‘I hope so, Jon,’ Amy said, her soft voice dismissing the final dregs of doubt. ‘I like the old you better, the one I first met. Quiet, easy-going, sometimes amusing . . .’ he tugged her hair ‘. . . sometimes sexy . . .’

  He drew her hair down so that her lips pressed against his. Their kiss, at first soft, soon hardened, became almost fierce, their tongues tasting each other’s warm moistness. Her body pushed firmly against his, one slim leg parting his knees.

  ‘Hey, take it easy,’ he said breathlessly after a few moments. ‘I’m only wearing swimming trunks, remember, and this is a public place.’

  ‘Nobody’s watching.’ She nuzzled his neck and her thigh was strong against his.

  ‘This is no way for a schoolmarm to behave.’

  ‘School’s out.’

  ‘And so will I be if you carry on.’

  ‘Oh, is it peeping over the top?’

  ‘Amy,’ he warned.

  She chuckled and drew away. ‘What a prude,’ she said, sitting up and continuing to dry her hair.

  He sat up too, drawing up his legs and resting his arms over his knees for the sake of modesty.

  ‘Shame,’ she mocked.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she replied, still mocking, but her voice deeper, a huskiness to it.

  ‘Why don’t you dry off properly back at my place. Unless you’ve got to get home for some reason?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I said I wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Is that right? You had plans, huh?’

  ‘No, but I thought you might.’

  ‘Some ideas are coming to mind . . .’

  They drove to the cottage, not bothering to change back into their clothes, semi-nude figures driving cars being a common feature of the island when the weather was warm, and they were soon inside the small, grey-stone house.

  Amy shivered as Childes closed the front door. ‘It’s cooler in here,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get you my robe and fix you a drink.’

  ‘I’d like to soak off this salt.’

  ‘I’ll get you my robe, fix you a drink, and run the bath.’

  Her arms went around his neck and she kissed his nose. ‘You just do the drinks.’

  He gripped her waist, hugging her close, his lips seeking hers.

  Amy returned his kiss with equal fervour, feeling him hard against her stomach, but she pulled away when things began to get out of control. ‘Let me get cleaned up first,’ she said, slightly out of breath.

  ‘You’ve just come out of the sea – you’re clean enough.’

  She broke free. ‘Do the drinks and read your mail. I won’t be long.’ She disappeared into the bathroom before he could protest further, leaving him to retrieve the letters lying on the doormat. The pink envelope with Snoopy in one corner caught his eye and he grinned, recognizing the childish scrawl. Pulling on his shirt which had been tossed over the stair banister with his other clothing, Childes strolled into the sitting room, throwing the other two brown envelopes which were bills onto the desk. He crossed the room, opening the pink envelope as he went. Gabby wrote to him at least once a week, sometimes the letters long and informative, other times, like today’s, only a few scribbled lines, her way of keeping open the link despite the miles between them. Miss Puddles still had glittering hi-lites, Annabel had CHICKEN SPOKS, and Mummy had promised to show her how to make fairy cakes next weekend. Childes touched his lips to the row of XXXX
XXs, his and Gabby’s shared secret that all written kisses were sealed by a real one.

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom and he returned the letter to its envelope, placing it on one side. He poured a Scotch for himself and a dry Martini for Amy, then went through to the kitchen for ice. She was just stepping into the bath, the water still running, when he brought the Martini in to her. He watched from the doorway, admiring her lightly browned skin, the slimness of her legs and body, the long, delicate fingers gripping the edge of the tub. Her hair, still darkly wet from the sea, hung in tangled strands around her face and over her shoulders. Her pale green eyes closed as she sank further into the water and she sighed, a quiet moan of pleasure, as the warmth flooded her. The nipples of her small breasts rose above the waterline.

  Childes turned off the taps and handed her the drink. Her eyes opened as she took the glass and the smile in them was his thank-you. They clinked glasses and sipped, Childes trailing one hand in the water, brushing the smoothness of her skin, running his fingers down so that they entwined in the fine hair between her legs.

  Amy drew in a short breath and her teeth pressed gently against her lower lip. ‘Feels good,’ she murmured as his hand lingered. He leaned over and kissed an erect nipple as she lightly stroked his hair, sliding her fingers into its dark thickness, following the flow to where it lapped over his shirt collar, sinking her hand beneath the material so that she touched his spine. She kneaded the flesh there, soothingly, without hurry, and it was his turn to murmur pleasure. His lips moved to her shoulder and he nipped the skin, not enough to hurt, before moving on, his mouth finding certain nerves in her neck where it loitered, drawing softly on them so that her head twisted to one side in sensuous delight.