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

not a comfortable or exact feeling. That is not to say it wasn’t also in some ways a pleasurable discomfort. But it took a while for me to know what to do next. Of its own volition a tear came down my face and ran into my mouth. I heard myself laugh and snivel.

They kissed; I watched. I watched myself; no one watched me. Then, coming up for air, Tom noticed me. Our eyes met over the great gap. This is not Tom. He beckoned with fingers over Daniel’s shoulders. Handsome in his body. Shirtless. Kissing still, bending to kiss. I cringed, I shivered – feelings of a terrible depth and complexity overcame me and I smiled and I cried and reached out a hand. I wasn’t wanted, how could I be wanted, to come between them now? Whoever it was with Daniel together there, ferocious with desire while I, while I. I went over to the bed anyway, stumbling a little, unsober and desiring more inclusion than anything. They drew me down. I kissed Tom or not-Tom. Daniel put his arms around us both. I kissed Daniel, and he, startled, kissed me sloppy back like someone on a dare. Then it wasn’t the awfulness of the moment before but immediately transfigured into glorious bodiliness, dragging my burning self down into one delicious evolving second after another. Hands moved soft and rough over me and I moved over others, lost my white shirt and there was laughter and throbbing heat hearts, the blanket fell off the bed and then we seemed to reach the end of the moment, and all of us stopped, and looked around, as if puzzled. Tom shook himself like a dog shaking off water and laughed again, a little gaspy laugh at what he’d done – then turned to Daniel, still smiling and decked him. Daniel flopped down. Tom was up and gone out the door.

Silence. I looked at Daniel. He picked himself up, then the bottle of booze, took a swallow and shoved it, sticky into my hand.

‘What the fuck was that?’ I said.

‘Fucking hell,’ Daniel said quietly. We sat together in the bed and held one another.

There was a clatter from the ceiling and the walls shook.

‘He’s going upstairs,’ said Daniel. ‘Oh well.’ He sighed, and clutched at the bottle, laying it on his stomach like a baby, looking at me with tender kindness. ‘That was something, wasn’t it?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

After There is a Touching Absence

Tom was missing for three days but in all that time Daniel and I decided – repeatedly decided – we couldn’t go to the police because Tom kept texting me. Just using emojis of stars and stacks of books. Sometimes an exclamation mark. The drama consumed us both. I could put aside the PhD stuff for a while but I couldn’t put off work.

At the end of my shift, I let myself look at my messages.

Tom had texted:

Aubergine

Upside down face

Waves

Hearteyes

Book stack

Book stack

Book stack

The latter three each about thirty minutes apart.

What a fog those days. I didn’t quite miss him; I missed him like missing sugar when it seems like all the sugarcane in all the world has been pulled up and set on fire. Dipped mood, a sense that things were better this way, a sly, rotten hunger in the body.

Call

On the third day I wanted to do something that would make me happy, so I got out my Ouija board. I called Daniel up.

‘Are you home yet from the basement of replication?’

‘Yes – any news of Tom?’

‘More emojis.’

‘I’m beginning to think someone stole his phone,’ said Daniel.

‘I’m not. Anyway, we can talk about this in a bit? I’m coming round.’

At the door he greeted me with a stiff wave and an invitation to come in. ‘I’m not a vampire,’ I thought. ‘Come on. My boyfriend lives here.’ I sighed and grabbed his hand. He flinched. I held tight and led him into Tom’s room. The curtains were still drawn. Mrs Boobs was on her bed, lying like a person would if they were sunbathing. She shifted and came and sat down on the floor with us, a little white loaf of bread. I took the board out of its box and arranged the planchette in the centre.

‘Mrs Boobs must take part too,’ Daniel said. I put out one hand and scratched her behind the chin. She made no noise, and did not seem to watch what we were doing with that deliberate inattention that cats have when they are most certainly watching.

‘Put your fingers on this,’ I said, nodding to the planchette. I put mine next to his. He took in a breath.

‘You know, I read an article about the Ouija board. Did you know it named itself, using this thing? And that it was a device that was back in the table-knocking days originally seen as a wholesome way for men and women to make contact. A flirtation device. And now, I don’t think it’s come up, but you have probably realised I’m gay,’ he said. ‘Just checking.’

‘Are you telling the Ouija board? They might have a better idea than you do,’

He leaned over the board, ‘Spirits . . . am I gay?’ he said, then looked around, as if trying to spot a response in the room.

‘If there are any spirits here who care if Daniel is or is not gay, please, make a signal through the planchette,’ I said, then lifted my head. He was looking at me, right in the eyes, and I was startled by them, by something in them I still can’t identify, a place we met.

‘I wasn’t certain what you were, at the housewarming.’

‘It doesn’t matter though, does it?’

I thought for a moment, ‘No.’

‘Are we going to try then?’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I said, hesitating, ‘for doing this.’

‘Ah spirits, where is our boy?’ he said, still looking at me.

‘Do you know, Daniel?’

He looked away and down, ‘No.’ A wave of paranoia flooded over me.

‘Tell