Beneath The Skin Episode 45

Mouse’s violence shook him. She clammed up, and he knew better than to keep the conversation going. He didn’t want to know any more. She shouldn’t be trusting him with her secrets.

“Oh God,” she said, suddenly. awful date.”

“This is a date?”

She shot him a look. “It’s kind of the end of a date, isn’t it? The awkward end. At least I know you’re not going to call me, seeing as you don’t have a phone.”

“Maura.” He liked the way her real name felt on his tongue. He took her hand, locked his fingers with hers. “It’s late. I should probably go.”

“Probably.” She removed her hand, raised it to cup his face. She held his cheek like that, so gently, and he turned his face to lay his lips against her palm.

“But I don’t want you to,” she said. “Stay.” “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he said, and was shocked that he’d said it. She’d relaxed a bit against the cushions; her knees were still tense but her top half had a comfortable bow in it.

She looked soft in the middle, pale pink top stretched over her belly and breasts. He laid his hand on her diaphragm, feeling it swell with each breath, the heat and the tautness under there.

She started to say something, some smart remark, but when he looked at her, when their eyes caught, she didn’t say anything.

She looked young , suddenly, and vulnerable, and he leaned in and kissed her, very gently.

Her glass tilted and wine splashed on his hand and they both laughed, and she said sorry half a dozen times until he took the glass and kissed her again, like he really meant it. She wound her arms about his neck, like she really meant it too.

***

At some point in the night, Mouse whispered: “You’d better not be here in the morning.”

They were in bed. She was hot and sticky against him, curled under his arm. For now, all the spikiness had gone from her. He liked to think he’d worn away some of her sharp edges.

“Just in case William comes in. Did you hear me?”

“I’m an

He realised he hadn’t replied. His arm tightened around her. “Ssh, it’s okay. I’ll get up early. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.”

She giggled, a soft purr near his heart. “I can’t remember the last time someone brought me tea in bed.”

He thought about that. “I don’t remember the last time I did that either.” He hugged her a bit closer. Tea in bed seemed suddenly more intimate than anything they’d done in the past few hours. And he was okay with that.

He stirred as the first light came creeping in through the porthole window. Trying hard to place himself, he lay rigid for a few seconds, before remembering what had taken place the night before.

His left arm was dead – Mouse was lying heavily upon it, and had been for some time – but other than that, the usual aches, pains and nagging anxieties were curiously absent. A smile spread over his features.

He felt fuzzy and elated, and even the act of reaching for his watch on the bedside table was transformed. He had to extricate himself gently from beneath Mouse, all sleep-warm and floppy. He stroked her hair and pressed his lips to her brow, almost hoping she’d wake up. He really wanted her to wake up.

It was just after six, and he had no idea what time William normally got up. He’d promised he wouldn’t be there come morning. And, more importantly, he’d promised her tea.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, he strapped on his prosthesis. He didn’t have much to offer, but tea was one thing he could do. Getting to his feet, he turned back briefly to the bed. Even asleep, Mouse looked happy.

Joy bloomed in his chest like a soap bubble. He felt washed clean, and the feeling was so sudden, so unexpected, it made him catch his breath.

He wandered slowly down the stairs, trying to take in this newness. He even caught himself whistling, which was absurd. When was the last time he’d done that?

Chuckling softly, he paused on the last step, in the shadow of Shackleton. The bear reared up at him in the gloom, his fur the colour of dirty snow, eyes slightly crooked. Shackleton had a squint? Walt had never clocked that before.

He made his way carefully towards the kitchen, noticing how the hall felt somehow odd. It took him right back to being a kid again, when you come back from holidays and the house feels cold and damp – has a distance about it.

He remembered how his mam used to stand in the porch, sniffing, in case she’d forgotten to chuck out the milk, or the cloths had rebelled in her absence and gone sour.

And here he was, sniffing, like his mam used to do. A house with a kid in it shouldn’t feel this way.

He tried to recapture the soap bubble. It had felt so good, like nothing could hurt him again. He didn’t want to be hurt, and Maura and William . . . He knew he had to keep them safe.

Still puzzling over this new direction his thoughts were taking, he opened the kitchen door. He could get another job, perhaps; find them all somewhere better to live.

This house didn’t want him in it – he could sense its hostility. It wasn’t a good place to bring up a family.

The thought of family made the bubble grow bigger, wider, higher. It swelled inside him, made his whole body smile.

The kitchen was full of cats, or it felt that way. They’d just been fed and were sitting on surfaces meant for humans, preening and licking the backs of their thighs as only cats can.

A heavy smell of cat food lingered in the air, and there was a presence, as if whoever had fed them wasn’t far away.

The hairs on the back of Walt’s neck bristled.

Had Alys been down this early to feed them? A quick glance at the table told him her place setting remained undisturbed, and yet when he touched the kettle it was warm.

His face creased with concern, and he peered around the kitchen, not even sure what he was looking for.

He felt washed clean, and the feeling was so sudden, so unexpected, it made him catch his breath

More tomorrow.

Beneath The Skin, by Sandra Ireland, is published by Polygon, £8.99. Her latest book, Sight Unseen, is out now.