Mirrorland by Carole Johnstone (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

He stands up. ‘Are you sure? You—’

‘Do you miss Mirrorland?’

He looks neither surprised nor pissed off at the question. Smiles all the way to his eyes. ‘I had the best times of my life there. I was sorry when it was gone.’

‘Have you been down there? After you bought the house?’

He nods. ‘It was pretty sad. The MacDonalds must have found the door in the pantry cupboard. They’d mostly cleared the alleyway up to the front garden, and pretty much left the washhouse to rot.’ He pauses. ‘I papered over the door; going down there upset El too much.’

I change tack, as much to banish the returned furrow between his brows as to avoid telling him that I pulled that paper down. ‘God, do you remember the Satisfaction’s raids on the Spanish Main?’

‘Much pillaging.’ His smile is so bittersweetly familiar. ‘That was my fault. I was a bit of a klepto.’

‘Your Treasure Trophies.’

‘Jesus, my Treasure Trophies. What a knob. You know, Mum found a whole load of the shit from our treasure chest in my wardrobe a few years after you’d gone. Including a complete set of Victorian sterling silver cutlery. Didn’t ask me a thing about them. Just charity-shopped the lot.’

I go towards him, and he stops smiling. His eyes widen as I get closer, and I take a breath, will myself to be brave, to keep going.

‘I miss us,’ I whisper.

‘Cat. What—’

I reach through the space between us, put my palms flat against his chest. ‘I miss us in Mirrorland the most.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t want to talk any more,’ I say. When I stroke my fingers along his neck and jawline, they don’t hesitate, don’t shake.

He freezes, takes hold of them, backs away. ‘No. We can’t do this.’

There’s a darkness around us, and I can feel it close in. The fire crackles. I can hear the grandfather clock tick, tick, ticking in the shadow of the hallway. And all around us the house groans and breathes and laughs.

I push myself hard against him, and even though I don’t say it, I know it’s in my eyes. She isn’t dead. She just left you. Like she left me. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, his lips, run my tongue against the salt skin of his throat. I want him to give in. I want him to beg. I’ve always wanted him to beg.

But instead, he pushes me away again. Closes his eyes. Steps back.

I think of that look of horror, how quickly he scrambled to get away from me in this very room three nights ago. I hear the heavy turn and clunk of a deadlock. The thunderous stamp of boots. Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here. And then I do start to shake. I put my hands on his face, his chest, smooth my palms over his shoulder blades, run my fingers through his hair.

‘Cat, you have to stop,’ he says. But whether he knows it or not, he’s already touching me; his fingers are gripping hold of my arms, keeping me where I already want to be. Already am. ‘Please.’

I move my fingers down, down. Feel his hot fast breath, the glancing edge of his teeth against my neck as I press the heel of my palm against his crotch. His voice muffled against my skin. ‘God. Please. Please, Cat.’

And as soon as I kiss him again, he gives in. The kiss is too wet, too hot, too clumsy, but it’s what I need. Everything feels so raw, it almost hurts. We grab handfuls of each other, and it’s just the same as it ever was. The same wonderful. The same rush. The same madness. He makes a sound, loud and almost distressed, and I think, Yes. Yes.

I suppose what we’re doing is punishing El again, the only way we know how. But God, it doesn’t feel that way. We stagger backwards. He kisses me like he doesn’t need to breathe, and I kiss him back, and all of it – the noises we’re making, the frenzied near panic of what we’re doing: scratching, pinching, squeezing, biting – all of it feels good and clean and right in a way that nothing – and no one – else ever has. I lost my virginity to him in much the same way: pressed up against a chest of drawers in his bedroom; too fast, too desperate, the pain needy and raw, a spur to do more, feel more, take more. It was never ever enough.

He lifts me up onto the mahogany lowboy; its French polish is cold against my skin. We fumble with each other’s clothes, making frustratingly little headway. He pulls me closer, presses himself harder against me, bites the space between my left shoulder and neck hard enough to make me cry out, to grab him back even harder. Every bit of me wants him, there is not an ounce of doubt or guilt in me. I think of El’s Sometimes I wish she would just disappear. And how right now, right here, I’m not just glad that she has, I’m certain that all along she was the one that was supposed to.

When we finally manage to get rid of enough clothes that he can push against me, inside me, skin to skin, we both cry out, we both hold on, we both whisper ‘Fuck’ into each other’s mouth. And I stop thinking about El at all.

*

There was never a time when Mirrorland didn’t feel real; when we couldn’t feel the wind and rain and wonder of it, or smell the sea and smoke and sweat and blood of it. But sometimes, Mirrorland felt very real, and those were the times when we were clever or cruel or afraid.

One long hot Saturday afternoon, when the Satisfaction was between ports, El and I devised a game to pass the time. Ross would be put overboard into the open sea, and handfuls of sharp tacks would be thrown in