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

‘I think we were, obliquely,’ I said.

Órla shrugged. ‘Tom – do you think he’ll settle in well?’

‘You sound like his mum,’ I said. But Órla laughed.

‘We’re not, like— I think this could be good for him,’ she said.

‘Are you getting warm? Can I take your coat?’

‘Aye, you could put it in Tom’s room,’

‘I suppose you – might – be here a bit . . .’

‘I promise not to become one of those live-in girlfriends, not paying any rent, eating all your cheese on the sly.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said. I picked up the bundle of her coat and walked into Tom’s room. The first time I had been in it as Tom’s room. I stood for a second. Boxes. A strange smell, Tom’s cologne, I supposed, obliterating what it had smelled like before, of vapourised weed; I sniffed, trying to be subtle. It smelled now like white light, you must know what I mean; like light on snow, like green branches, broken. The cat absent but there in its white-haired blanket on the chair. The sound of Órla’s chair scraping on the floor. I put down the coat and I thumped my heart with the flat of my hand, just once.

‘He likes that poster a lot,’ she said. Silent feet. She was standing beside me, we were both facing the same direction.

‘‘‘Reach to your dream by the beautiful ocean.” Very motivational.’

‘It’s Japanese. And ironic,’ said Órla, ‘at least, so he says.’

There was laughter from the other room, at which the two of us laughed.

‘Do you love him?’ I asked. I had meant to ask, how long have you been going out, but it amounted to the same thing. Órla breathed in a little bit, then went to the hair-strewn blanket and stroked it.

‘I was there when he rescued the cat,’ she said, ‘he was drunk but he wanted to help her. She was in an abandoned building. He broke a window, lifted her out. And when he came out his knuckles were all messed up, looked like he had been fighting. That’s what he told people. Fighting a building to rescue a cat.’

A pause.

‘God it’s weird, isn’t it? To talk so quick like this. He’s – anyway, more than he seems.’

I made approving sounds; I didn’t know quite what to think about where she had come from, what world we had grown up together on, quite apart from this one we now found ourselves in.

Órla and I left Tom’s room and went to sit on the stairs.

‘Will we wake the old guy?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know if he sleeps anyway.’

‘What, he’s in there, reading from the stack, keeping up on how to be immortal?’

‘Badr told you about the books, hey? Immortal old man with a bookish tendency. Yes. He’ll outlive all of us. It’s his house. We’re just perching in it.’

‘You’d be what bird, exactly?’

I sipped my drink, ‘Parrot.’

‘I had you for a crow myself. And so— Hey, do you think people who have houses get to live longer? Live more real lives than renters?’ said Órla.

‘Ouch,’ I said. I smiled in the way we always do, those of us who will never have money or a place in the world – two unconnected things. ‘Ehhh,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ she said, conceding.

Pale Like Grass Dead Almost

Somehow the hours had passed and I and Órla had spoken it all away learning tilted grand things about each other – and then we were making a snack. Tom got sleepy, he came into the kitchen – Badr upstairs to sleep, the guests away home – billows of colder air, we had moved on to get sustenance, now so had this new third. He looked into the fridge with drunken sincerity.

‘Toastie?’ I offered the plate.

‘Mmm,’ said Tom, putting it up to his mouth, closing his eyes, bit down. Órla, perched on the countertop, already to the crusts and talking away with her mouth full about an old cookbook of her grandmother’s, lies in it, stolen recipes, then on to a child who had been born, his father a priest, and given away to a cousin of the family.

‘I’m off to bed,’ said Tom.

‘Oh, is that how it is,’ said Órla, lifting one tight-covered leg to point in his direction. Now, this late, her top sliding off her shoulder. I all still in a marvel at her. This twin I’d never had. This lucky one.

Tom moved in smoothly and picked her up in his arms. Órla wiped her fingers on his sleeve.

‘And you’re coming with me,’ he said in a low voice. I found myself opening the window, just cracking it for the air. The air was good outside, I envied those who had left. I was going to go outside, after they’d gone. To bed. When I turned round however Tom had dropped Órla back on the counter and was kissing her, his thumbs running up her thighs, her arms around his shoulders. I turned, hesitated, picked up a beer, a second one. Then I looked back. Órla had her eyes open, kissing Tom, and she looked at me, directly.

Lights

I left by the kitchen door, closed it firmly behind me, and sat on the swing, feeling vaguely… Disgusted? No. Turned on? Ah, I wasn’t sure. Yes a little, and much else besides going on. Women were not so much a source of this kind of thing. Displacement, then. But in any case it’s a fool’s errand to try to lay it all out clearly in taxonomy. Emotions have granularity: they respond and evolve to each contrasting situation you find yourself in, so rich is life, so much verve and pounding – texture, and poignancy. Look at yourself, Daniel, I thought. The way she knows and looks at me so quickly, this is some kind of message passing between us. She loves him and she doesn’t know it herself, so my job, eventually, will be the noble route to help her hash that out, and