Lover (12 page)

If I'd thought about it, I'd have said he might funk it, but he didn't, just yelled, ‘Tally ho!' and tore straight into the middle of the whole damn lot. We heard him over the R/T, shouting curses at them, and the next thing we knew, he explodes in a ball of flame, chunks flying in all directions—and that's it.

I remember something I overheard once, something he said. We were in the pub. The gents was full, so I nipped outside, and he was there, with a girl. They didn't see me. He was telling her a story about when he was at school, being called into the headmaster's study and thinking he was going to get a thrashing, but the headmaster told him his father had just telephoned to say that his mother was dead. Said he felt relieved because it meant he wasn't going to be beaten. He remembered walking down the corridor towards the room, the door, the desk, everything. Then, afterwards, he wasn't sad, just relieved. Said he still felt guilty about it. Interesting, the details he remembered, the tiles on the floor, and standing in front of the door, the handle…everything…as if it was important to him. Good story. And the way he said it. Not like talking to a chap at all. And she loved it, you could tell.

They went off after that, and I went back inside. I'd forgotten all about it, until now. He said another odd thing, once, in the mess. Lot of chaps were shooting a line, and Prideaux suddenly said he thought it was a privilege to fly a Spitfire. Mathy said he didn't see why it was a privilege to go down in flames, but Prideaux was right, in a way, and everyone knew it. Then Prideaux asked Corky why he'd joined the RAF and Corky said, ‘Wanted to fly, of course. And I like blowing things up.' Then he shrugged. ‘Anyway, they started it.'

Mathy said, ‘Better than crawling around some bloody trench.'

It was the only time I've ever heard it discussed. If Prideaux'd asked me, I'd have said the same as Corky and Mathy, but that's not really all of it. It made me think about my first flight again, in the Avro, the amazing joy of it. It's something you can't translate into words.

Everyone was quiet for a bit, then there was a rush for more drinks, and Davy told a joke. There was a lot of laughter, Prideaux the loudest of all, but nobody was looking at each other. I was watching them, and the faces suddenly seemed… I don't know, I suppose they might have been thinking the same as I was, but I couldn't tell. I thought of the dials on the instrument panel. I can understand those, how they work. What they register. But faces—sometimes—
often
—not at all. Like not having a map. But I watch, and I remember things, and that helps.

Prideaux had a car. MG. Still there, outside the dispersal hut. Wonder what'll happen to that? Good little car. Not much point, though, with petrol rationing.

We thought Holden-Thingummybob had bought it, but it turned out he'd been pranged and baled out straight into the drink. Got picked up by a fishing boat. But he's off Ops for a few days while they thaw him out, so I got the other new boy-Sinclair. Flint said, ‘We'll give you Gervase to play with.'

‘
Gervase
?'

‘Yes. Don't be too rough, or you'll break him.'

‘Can't Balchin have him?'

‘Haven't you heard? Balchin's at Manston. Landed in a tree. Farmer mistook him for a Jerry and chucked a pitchfork at him. Gave him a bit of a puncture. All cleared up in the end, but I'm afraid he won't be back for a day or two.'

‘Well, why can't “B” flight have him?'

‘They don't need him. You do.'

‘Like a hole in the head.'

Gervase
. He did manage to stay with me this afternoon, which was something. When we got back, he said, ‘There's no warning…it's all so fast… I mean, I thought, if someone jumps you, at least there'd be a warning on the R/T, or…'

‘What do you want? A telegram from Goering?'

‘No, but…you could just get…killed. Just…bang.' Tears in his eyes. As if I was a bloody nursemaid.

I said, ‘Yes, you could
just get killed
. It's not a picnic. Now piss off.'

‘But… Look, how do you make yourself stop shaking?'

‘You can't. But you can drink your tea through a straw, if you like.'

Not the right answer, but there isn't a right answer. He'll have to work it out for himself, like the rest of us.

Overheard Webster asking Flint who's going to lead “A” flight now Prideaux's gone. ‘Not Corky, not Mathy…'

‘Goldilocks? He's good, isn't he?'

‘Bloody good. A natural. But he doesn't fit in, somehow. The others don't seem to like him much. Can't quite put my finger on it.'

‘Think he's a bit touched, do you?'

‘Do you know a fighter pilot who isn't a bit touched? Half of them are off their rockers. I don't mean that—Goldilocks is different. I've been watching him at the debriefings, when you feel so high you could get pissed on lemonade and everyone's yelling at once, and he's like the rest of us, but he's apart, somehow. Watches people. You can see his mouth moving, sometimes, as if he's repeating what they say, or… I don't know. Christ, Adj, I'm not a bloody trick-cyclist.'

‘Oh, well. Who's it to be, then? Balchin?'

‘Have to be—when we get him back. I'll do it for now, and Ginger can take over “B” flight.'

I knew they wouldn't give it to me—I'm not bloody public school like them—but hearing them talk about me like that made me angry. Told myself I don't give a tuppenny damn who gets “A” flight, but it kept coming back to me, nagging, all day. We stood down at five, which was a relief. It's usually later, but we don't fly at night any more, thank God—it's a waste of time; there's bugger-all visibility in a Spit and it's well-nigh impossible to bag anything. The others went to the pub. I didn't go with them—better leave it for a bit. That girl looked too dim to kick up a fuss, but I didn't think it worth the risk. Wanted to get off the base, though. Restless. I went for a walk—army truck passing, usual business, ‘Thought you lot flew everywhere?' but they gave me a lift to London and I headed for Soho. Don't know why I did it, just needed to get away for a few hours. Kept seeing that plane explode—flashes of it in the corner of my eye, shooting flames, the bits coming towards me, so real I want to duck, or… I don't know. But it kept coming at me, suddenly, and I couldn't stop it.

I'd helped Webster with Prideaux's things, packing them up—found three pound-notes tucked away in a drawer and managed to get them into my pocket…thought about a girl— don't know why, it's never any good, but I wanted… I don't know what I wanted, but something to stop Prideaux's explosion happening inside my head, over and over again. I thought, if I could do something, that would deaden it. But I couldn't work myself up to it, somehow. Just wandered about. Then a raid started—all the sirens like a chorus, picking up the note from each other, echoing… Christ, it was worse than anything we've had here. Don't know how they stick it, night after night. I couldn't find a shelter, and it went on and on until I was clammy with sweat and heart pounding. And the helplessness of it, of dying like that without being able to fight back or
do
anything, made me angry. Give me a dogfight, any day. I was angry with myself, as well, for being afraid, and desperate to run for cover, not being able to control it, standing in that doorway with my hands in fists, shaking, eyes tight shut…and then, when I opened them, that's when I saw the girl. In that instant, my heart leapt inside my chest, everything focused, and I was calm.

It was only a black shape at first, jerking about like a marionette against a sheet of flame in a grotesque, clumsy dance, the arms flapping up and down, beating at the air. And then I saw the thing round the neck, the ends like streamers, twisting and flapping as the hands clawed at it. As if an invisible man was trying to strangle her. She turned, and I could see that the stuff was across the face, too, a thin material coating that made the head eyeless, noseless—blank—and the mouth an O, sucking it in. It excited me, and I watched it for…I don't know how long, and then I ran towards her and began to beat it away and the material began to break apart, like lace, and the head wobbled and jinked… I don't know why I did that, because my thought was to push her against the wall and have her; the urge was there and I knew that this time I wouldn't fail, that I could do it, and I felt a wonderful surge of power. I stood there, trembling with the sheer excitement of it, knowing I could do it and that if I did she wouldn't laugh, that no one would ever laugh again, that this thing was an object, a machine, like my Spitfire, and I could make it do whatever I wanted. Then the stocking came away from the face and I saw it was pale and dirty and the hair was singed and she had no lipstick and instantly my mind went back to that other one, where it didn't work, so I didn't touch her—and then she spoke to me, and it was too late.

I don't know why I gave her the brooch I got from the other one. It seemed a nice touch. And she liked it. When I took her back to the shelter she wanted me to stay with her, but I didn't.

I could have pushed her against the wall. I could have… with the stocking over the face, before it broke up. That, with some lipstick on it, for the mouth, the shape of it…and she wouldn't have laughed at me or struggled like the one at the pub, she would have been mine… And all the time, when we were walking back to the air-raid shelter, it was in my mind: I can do this, I can, I must do it—the feeling inside me I couldn't contain, flashes of the Avro at the flying circus, the Spit, and Prideaux's explosion in my head, the urgency of it, the impulses pounding at me to do it now, because there's no time left… Prideaux today, but tomorrow it could be me and there's no time… The decision to do it was almost a physical process. Like flicking a switch. Gun sight on, gun safety off.

I walked about a bit and looked at the tarts, and it wasn't long before I found what I wanted. A door opened, and I saw-just for a moment, in the triangle of light—that she had a look about her, cheap and drab, too thin. I could tell she wasn't successful at it. One of nature's victims, I suppose. I knew she was the right one. And I was the right one, too—one of nature's killers. Hunter and hunted, predator and prey. She'd never have lasted long.

I can't remember the conversation—just her saying she didn't usually take men back because her landlady didn't like it, but I insisted, offered her more money, said she'd get a tip if I liked her. When we got there, she wanted a shilling for the gas. Shy—which I hadn't expected, or not to such an extent—but I made her take all her clothes off, and she stood there while I looked, kept trying to cover herself up but I pulled her hands away. I enjoyed that, because she couldn't stop me. I looked at her, and she seemed so worthless, and at that moment, I knew I could do what I wanted and this time, I'd succeed. I picked up something from the chair—clothes, thin stuff, and said I was going to tie her hands so I could look at her properly. She started to struggle then, so I hit her. It must have been harder than I intended, because her teeth came out, the top ones, and landed on the floor. She put her hands up to her face, mumbling, and I could see tears in her eyes. I pushed her onto the bed and she tried to get off to pick up the teeth, but I told her it didn't matter and pulled her back onto the bed and tied her hands, and she was quiet after that.

She'd put her stockings on the back of a chair, near enough to grab, so I got one and put it over the mouth, tied it—said the landlady would come if she made a noise, said I'd be quiet, then put my hands round the neck. The body was thrashing underneath me, then limp, but I still couldn't do it, I needed something more, something…walked about a bit, didn't know what I was looking for, but then saw the poker leaning up beside the mantelpiece, and picked it up. It felt good holding it. I undid my fly and touched myself—that was better—then touched her with it, the point tracing down, dragging between the breasts, pulling at the skin…see the trace of it, line of soot… I could hear a gurgling noise but it seemed to come from far away; it didn't disturb me. Then I drew the poker down the stomach, cold white skin…and between the legs, dark there, she wasn't a natural blonde—not natural, and that wasn't right—
cheating
—and that made me angry, like a surge, and for a second, she seemed to respond, and I stuck it in, and there was blood—good—and again and again— harder—more—shoved it—twisted it—turned away, because she was too ugly, saw the little mirror on the table and picked it up, stood with my back to her and held it up with one hand so I could see the reflection, just the bits I wanted, just enough—and that was perfect: nipple, throat, the stocking—the stocking stretched across the face—blank and the mouth an O—an O—sucking in—harder—harder—I did it—did—it—did diddiddid

It.

Maybe I'll be able to sleep now, after that. I kept the little mirror. Compact. Like that girl in the car with the lipstick; she had one. I'll have it in my pocket tomorrow. Ought to have something: Davy's got that old scarf, Prideaux had some trinket from his girl—fat lot of good that did him—Balchin's got something, too…even Corky. And Mathy's got his lighter. Better put it back in his pocket now, while I remember. I'm almost too tired to get up and walk across the room.

There. Sleep now. Gervase, though. What a name…

T
he house was silent, the air heavy and rancid with stale cooking. Elsie the landlady opened the door of the parlour and peered into the hallway. The permanent blackout over the front door skylight made it hard to see, even in daytime. She could just make out the row of stuffed creatures cowering in their glass cases, coats matted and eyes opaque with dust. She padded past them to the bottom of the stairs and stood staring upwards, one plump hand curled round the greasy banister.