else, he thought. And someone else.
He’d watched her sleep this morning, in the clear light of day. Her belly was still flat and slim, despite the hidden wonder it contained. Martin had reached out, and very gently touched her skin, stroking in a circle round her navel. He had a life ahead of him – if he could face the past. And that meant telling all, and trusting her.
Resolved, he turned and started back. The empty house receded in his wake. An outpost of his fears, destroyed by reason – like a sandcastle demolished by the sea.
Coming home, he knew he was committed. A sobering prospect – yet he welcomed it. A bridge out of the haunted past; a road towards the future. Perhaps it meant he’d finally grown up.
He hadn’t seen this far ahead two years ago, at school. Back then there’d been no call to settle down. He liked girls who were clever, but they had to have nice tits – the impossible perfectionism of Playboy and Page 3. He’d only slept with Vicki twice before they’d broken up. Other girls had come and gone (Nadine had been quite noisy on both counts). He’d never really thought of growing old with one of them.
Lyn, meanwhile, was always being asked out. He could see her now, in slinky black and made up to the eyebrows (he thought she put too much powder on, but what did he know?). He’d tease her as she waited in the hallway for a date – and feel like swearing vengeance if a boyfriend made her cry. But that was different: she was his own sister.
It had taken Claire to match the angles up. She made beauty everyday, and sex a part of something so much greater. He’d never lived so close to someone else, or shared so much.
So grab her with both hands, and hold on tight.
The flat was quiet, full of stagnant sun. Today was her day off: she might be spending it elsewhere. He’d been morose this morning – still shaken by the dream and his reaction. Perhaps she’d gone round to a girlfriend’s, for a moan.
But no: he found her curled up on the sofa, catching up on lost sleep from last night. An open book still rested in her lap. She had her faded jeans on, and an England rugby shirt. Kneeling down, he leaned across, and blew the wispy fringe back off her forehead. She frowned to herself, and opened bleary eyes. A pause – and then she smiled at him. ‘Hiya …’
‘Sorry about this morning,’ he said softly.
She stretched, and shook her head. ‘’S … all right.’
‘And last night,’ he insisted. ‘And the past however many weeks it’s been.’
She looked at him more shrewdly. ‘It’s okay, Martin. Really. I just wish you could talk about whatever’s on your mind.’
‘I’m going to,’ he said.
She frowned again, and raised herself. Still kneeling there, he took her hands and gripped them.
‘I know you’re going to take this like a psychie nurse,’ he muttered.
‘Take what?’
Martin swallowed, staring at their hands. ‘Two years ago … I had some kind of fit. I couldn’t see, or move … it lasted hours. I thought I heard and smelled things in the house – but it was empty. And I had a sort of vision, in my head.’
‘What of?’ she prompted quietly.
‘A wasteland of some kind. A haunted place.’
‘How often has this happened?’
‘Just the once. It screwed me up completely, I left home because of it.’ He managed a wry smile. ‘It’s why I’m here.’
‘Was it voices that you heard?’
‘Lots of them – a real psychobabble. I’ve tried to tell myself that it was something paranormal: as if that sort of crap was really true. But now I want to face the truth. I reckon that I owe it to you both.’
That last inclusion wasn’t lost on her. She nodded, looking thoughtful.
‘So – what?’ he said, and forced a laugh. ‘You think I’m going nuts?’
‘Oh, Martin: no I don’t. You’ve got your moods and hangups – so have I. But I’ve known your for six months now, and I think you’re very normal.’ She smiled, a little slyly. ‘And quite gorgeous.’
‘I was dreaming of it last night. I was scared that I’d contaminate you somehow …’
Her hands were still clasped tight in his; but now she squeezed him back. ‘You know I’ve seen a lot of psychie cases. I don’t think you’re one of them at all. Lots of people have hallucinations. The mind’s a weird thing, you know, even when it’s healthy.’ The briefest pause. ‘It did just happen once?’
‘Yeah. But can you trust me?’
‘I trust you, Martin. Want to know how much?’ Leaning down, she kissed him. ‘Come to bed.’
‘Now, wasn’t that a waking dream?’ she asked him afterwards.
Martin grinned, still short of breath, and let her snuggle closer. She laid her cheek against his chest; her smile was warm and smug. But after a pause, her soft eyes grew more thoughtful.
‘This is how a doctor once described hallucinations. It’s like you’re in a fire-lit room, and looking through the window. While it’s light outside, you see the garden and the sky. But as it gets dark, you start to see reflections of what’s with you in the room. The furniture you’ve got inside your head. Your mind’s the fire – and sometimes it flares up.’
‘And that’s quite normal?’
‘For lots of us, at some point in our lives. Visions, voices, even smells …’
He smiled at her, and stroked her hair. She purred, and closed her eyes. The light was evening-golden now, like syrup on her skin. He felt a deep, delicious calm – much more than just the afterglow of sex.
At last he glanced towards the clock. ‘Listen … That’s twice I’ve spoiled your beauty sleep, so let me make us supper. What’d you like?’
‘Just salad would be fine …’ she murmured.
‘Reckon I can manage that.’ He slithered out of bed and dressed, and went into the kitchen. The lettuce in the fridge didn’t look too wilted. He found a tin of anchovies; a jar of pitted olives. And something he could spoil her with: a chocolate Viennetta for dessert.
He was chopping up ingredients when a knock came at the door. The wood resounded, hollow in the hallway. Martin glanced round irritably, and almost kept on working. But the blows had been insistent, and the silence was too pregnant to ignore. Somebody was waiting for an answer. And maybe they would go away – but then he’d be no wiser.
Might be something interesting. Just might. Tucking in his granddad shirt, he ambled through to see. The door loomed up, he opened it – and felt a punch of shock: so brutal and abrupt it left him winded.
He saw a face as rugged as a crumbled granite cliff: all bony cheeks, and jutting brows and lichen-bearded jaw. The eyes were narrow, deeply-set: a clear, ferocious blue. One of the cheeks was scarred beneath its thatch of dirty gold. It turned the baleful stare into a sneer.
Cutthroat said a cold voice in his mind.
He’d never seen that face before – and yet his heart leaped up in recognition. The man was dressed in brown and black: clothes for the road, from his army boots to his greasy drover’s coat. But Martin knew at once where he had come from: those medieval battlefields he’d seen. The visions Claire had said were from inside.
And Claire was lying naked in the bedroom, unsuspecting. A gout of fear went through him, and he tried to block the doorway. The other’s gaunt expression didn’t change.
‘What do you want?’ hissed Martin frantically.
The