Strange Taste LIVE 8: Turmoil

Turmoil:

His earliest memory was lying on a hospital bed in a darkened room being put to sleep with gas. He remembered a suffocating sensation, having a rubber mask fitted to his face, a strange-funny odour, feeling himself smile, laughing, drifting into contented, dreamless sleep. Except that he was conscious when the surgeon made the incision.

Georgie was horrified, ‘They cut you there while you were wide awake?’ she felt his head rub her breast, ‘That must’ve hurt. What did you do?’

‘There wasn’t much I could do,’ he said, feeling awkward, ‘My lips were numb, my face was covered with a mask, my limbs were like lead, I couldn’t speak.’

She ruffled his hair affectionately, giving his hand a friendly squeeze, ‘You poor thing!’

‘I was in agony. Ever since then I’ve had dark dreams.’

‘You mean nightmares?’

‘No, these are dreams, and they come true.’

Georgie felt as if a Funnel Web had just crawled down her back, ‘Don’t! I don’t like it.’

‘Would you like me to tell you about them?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she insisted, changing the subject, ‘I’ve never fallen in love before. We just made love, didn’t we? I love you but feel as if I hardly know you.’

He snuggled up to her warm body,

‘I’ve had a hard life,’ he began, ‘I was never told why the doctors operated on me that night. I grew up in a family without love. My dad was a cold-hearted man, who seldom spoke to me. I wasn’t allowed to speak to him, unless spoken to first. He loved his beer, golf, fishing. Dad used to take me fishing in the rain and made me sit outside the umbrella.’

Georgie felt the tufts of hair in his armpit, lightly stroking his hairy chest, ‘He let you get wet? Didn’t you catch cold?’

‘I did catch cold. I was soaked by the time he packed up. He didn’t want to get his gentles wet.’

‘His gentles?’ she giggled, enjoying the feel of her man’s damp groin pressed to her thigh.

‘Maggots.’

‘Ugh!’

He continued, ‘I used to go to the mudhills when I was little, to chase butterflies. I never hurt them…’

‘I should hope not!’

‘…just chased them. One day I caught a lizard, brought it home. It escaped, hid under the carpet. It’s still here somewhere. Anyway, Dad wasn’t amused. He kept a scratching stick for his back, so that Mum could scratch him if he itched. When she told him about the lizard, he swore at us. Damn! he said. It was the only time I ever heard him swear. He made me take off my t-shirt, then he smacked me with his stick until I bruised and bled.’

Georgie recalled the terrible abuse her mother subjected her to while her daddy was out, tending the sheep: sheep may safely graze? She found herself being drawn closer to him as his story unfurled. His life was nearly as strange as hers,

‘How awful for you. Didn’t your mum try to stop him?’

‘Mum didn’t dare say a word. She worshipped Dad as if her life depended, which it did. You see, Mary was seriously ill, paranoid schizophrenic, the doctor said, falling apart, creeping into the dark. I saw her descend into mental hell. Dad tried to manage her. In the end he couldn’t cope. He used to send me on errands to the Parade.’

Georgie screwed up her face, ‘The Parade?’

‘The Shopping Parade. To buy cigarettes. He used to smoke sixty a day. Smoking helped him live with Mum’s highs and lows. In the end he called our GP, Dr Reynard, round. He arrived in the middle of the night with a colleague. Mum was sitting in her armchair, watching the little girl on the tv test screen. It was horrid, Georgie. She chewed her lips until they bled, kept mumbling, ‘I’ll be fine.’ But she was sick in the mind. When the doctors walked in, Dad warned them to be careful in case she turned violent. They found her in the kitchen with scissors, a biro, inking the eyes in her wedding photo, cutting out my dad’s face. Dad was in tears. He asked Mum to calm down, hand him the scissors. She tried to stab him. I stood there wetting myself, screaming at her to leave him alone. Dr Reynard gave her two injections to put her to sleep. An ambulance turned up with its blue lights flashing, waking all the neighbours. I went outside in my pyjamas to wave her goodbye. The neighbours were all watching us behind their curtains. They didn’t expect to see an ambulance in our road at three in the morning. Then a police car arrived – someone reported a disturbance. By then I was a bag of nerves. I just wanted everyone to leave, so that I could be alone. Dad told me to go to bed. No: ‘I love you, son.’ Or: Don’t worry they’ll make Mum well.’ Just: ‘Go to bed’. I crawled upstairs and hid under the covers in case she came back.’

He broke down. Georgie comforted him, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, holding him tight until the terror subsided, 

There’s more sadness, gloom, and despair to come, she thought, more black, black, black, yet to pour from his tear-well of heartaches, his sorry lips. How can I leave him like this? Should I break my vow of silence?

She disentangled herself from him, rolled off the bed, and stood up,

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I have to go.’

Panic!

‘Go?! Go where?’

‘Don’t worry so much. Nature calls! I am coming back!’

He sniffed a sigh of relief, ‘I thought you were leaving me.’

She left the room without looking over her shoulder, her mind in a turmoil, her heart torn.

Certainty:

Georgie hobbled into the bathroom, leaving the door open. There was no need for privacy anymore. She had given her body to him twice in the space of a day but had yet to divulge the secrets in her mind. The cap was in the basin, upturned like the cap on a brown toadstool. It served no purpose. She’d made her decision. There was no going back. She just needed to be sure. Sighing to herself, she rinsed it in soapy water, returning it to its pouch. Her clothes were littered on the floor. She folded them neatly, put them on her bag with her sandals, then went off to explore the house.

Georgie opened the box room door, shocked by the glare from the bare bulb. There was a smell of fresh paint. The window had no curtains. Instinctively, she covered her breasts and crotch to protect her modesty. If she expected to find signs of human habitation, she was disappointed. The box covered a recess over the staircase taking up a third of the room. Its wooden top was daubed in gloss. She dabbed it with her finger: tacky. The magnolia walls, ceiling and window frames were sparkling fresh with paint. There was a folded z-bed in the corner.

Was he expecting a guest, a lodger – or me to stay?

She tiptoed over the bare floorboards to the window. Save for a white minivan the street was empty, the streetlights, switched off. Georgie hazarded a guess that it was close to midnight. There was no real night here in July. In three hours, it would start to get light. By five o’clock the sun would rise. She thought of her mother: sipping her mid-morning coffee on the veranda, watching the rain fall, wrapped up snug and warm, weathering the winter. What would Rachael make of her little darling now? She opened the window, needing some fresh air. The stars were out, filling the night sky with twinkles. There was a crescent moon. Everything was still, calm, and silent. Georgie felt a little insignificant.

A light came on in the house opposite. Someone else was finding it hard to sleep. Scared she might be seen, she backed out of the room, and shut the door. Georgie suspected he was asleep, judging by the snuffles coming from their bed. No need to wake him, not just yet. She entered his room.

His bed was in the far corner. Spread over the quilt was a copy of The Sun, opened to reveal a topless model. Georgie shrugged her shoulders: no surprises there then. What did surprise her was the poster on the wall; a psychedelic band playing amidst a fuzzy haze of flashing lights, fog, dancers, strobes. An orange notebook lay on the floor. She picked it up, flicking the pages. The book was full of scrawl, numerals. She had no idea what they meant. There was a collapsed chest of drawers. Georgie checked each drawer: socks, pants, shorts, t-shirts, a sweet smell of mothballs, nothing out of the ordinary. A clean rug. No dust or cobwebs. She was impressed with how well he coped, living on his own. Seemingly…

The last thing she expected to find was a fully made-up wooden cot, toy bell, baby’s rattle, and, lying on the floor, a pink teddy bear.

Her mind flashed back to Kayleigh pinned to the bed by Matt while she cradled her crying head, assuring her that, this time, she would fall pregnant. Kayleigh and Matt had been trying for a baby for years. Georgie suspected he might be infertile.

She wanted a little baby of her own, a child she could suckle, cherish, nurture, love, treasure for the rest of her life. Seeing the cot, sitting empty, waiting for an infant to arrive, confirmed her aspirations. Georgie thought of the date circled in red felt pen in her pocket diary, the egg lain within her, ripe, ready for his sperm. She had ‘kind of felt him’ inside her but she had to be sure. This might be her last chance.

She crept up to the bed and lay beside him. He was asleep, flat on his back, his lips rippling, away with the faeries. Silent as a prowling leopard, Georgie stalked her prey, running her soft hand over his flaccid organ until he was turgid, erect. He woke craving her, her wanton words,

‘Wake up, sleepy head.’

Georgie lay spreadeagled on the bed, irresistible to him,

‘Lie on top of me,’ she murmured.

He loved her with incredible ferocity, mounting her, pinning her arms and legs to the bed, as if she were his butterfly. Hungry for him, she licked his shoulder, savouring his skin. He felt her press her lips to his neck, opening her mouth, setting her jaws, biting, bruising him, piercing his skin, drawing off his blood, as they ascended her final pinnacle of love.

‘I love you,’ she whispered sweetly, afterwards, ‘You can sleep inside me if you like?’

She rolled on her side. He snuggled up to her, gently shifting her slender leg, sheathing himself in her intimate warmth. The twilight sky lightened. They slept, deeply entwined, deeply in love.

Novelty:

Dawn broke with a glorious chant of birdsong, sunshine burst into the room. She stirred briefly in his arms, then they went back to sleep.

He awoke with a dead arm from sleeping on one side. Wearily, he peeled his body off of hers, careful not to wake her, straightening his legs, flexing his numb hand. The church bells were pealing in the distance at St Margaret’s ready for matins. He checked his wristwatch: it was nine o’clock on a peaceful Sunday morning.

He climbed off the bed and admired her. Georgie looked beautiful asleep, bathed in sunlight. Vulnerable. He couldn’t believe his luck.

His initial sexual longing for her had turned into a dangerous obsession: an infatuation. The air was stale, suffocating, stagnated by the heat of their lovemaking. He stood in front of the mirror, taking a good look at himself. His hair was bedraggled, ruffled by her touch. His eyes, sore and red. He stroked his bristled chin: needing a damn good shave. His chest was matted with sweat, his abdomen, slick with her secretions. He stank to high heaven. He bolted the bathroom door. Her bag was perched on the toilet. He slung it on the floor, flipped the lid, and urinated.

He ran himself a much-needed bath, enraged to find the water was lukewarm. Tasting her sour tang in his mouth, he brushed his teeth, rinsed, and spat her out. His neck was still tender from where she bit him. He suffered a cautious shave then climbed into the bath. Sinking underwater, breathing rafts of bubbles, he imagined all the fascinating things he would do to Georgie – when she woke up.

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