Bitterhall by Helen McClory (story books to read .txt) 📕

‘I feel like you have an interest that goes beyond the polite,’ she said. ‘Forget it. No. Don’t forget it. I brought it up then, stupid, just something I felt. A passing – thing. Just why are you asking now?’

I looked over at the bottle, clumsily grabbed it from her hand, my fingers sliding over hers. Warning alarms in my head. I wanted to talk about Tom. I wanted to talk about James Lennoxlove. I knocked back a quarter glass. Only half of the bottle remaining. Was it full, before? She probably despised the intrusion. Loved and despised it. People like to be seen, but I was dancing on a line between reaching out and overreaching.

‘I’m so rude,’ I said, ‘so invasive with you, I’m very sorry,’

I wanted to call out to Órla. I wanted to ask if she didn’t love Tom, could I have him? And also did she have an idea if Tom might like me, even a little faint hint of liking, be honest, desire, like a trail of smoke rising like a miracle into some still sky, something to guide me hopeful onwards. It was too dark now, it was too glimmering. Where was Tom? I longed to see him, his muscular figure, dashing in a suit, sharp collared, come leaning up on the bannister, and say to me, ‘Let’s go’. Anywhere, the garden, the hedges, press up against me, smoky, and heavily, while I, my head spinning, pushed back.

‘I like your outfit by the way,’ I said.

‘Ah, I don’t love him,’ said Órla, with a small flourish of her glass-holding hand, ‘I don’t think I do, anyway. He’s been very good to me though, except lately I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s speaking strangely. He’s a tiny bit – distracted. By his own business I imagine.’

‘You sound like a Victorian woman of few means.’

‘Oh my God, what did I say? Why’d I say? You know I mean something better than that.’

Silence.

‘I mean there’s something wrong with him, a little.’

‘I always feel like I’ve known you forever,’ I said, ‘I am sorry, if I push you.’

‘Do you think I should love Tom?’ Órla said, suddenly shifting along the stair to lean on me, ‘Ah shite, I’ve had too much to drink now for sure.’

I felt her weight pleasantly on me. But again, a sting of worry. I knocked it off with another drink, burning my lips. My vision had begun to swing about.

‘I am the worst person to ask,’ I said.

Órla pulled herself back up to sitting; she looked over at me. In the dark her eyes gleamed. Her lipstick was a little blurred. She opened her mouth, and closed it again, and laughed.

‘Oh I know that,’ she said. ‘Ah well!’

And with that, she stood and went downstairs. I stared after her, then drank the rest of the bottle, only a glug, from the tilted end. She’ll be off to find Tom I suppose, I thought. To find him and take him to the garden, to the hedge, to press herself against his smoky mouth, to let him push his hands over her body, shivering cold though it might be, with the luxuriousness of the other who wants you, drunk and uprooted and starry. And I imagined looking on, and her eyes on me. Tom oblivious, and then she would say, Daniel wants you. Daniel, come and take him, if you want.

‘I would take him by the hand,’ I said quietly to myself.

In the Kitchen

‘I could, you know.’ said Mark,

‘Mark, Jesus. Don’t, Mark,’ I said, grabbing him by the arm. We sat on the floor of the kitchen. I remember I couldn’t remember why we were sitting on the floor.

‘She’s a good looking woman. You know I’m willing to do this. For you, brother.’

‘I need more to drink!’ I said, and got up too quickly to my feet, the room rebounding, spinning, aggressive. ‘Is your mum in bed?’

‘What, I think so?’ said Mark, passing his uncertain gaze across the room, ‘she’s not in here.’

‘Are Órla and Tom still here?’

‘Yes, Daniel, remember? I told them to use the guest room,’

‘One of the guest rooms,’

‘One of them, yep.’

‘I feel like I knew that already,’ I cast about with my hands, ‘Oh . . . I want to sleep with him,’ I said balefully. ‘She knows I do, and it’s like a joke to her. I feel like a teenager or something. Fuck.’ I knocked over the glass I was trying to fill with whatever liquid was in the tall shaker jar jostling in my hands. It was white and smelled like feet.

‘Is this the punch? Man it does not keep well. I don’t want to be selfish, though, I don’t want to hurt Órla. I love her.’

Tender.

I sank back down to the floor. Floor was safe. Cool.

‘You know I like you best of all when you’re drunk, Daniel,’ said Mark, ‘You love everyone. Drunk, not drunk. You’re a blinkered blethering prick but you love everyone with all your fucking heart. Don’t drink that shit, come on. It’s time for – hot chocolate.’

‘Alcohol in the hot chocolate?’ I said.

‘Alcohol. In the hot chocolate,’ Mark said, hammering about in the cupboards. ‘Found it. And look! The guest star – marshmallows!’

‘Looks stale. Is it stale marshmallows now? In the MacAshfall residence?’

‘Does the job though,’ said Mark, stirring the mixture, ‘like me. You know I’m the man for it. Did you see the way she looked at me? Yeah. Fucking . . . get in there. Whisk her away. Leave Tom. To your tender ministrations.’

‘I already told you,’ I said, ‘it’s not good to try and steal anyone away from anybody.’

‘Hmm, learned your lesson then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No more stealing?’

‘Come on man, what stealing? Stealing what?’

Mark pressed buttons on the microwave, sounding them out as he did so. After a moment he spun on his heels ‘You! Stole! My! Diary! Well, not my diary. My ancestor’s diary. My. Ancestor!’

I scoffed. Forgive me, Mark.

‘I thought you weren’t going to steal ever again