She was shocked to discover that, other than for the sex she had had, Andy featured nowhere. And what was that sex? Was it real, or was it a rebellion, a situation anew? Could it be the same if it was repeated?
She doubted that. And before her, she saw a life with Andy, slowly dissolving into the same old boredom. And what a lovely garden he had behind his flat.
But Philip. She remembered his hidden depths, the gentleness of his love making; the true feeling of love that shone through the thrusts. And during other times, the affection he always showed her, never angry with her, and always dependable. Okay, he spent too much time in his garden, but couldn't she forgive him for that?
A tear fell into her coffee, and she drank in secret no more.
Philip had just finished mowing the lawn and Jenny couldn't help but notice how beautiful it all looked as she arrived home.
She walked up to her husband, kissed him gently on his neck and noticed a weed growing by the roses. Smiling, she picked up the hoe and Philip and Jenny were as one.
Philip stopped his work momentarily and looked at her working. He noticed she seemed different from late, as if something in her life had been resolved.
He smiled before he took her upstairs, and as they entered the bedroom, he resolved to terminate the contract he had so recently made.
THE SURVIVOR
To be here, in paradise, would have been so perfect. I look around me and see life in abundance, the sun shining bright, water aplenty. But as soon as the plane crashed I knew paradise would have a bitter taste.
We had survived unscathed, Jane and I, which was a miracle in itself. But we were city people, and civilization was hundreds of miles away. What did we know of hunting, or even what fruits were safe to eat?
I tried it once, but picked wrong.
Jane nursed me through the fever, the vomiting. And afterwards, the hunger …
It clung to us did the hunger, and I suppose we were resolved to the fact that we were going to die.
A strange realization, that – the inevitability of death. In a way it provided an inner peace, and though it sounds strange, it brought us much closer together as a couple. Indeed, as we made love, it seemed that we were Adam and Eve in a Biblical Paradise on Earth.
But of course, I survived, whereas Jane did not. Maybe it was due to the carnal knowledge learnt in that same Eden, how love is so all consuming.
Well, I have to live with the knowledge of sin, now, as Adam and Eve lived. And I know I had a kind of perverted spiritual bond with her, birthed in the knowledge of our ecstasy, and the taking of that first love bite.
THE SEARCHER
It was a long road that seemed to have no end. I’d searched for her for so many years. When I first saw her my thoughts were torrid indeed. She was sensual, she was eroticism personified – she was perfection.
How do you live with such passion within? How does normal life compete with such a vision, with such thoughts?
Of course, I dated other girls.
I even tried to fall in love. But none could come close to the idealized image that was now within me.
I hid the image away. I tried to cast it from my mind, but everywhere I just saw imperfection – imperfection in life, and even in my thoughts. It was as if I only lived half a life, and to deviate from my torrid quest was a sin.
In the end I realized that my only mission in life was to adore her. So once more I displayed the poster and knelt by her image. And at last I understood that true passion was in worship.
THE RACE
I couldn’t help but think it was what I was created for.
The excitement as I waited within the vibrant mass was palpable. How many were to take part in the race, I had no idea. They seemed to stretch forever and all with a single aim in mind.
Of course, there was also fear. We had a good idea of what it all meant. Once upon a time, it was an uninterrupted, noble race, with a level playing field. But now, rumours circulated of horrendous abuses as the race progressed.
Well, as we all thrust forward with a spurt, such thoughts disappeared, at least momentarily.
As we dived in, I swam to the best of my ability.
How far from the front I was, I had no idea – there were simply so many of us. Still, with a mighty effort I pushed forward, always hoping that the front runners would soon come into view.
I suppose it was about half way through the race when the trouble started. The weaker racers were already lying limp, finished. But when those who were still going strong began to simply vanish, or even explode, that fear was with me again.
I swam on, hoping I would survive this and other barriers placed in our way - which, of course, I did.
The geneticists, it seems, did not get me. I was obviously pure enough. Yet not quite powerful enough. I was the last to fall limp. But at the moment of my death, I saw the marvellous explosion of life as the winner raced into the egg.
HAPPY MEAL
The music played, the waiters hushed around the room, and they stared into each other’s eyes as they ate.
He said: ‘So it has happened. At long last, our life has changed.’
She had to agree. Life had seemed nothing more than a token existence of late. But now …
He raised his glass, smiled. ‘To us.’
So long they’d waited. It seemed, at times, as if it would never come; as if they’d have to spend the rest of their lives waiting for the event that would change them so much.
They never spoke of their thoughts, but both remembered the wedding, the feeling that it will all be great from now on.
He said, finally: ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course you can,’ she said.
‘Are you happy?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I mean, are you really happy?’
She giggled, the drink beginning to get to her. She remembered this was how it used to be when they dated; when they were the best of friends as well as lovers, and it felt good.
‘And now,’ he said, as he looked at the divorce papers on the table, ‘we can be best of friends again.’
Some people, they had realized, should never marry.
FLIGHT
He ran.
The streets seemed a blur around him. The dark had descended some time ago, and he had no idea where he was going. Not in this physical reality of running, or in the recesses of his mind.
He never dreamt the panic that can come through such a flight. Maybe it rhymes with fright for a reason?
The chain of events had been set in motion by himself.
And in his mind’s eyes he saw the person, as if in shadows, undefined. Why had he done it? And why, now, was he so afraid?
Certainly, if he went back, felt compelled to finish the task, his life could never be the same again. If caught, as was inevitable if he went back, it was a new life awaiting him – a life confined.
Slowly, the streets seemed to slow down. This seemed strange, for it was as if it was not him slowing down, but reality taking a grip on his mind, and pulling him up. And as so often happens when we flee, he found himself stopping where he began, outside the restaurant.
Life is like that – sending us in circles of indecision. He saw her sat at the table, as invited. Swallowing hard, he entered, walked up to her, went down on one knee, and said: ‘Will you marry me?’
DISTANT THOUGHTS
She sat, cross-legged, on the patchwork rug, her face blank.
Thoughts raced within her, as if a torrent of emotion, yet never reaching expression.
‘Maybe I’ll never connect with the world again’, she thought.
But why?
He stood before her, as handsome as ever, as appealing as ever, but somehow distant.
It was as if he was no longer there for her; and she didn’t blame him.
‘I must consider what to do.’
He seemed to smile then – as she thought.
She looked at him, stared at him, wante
d to devour him, but …
‘I know you want an apology,’ she said, ‘I know you deserve one, but …’
It was so hard.
It was so hard to even focus on what she had done.
To remember what she had done.
To remember …
… him.
He seemed even more distant now, as if there was little time – as if he might evaporate.
She thought of the raging things going on in her mind.
She knew it had to be as much for her as for him.
We MUST think like that to take the despair of things not said,
Not done,
When it’s too late.
‘I apologise,’ she said as he disappeared, finally, from her view.
She was alone once more, with her rug, his ashes - and their memories.
A BURNING PASSION
They watched the fire rage for hours. It had devastated the garden, and they had no idea what to do. After all, they’d never started a fire before. How could they have known?
It was only meant to be a small fire, lighting up the night sky and offering a gentle glow of warmth as they snuggled into each other. They’d known each other a long time, but this sense of love had seemed to creep upon them suddenly.
They had cemented their love earlier, under the tree. Neither of them had known such passion before. Still relatively young and naïve, they had had no idea what ecstasy could be aroused by the exploration of each other’s bodies. And as their relationship became whole, they felt, for the first time, as one.
Afterwards, they had wandered, clothed, for what seemed like hours. But as night fell, they settled down and lit the camp fire – the fire that soon became larger and larger, and then a nearby bush burst into flame – and another, and another …
As they watched the inferno a sense of guilt came to them, and they wondered what they had done. Yet they found comfort in each other as they watched, entwined in each other’s arms. They knew that, from now on, their life was down to them and them alone.
It was the beginning of a hard life for the couple. They would experience much misery because of their decision. Even one of their two sons would kill the other.
They eventually realized that the fire simply had to be, clearing away the garden and leaving a wasteland. Yet, as if a reminder, the apple core had survived.
SECOND CHANCE
Her hair glistened in the salty sea air. A light wind blew, disturbing the waters below into a gentle ripple of anxiety. She smiled lethargically, but there was real meaning behind the smile. Here she was, on the edge of a cliff above disturbed water. It could have been a metaphor for her own mind.
‘So you came.’
She turned around suddenly. She was shocked by his presence, even though she had been expecting him – even though he had asked her to meet him here.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she asked.
They had met here, in the height of a summer so long ago. It was a different scene then, a different mood, the waters undisturbed, the sun bearing down on them. It had been a metaphor then, too – a peacefulness, a paradise. And it had connected two minds as one, and before the sun set, two bodies in a paradise of their own making.
‘How did it come to this?’ he said.
A tear came to her eye. She tried to sniff it back, but it rolled down her cheek regardless – a bit like life she thought, rolling down and unavoidable.
‘I don’t know.’
Infact, it was pointless to speculate. A mad moment? An instant of doubt in their relationship? But regardless, one of them had strayed. The other had found out. Which was which is irrelevant. It was two minds together, and then apart.
‘Do you still love me?’ he asked.
Her reply was immediate. ‘You know I do.’
A tear rolled down his cheek then. ‘Can we try again – have a second chance?’
A moment of doubt. Could they? In this world that was now stained by deceit, by betrayal, by …
Who took that first step, it is impossible to tell. Two souls so intertwined, but so desolate. Yet as they fell through the air to the watery depths, they embraced.
It would be a second chance in another world, if a second chance is there to be had.
THE GREATEST SCAR
Sam rolled up his shirt. ‘Here it is,’ he said.
The others looked – saw the definite round scar on his stomach.
‘A bullet wound?’ asked Bob.
He received an affirmative reply.
Harry intervened. ‘And it was because of …’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘because of …’
Bob pulled off his t-shirt; turned his back, disclosing his own scar.
Harry winced: ‘A knife!’
Yes,’ said Bob. ‘He gave me it in the back, the coward. Just because he …’
‘Because of …’ said Sam and Harry in unison.
It was becoming a typical story – tragic but typical. And it had become, perhaps, the greatest scar in the history of the human race. But to the three men gathered, here, together, it was still their own personal hell.
Bob and Sam turned to Harry then.
He offered a sardonic smile. Then he bowed his head. The others could see the scar where he had been bludgeoned.
‘The fight was going well,’ said Harry, ‘and I nearly won – until he cheated, and hit me with the lump of wood.’
‘Because of …’ said Sam.
‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘because of …’
It was Sam who said the words that were on their lips:
‘There is nothing more ugly than a beautiful woman’s face.’
MY VALENTINE PURE
A heart can burst when pulled so many ways. How do we rationalize a feeling of such joy, of love, of euphoria; yet overlaid with an unbearable sadness? How can the two extremes do anything but rip the heart apart?
It was St Valentine’s Day and I knew I had to go. Of course, part of me wanted to, whilst the other did not. But regardless, I had bought the flowers, so that was that. The decision made.
I decided to walk.
Maybe that way I could mend my thoughts, glue them back together, and hopefully ease the pressure within. But as I placed one step in front of the other, I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
We had been so much in love, and as I thought about it, memories flooded back of the beautiful kind. First meeting, first kiss, first date – the night we exploded in orgasmic togetherness and love.
Love never to be prized apart. But …
I remember the anger I felt. I remember telling her I’d never forgive what she’d done. And afterwards I remembered the loneliness, spending most of my time thinking about her.
And now … I’m here. Am I doing right giving her the flowers? Maybe it will ease my memories, at least. And maybe, as I place them in the pot in front of her gravestone, we can be, for a moment, once more as one.
FAIRVIEW TALES
A DYING LOVE
Sgt Bob Barnes had been a village copper for only two years, but at forty, he had lost more hair over those two years than he had with the previous ten in the Met. Indeed, there wasn't a single hair left on his head.
Doc Bannister had put it down to ageing, but Bob knew only too well it was the stresses of country coppering. Crackheads, gunmen and good old London gangsters he could handle, but the problems of the countryside were far more unpredictable.
He stood outside the cottage, weighing up the problem. A neighbour had phoned him. 'It's old Mr and Mrs Noble,' she had said. 'Something's the matter. Their curtains haven't been opened for two days.’
Knocking on the door, he received no reply. Trying the door, he found it unlocked, and walked in.
A musty smell greeted him - not unusual for cottages of this age - but he also felt a depressing feeling as he checked downstairs. He never felt such things in the Met, and he guessed it was the countryside that put you more in touch with your instincts.
Ginge
rly going upstairs, he noticed a bedroom door was shut. Gently opening it, sadness immediately bore deep inside. Mrs Noble laid there in bed, her face testament to the tears - and next to her laid her husband. Dead.
Dr Paul Bannister arrived at the cottage some fifteen minutes later. He had received the call as he prepared to leave surgery for his rounds.
'Doc,' Bob Barnes had said, 'old Mr Noble has died. But his wife won't let us take him away.'
Dr Bannister was good looking, forty, and had a head of auburn hair and a beard. He loved the countryside, and relished the unusual problems his patients threw at him. He had practiced in the city, but found people seemed to react to type, as if the stereotypes around them guided them through life. Only in the country, he felt, did you have true individuality, where people provided you with the unexpected.
'Mrs Noble,' he said as he sat by the bed. 'Derek is dead, you know that don't you?'
Mrs Noble looked him in the eye. 'No, Dr Bannister, he's only sleeping, and you're not going to take him away.'
Walking out of the room, Dr Bannister turned to Bob Barnes and said: 'I'm not sure how we're going to do this.'
Bob sighed: 'Well something has to be done, doc. The old man's becoming a bit of a health hazard.'
Dr Bannister was saddened when he eventually had to sedate her in order for the body to be taken away.
Reverend Anita Stowes was used to death, and even more used to grief. It was a pre-requisite of her job. An attractive woman of thirty who had long dark hair which she wore in a bun, she tried hard to hide her looks, but couldn't help but notice the increase in her male parishioners since coming to the village a year ago.
It had been a hard decision for her to make to become a priest. And it was only done with the absolute non-cooperation of her family. 'You can't waste your life away doing that,' was the average comment they gave. Yet to Anita Stowes, it was they who were wasting their life away, being enslaved to a material way of living.
It had been five days since Mr Derek Noble had died. It had been no mystery, his death. Old age, Paul Bannister had said, and Anita respected him as one of the best doctors she had ever met. 'And how deep do you think her denial is?' she had asked.