HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  Carol continued rocking on his cock. ‘Sorry. I was only trying to get you off.’

  ‘Get me off? She’s a kid, for God’s sake.’

  ‘She’s almost sixteen, Bobby, and probably still a virgin. Come on, fuck me. We can pretend I’m a virgin and both scream together.’

  ‘I’m old enough to be her grandfather, and you’re old enough to know better. Please don’t talk like that again. It turns me off.’

  She leaned her face to his, kissed his nose. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll talk about Bethy over breakfast, go meet her dad, invite her over, okay? But for now, I need you hard and willing and I want you to scream my name when you shoot. Can you do that, Bobby?’ She was glancing at the bedside clock.

  Bobby slid a hand down between them, pushed two fingers between their moving pubic bones and soon found her button. He rubbed it this way and that. He opened his mouth and Carol fed him a breast, cupping his head, pulling him to her. He bit down hard around the nipple, sucking blood to the surface. Carol groaned and pressed into him. Bob told the gates to hold, prayed them to hold as Carol moved with fiery slickness against him. ‘You’re going to come, Carol,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Bobby.’ She pulled his hand from between them, and forced him back down to the bed, dug her nails into his chest and rode him like a bronco. ‘Two more minutes and I’ll be making breakfast. Can you last, Bobby?’

  Bobby had the feeling he was rising from the bed. Bobby had the feeling he was going to come and there was no stopping it. Two minutes? Two crappy minutes? He thought again of mushrooms and saw Beth in his mind with a basket, bending over, plucking a mushroom the size of a plate. Carol’s nails dug into his flesh. He was going to explode. He grabbed Carol’s head and thrust it against his. Their lips connected. Teeth hit teeth. Tongues searched like slobbering cows. He bit at her cheek and she bit at his, and she thumped her pelvis into his and the mattress thrust him back. Heat from her groin flooded into him at the same time as he came and both of them groaned loudly, bodies stiffening and shuddering, and in Bobby’s mind as his cum pumped so blissfully deep inside his lover, Bethy was naked, running gaily through the trees, her basket aloft, her laughter joyful, her little breasts bobbing as she ran, and his orgasm sucked him dry. Carol flopped to his side, panting.

  Several minutes passed before Bob opened his eyes, and when he did the pain of torn flesh hit him. Carol raised her head, saw the damage, and scooted up and off the bed. Blood trickled from gouges around his nipples. Four to his right, three to his left. Blood on his pubic hair, too. Carol checked herself: blood trickling down her leg, blood on her hands. Juicy red love-bite blooms decorated her breasts. She looked at Bobby with desperate eyes.

  ‘Did I beat my record?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Fuck,’ was all she said.

  7

  Beth’s in a familiar half-asleep-half-awake state, where she can watch her dreams as an outsider, an objective state, which means even nightmares aren’t so scary. Objective is a word Beth likes very much. She understands this to mean being outside and looking in. Not to be confused with thinking outside the box, which Dad says sometimes, but being able to have a view of something without messy emotions forming an opinion. Sometimes emotions brought bad bricks and wrong decisions; if you could keep your bricks sweet, decisions usually turned out good.

  This time, the dream is of a puppet, but she can’t see the puppet’s face, only its black clothes. The puppet is dancing on strings controlled by someone out of sight. Low voices chatter in the background: words she can’t make out, words she feels are trying to distract her into being fully awake, and the distraction shows hints of working, because through her closed eyelids the grey of early morning is trying to get through.

  She concentrates on the puppet’s black clothes as it dances: a black suit with the jacket fastened and a white shirt showing between the lapels. Occasionally the tip of the puppet’s bearded chin comes into view, but never its mouth or face. She concentrates on seeing the face, wills it to come into view by imagining what it might look like. But all she can think of is Pinocchio with his silly hat and big nose and that is not right for this puppet. Still the voices chatter in the background and Beth feels the dull awareness of her body lying in her bed, her own legs stirring under the blankets.

  The grey of morning grows lighter behind the dancing puppet. ‘No!’ she says out loud and the puppet’s strings change into thick vertical stripes and the stripes bend and twist and grow spikes and fall into an arch around the puppet. Beth knows they’re brambles, and a second before opening her eyes, the puppet stills and bows its head and when its head comes back up it has no face, only a single eye where its nose should be. The eye closes and when it opens again a pale white worm slithers free. Beth screams herself awake.

  8

  ‘That was Bethany.’ Carol paused from stirring the eggs.

  Bob went to her side and looked through the small kitchen window to the cabin across the way. Carol took the eggs off the heat and they stood for a moment, watching and listening. A light came on in the back bedroom, a shadow at the window, a tall man. Another shadow, possibly Beth, hugging into the tall man.

  ‘Must have had a nightmare.’ Carol slid the eggs onto a plate and handed it to Bob.

  Bob sat at the table and picked at the eggs with a fork.

  Carol joined him at the table. ‘Thought you were hungry?’

  ‘I am. I was.’ Bob looked at her, at the bruising on her breasts that had darkened to purple. He felt the throbbing sting of the gouges to his chest and she must have seen his grimace.

  ‘I enjoyed our screw,’ she said. ‘I want to do it again, outside, in a field, where no one will hear you scream. Shall we? Later?’

  ‘I didn’t appreciate what you said, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Said?’

  ‘About Beth.’

  ‘It was a mistake. I said I was sorry.’

  Her cheeks were flushing now, but he had to get it out, ‘I’ve never . . . I’ve never heard you say anything like that. It didn’t feel like my Carol. What were you thinking?’

  She looked at him with wet eyes. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I was out of order. Sorry, Bobby. Let’s get cleaned up. Go see Beth. We’ll grab our cameras and she can help find patterns. What do you say?’

  ‘A minute ago, you wanted to fuck in a field.’

  Carol sighed. ‘You’re right, about what I said. But it wasn’t premeditated, Bobby, not at all. I suppose I just got carried away. Perhaps we should leave Martin and Muriel to the screwing . . . at night.’

  ‘Good idea. Have you had any ideas for the skirts?’

  ‘I have,’ she said, smiling. ‘I keep seeing upturned acorn casings and droopy tulips, but we need to get out there among it all, get the inspiration face to face.’

  ‘With Mother Nature.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ Bob said. ‘You shower first. I’ll finish my eggs.’

  9

  Fourteen lengths of string had controlled the one-eyed puppet before they’d morphed into brambles. Fourteen. This number seems important. In fact, it is important because her counting brain had made it known and kept it there. Fourteen. Beth finishes brushing her teeth with fourteen strokes, dries herself off with fourteen rubs, and decides the weather is going to be good enough to wear the yellow dress again. While dressing, she takes fourteen small steps to the bathroom door and listens. There’s something wrong with the atmosphere out there.

  When the dream made Dad come in, the atmosphere was brilliant, like lemon pie all light and bouncy. She’d joined her parents in the living area and realised the chattering voices from her dream had been them, and the result of their chattering was a thick black circle, hanging in the air around her parents like a giant innertube. Mum’s face had been stiff. Dad was making coffee, trying to smile, and wherever he moved to, the black circle would nudge outwards and go with him. At least they weren’t arguing about it. She opens the bathroom door a fracti
on.

  Beth will be fine.

  Beth’s always fine. Can’t you avoid it, just for once?

  It’s one night, Al, one night. Two at the most.

  See, that’s exactly why it’s wrong. I can never be certain.

  Certain?

  How many days until you’re back. Or even weeks.

  It comes with the job.

  Well the job sucks, George. It fucking sucks.

  Keep your voice down.

  You have the chance to spend time with me and Beth yet here you are, off again, and you’ve only just got here. I won’t let you go.

  You’re being unreasonable, Al.

  Don’t call me Al.

  Now all Beth can hear is their breathing. She pulls the door open enough to see through. Dad is sitting on the couch. His briefcase is open. He’s looking at some papers. Mum is sitting opposite, fixing her ponytail, and the black innertube floats thickly in the air, circling the pair. Beth thinks going to see M&M might be a good idea, give her parents time to change the atmosphere, because one thing she knows about atmospheres is they get better when left to their own devices. To visit the M&Ms means she has to get from here to there, and that means stepping into the atmosphere. She takes a breath, lets it out, and exits the bathroom. Dad looks up from his papers, Mum turns to look at her, but the atmosphere doesn’t move. Beth smiles. ‘I’m not hungry for breakfasting, is it all right if I visit M&M? They’re working on new costumes today. They didn’t invite me but I’m sure they meant to.’ She immediately realises she’s said the wrong thing.

  ‘If they didn’t invite you that means they’ll be busy,’ Mum says. ‘Besides, your dad’s just arrived, we could take a walk round the loch then a drive into the village, a nice pub lunch. How would you like that, sweetheart?’

  Beth doesn’t reply. The atmosphere nearest the front door is shifting apart. Two shadows appear behind the frosted windows in the top half of the door. There’s a gentle knock. ‘M&M!’ Beth cries and the atmosphere whooshes and parts some more.

  ‘Hope it’s not too early,’ Muriel says after Mum lets them in. Muriel and Martin look shiny, they’re both wearing dark blue jeans and polo neck sweaters in pale blue. Mum introduces Dad and Dad smiles but not with his eyes.

  ‘We’re looking for flowery inspiration for new skirt designs today,’ Muriel pulls a small silver camera from her jeans pocket. ‘Dead and dying flowers, fruits, fungi, that kind of thing, and tonight we’ll do sketching and maybe even cut some cloth. And Beth can stay over again, if she wants to.’ When she mentions staying over, the bright atmosphere around Muriel floats down and nudges Dad, and then Mum. Muriel digs Martin with her elbow.

  ‘That’s right,’ Martin says. He seems to have an extra shine in his eyes today. ‘Beth’s more than welcome. She’s a smashing help and lovely company.’

  Beth returns Martin’s smile. ‘Can I, Mum?’

  Mum looks at Dad.

  ‘Fine by me,’ Dad says. ‘I’m whacked anyway, been driving half the night. Need some sleep, so if you want to help your friends . . . as long as your mum’s happy.’

  The black atmosphere around Mum fades a little. ‘We can do something as a family tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I’m happy if your dad’s happy.’

  ‘Cooly-dooly,’ Beth says. ‘I’ll get my basket.’

  1

  Rose drove carefully around the loch on what was nothing more than a narrow track with a gravelly surface. At regular intervals the track forked into the trees, where a cabin overlooked the water. Rose took the Corsa down each fork in turn. The fifth fork brought her to a communal area. There was a big blue-painted hut with many windows, a noticeboard with a note declaring a bonfire night barbeque, and photographs of happy holidaymakers. Between the hut and the loch, an area shaded by tall trees held eight wooden picnic tables, a stone-built barbeque and a pathway that led to a jetty where a few small rowboats were tied up.

  Either side of this communal area was a cabin. One looked empty, the other had a red Fiat Punto parked outside, and the smell of a cooking breakfast was in the air. As Rose turned the car around to head back she spotted another vehicle a hundred yards or so through the trees. It was the grey 4x4, parked outside the next cabin down. She felt a sharp stabbing pain in her right hand, so harsh it made her hand jump from the wheel. She rubbed the copper bracelet around her wrist – the copper bracelet she’d worn for years to keep arthritis at bay. Probably a load of bollocks but she rubbed it anyway. She decided to head back to the reception hut and enquire about room at the inn.

  She pulled into the small gravelled horseshoe and parked next to a rusty old Suzuki Jeep, its green paintwork flaking. A man answered the door, young, early thirties? Despite his shock of red hair and rugged handsomeness, he looked slightly ill, gaunt, white shirt dabbed with yellow – paint? – jeans pulled on, not fastened, eyes bloodshot. No, more than ill, drugs probably.

  He smiled at her. ‘Aye?’ he said.

  Rose explained she’d like to stay for a week. And while the man was talking – We’ve plenty empty this time of year. There’s no TV, no radio, no phone, and fresh towels and sheets every Wednesday – Rose recalled seeing the name of this valley on the way in: Sallow Valley – £250 per person per week, minimum two persons – his skin, almost jaundiced, deathly – There’s complimentary tea . . . a few tins in the cupboard – the Sallow Valley. Sallow like his sallow face, a total contrast to his ginger hair. The man’s speech had slowed, and he was looking at her differently, more directly – so . . . you might want to stock up – as if he knew what she was thinking, ‘Is it just yourself, aye?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Only me. I’m a writer, you see, looking for some tranquillity to find my next novel.’ Oh, how many times had she delivered that line?

  The man seemed to brighten at this. ‘A writer? Suppose I could do you a one-person deal. Two-fifty for the week.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He moved aside and gestured her in. ‘Pleased to help a fellow artist.’

  ‘You write?’ Rose asked.

  Inside the small reception space, a map on the wall showed the loch and the various cabin positions, each numbered. The loch curved along its length and bulged out into marshland at its base. In the middle of this bulge sat a small island, shaped, Rose thought, like two eggs leaning against each other. She realised they were like testicles inside a ball sack and the banana shape of the loch was extraordinarily phallic in appearance.

  ‘Poems, sometimes,’ the man said. ‘I like painting the most.’

  Ah, the yellow paint, Rose thought. ‘That’s great.’ She counted the cash onto the counter, filled out the standard form and exchanged it for three keys on an enamel keyring in the shape of a thistle.

  ‘Front door, back door, and the safe. You’ll find that in the wardrobe. This is you, cabin four, next door to the communal area.’ The man stuck his finger on the map.

  ‘Is anyone staying nearby?’ Rose of course knew the red Fiat would be next to her cabin, and the grey Mitsubishi one down from that.

  ‘Aye, a middle-aged couple next one down and a family of three the one after that. Nice people, you won’t have any bother. And like I said, there’s some complimentary tins, but you’ll need to drive into Moxley for your fridge stuff.’ He proceeded to give directions. Five miles north and she would see the sign: 14 miles east to Moxley. She’d already been five miles north and had seen the sign, but she let him talk on. ‘Mind it’s a winding road, loose sheep and cattle grids. So, you be careful.’

  ‘I will. Mr?’

  But his attention was elsewhere. She followed his gaze out the open door. In the distance a yellow JCB stood alone in a field.

  ‘I’m Peter.’

  When she looked back he was staring at her chest. ‘Thank you, Peter.’

  His eyes jumped to hers. ‘Give me a knock, if you need anything.’

  Rose thanked him again and left.

  2

  Pete dusted the phone while staring through t
he open door at the yellow digger glowing in the distance. There was a job to do out there. A dirty job. He would get to it soon. Right now, he felt like shit. He drank two pints of water, forced down a bowl of muesli, then returned to the painting on the table – the eye stared at him and he remembered the voice: I know you’re coming. He also remembered the ugly prozzie, and how the tree bark had made her tits look old and wrinkled, and how she’d played with herself.

  He had the ache, wanted it all again, to get stoked and creative, hear more voices, see more of the ugly prozzie. But the new woman, the writer, Roseanne something or other, there was something about her when they were talking, something he couldn’t pin down at the time. Now it came to him – she had no breasts. Not flat-chested, no, this was different. She had no breasts at all. Somehow he knew that for a fact. They’d been taken, chopped away. He also knew this to be true, but not how he knew. And there was something else, Pete kind of liked her, felt something. Felt like he wanted a hug from this woman. Maybe even more than just a hug.

  He picked up his binoculars, went outside to the balcony and found cabin 4. The curtains had been opened but her car was not there. She must have gone to Moxley as he’d suggested. But the nocs weren’t powerful enough for a detailed view. He dragged his tripod and scope to the balcony and pointed it at cabin 4. The only interesting view he could get was through the bedroom window: an open suitcase on the bed, some clothes piled, a six-pack of bottled water on the bedside table. Next to the bottled water an opened pack of knickers, all with a flower pattern. Tickling in Pete’s balls startled him into retracting from the scope. Maybe you’re not a homo, son? Mr Wood said inside his head. No, Mr Wood, sir, I’m a fucking peeping Tom. Mr Wood giggled. Only it wasn’t Mr Wood, it was a young girl’s laughter, and it wasn’t inside his head.

  He looked over the rail to the bottom of the hill and there was the girl Bethany with the two old dancers. Pete had the urge to pick up his nocs and take a closer look at the girl in the yellow dress. Then a thought; if he could look through one bedroom window he could look through a lot more. Using the scope in this way had never crossed his mind before. He momentarily saw himself in handcuffs. This troubled him enough to drag the scope back inside and close the door. A compulsion to continue dusting the telephone in reception took him straight to it. The door to outside was still open. To his eyes, the digger was a bright and shining thing.