red resting in the deepest pit. A bubble caught in the thick greenish glass, near the lip. Her hand lying near the rippled base. Pale skin, tiny lines crossing and recrossing like a map. Tendons and blue vessels pushing against the surface. Creased swellings round each joint. Two silver rings, the smaller holding the larger one in place. Scarred, abraded, old-looking.
The flash of silver from his hand when he skimmed a stone across the flat of the reservoir. The stone flickering into the distance. Always uncountable, unbeatable
.
The thumb was bent, pressed down against the index finger, a tiny mole in the crook. Blood had crept underneath the nail, dried into a brownish-red half-moon. The blade lay beside her hand, one corner moist, red.
Soft black fabric pulled up in folds. Dips and curls and invaginations, dark shadows. Pale skin, puckered with goosepimples, pale hair bristling. The left knee bent. Ankle resting on the right knee. Profiled foot, the reddened pachyderm hide of a heel, the bulge of a calf muscle laced with old pale scars, dripping with new blood, cut.
She had drawn a spiral round a mole, traced a five-pointed star into her skin, she had shaded and cross-hatched a tiny parallelogram. She bled onto the bathroom floor.
The car engine sighed off. The car door slammed. A key rattled in the lock and the curtains moved in the draught. The front door banged shut.
“Claire?”
Grainne thumped up the stairs.
“Claire?”
“I’m in my room.”
She heaved herself up from the bed and stumbled over to the dresser. She scrabbled around in the clutter as if looking for a lipstick, mascara, eyeliner. Anything at all rather than look up. She grimaced at Grainne’s reflection in the mirror, then looked back down at her scuffling fingers.
“Good weekend?” Grainne asked. She eased herself down onto the bed. “I had a great time. Met up with Roisín and Anne. You know, them ones I used to run around with at school. Hadn’t seen them in, oh, months and months. Notsince Christmas, anyway. Went to Charlie’s. Got completely blocked. Haven’t been there in ages. D’you know what we used to drink? I’d forgotten this. Cider and Lucozade. Can you imagine? Jesus.”
“I—”
“Were you working? Course you were. I knew that. Paul said.”
“Oh—”
“He’s some boy, isn’t he? Can’t take my eye off him for a minute. He’s healing up nicely, though. You did a good job looking after him. What did you think of his house?”
“I didn’t really notice—”
Grainne paused, sat up a little.
“You know, you look exhausted. Gareth has you run off your feet. You’ll wear yourself out, so you will.”
“I am a bit tired.”
“You should take some time off.”
“Maybe.”
“I would if I were you. No point killing yourself. Get yourself a night off, at least. Come out with us. We haven’t been out for a drink together in ages. Here, what about Thursday? We were planning on heading out for a few beers anyway. Come on. It’ll do you good.”
Claire woke. A door had slammed. She heard Grainne’s car start up, the fanbelt whine. She lay flat. The air had got thick. It pressed her down onto the bed, pressed the duvet down on top of her. The central heating sighed off. A stair-tread eased itself back into shape. Her feet were cold. Her bones seemed sore. Her cuts were sticking to the sheets.
There had been an orange nylon quilt when she was sick. It had crackled with static. Flattened out on the sofa, she had leaned against her mother and looked down over a soft tangerine landscape. She had bent a knee and watched the earth ripple. An orange stream would run down that gorge; tiny orange forests would cling on the slopes, and in the dip a perfect orange lake would settle. The photograph album was dark and heavy on her lap. Slowly turning pages, her mother’s grained finger drew Claire from orange into grey. Beards and waistcoats, glossy bosomy cars, thin-dressed women and boys in baggy shorts.
The flash of silver from his hand when he skimmed a stone across the flat of the reservoir. The stone flickering into the distance. Always uncountable, unbeatable
.
The thumb was bent, pressed down against the index finger, a tiny mole in the crook. Blood had crept underneath the nail, dried into a brownish-red half-moon. The blade lay beside her hand, one corner moist, red.
Soft black fabric pulled up in folds. Dips and curls and invaginations, dark shadows. Pale skin, puckered with goosepimples, pale hair bristling. The left knee bent. Ankle resting on the right knee. Profiled foot, the reddened pachyderm hide of a heel, the bulge of a calf muscle laced with old pale scars, dripping with new blood, cut.
She had drawn a spiral round a mole, traced a five-pointed star into her skin, she had shaded and cross-hatched a tiny parallelogram. She bled onto the bathroom floor.
The car engine sighed off. The car door slammed. A key rattled in the lock and the curtains moved in the draught. The front door banged shut.
“Claire?”
Grainne thumped up the stairs.
“Claire?”
“I’m in my room.”
She heaved herself up from the bed and stumbled over to the dresser. She scrabbled around in the clutter as if looking for a lipstick, mascara, eyeliner. Anything at all rather than look up. She grimaced at Grainne’s reflection in the mirror, then looked back down at her scuffling fingers.
“Good weekend?” Grainne asked. She eased herself down onto the bed. “I had a great time. Met up with Roisín and Anne. You know, them ones I used to run around with at school. Hadn’t seen them in, oh, months and months. Notsince Christmas, anyway. Went to Charlie’s. Got completely blocked. Haven’t been there in ages. D’you know what we used to drink? I’d forgotten this. Cider and Lucozade. Can you imagine? Jesus.”
“I—”
“Were you working? Course you were. I knew that. Paul said.”
“Oh—”
“He’s some boy, isn’t he? Can’t take my eye off him for a minute. He’s healing up nicely, though. You did a good job looking after him. What did you think of his house?”
“I didn’t really notice—”
Grainne paused, sat up a little.
“You know, you look exhausted. Gareth has you run off your feet. You’ll wear yourself out, so you will.”
“I am a bit tired.”
“You should take some time off.”
“Maybe.”
“I would if I were you. No point killing yourself. Get yourself a night off, at least. Come out with us. We haven’t been out for a drink together in ages. Here, what about Thursday? We were planning on heading out for a few beers anyway. Come on. It’ll do you good.”
Claire woke. A door had slammed. She heard Grainne’s car start up, the fanbelt whine. She lay flat. The air had got thick. It pressed her down onto the bed, pressed the duvet down on top of her. The central heating sighed off. A stair-tread eased itself back into shape. Her feet were cold. Her bones seemed sore. Her cuts were sticking to the sheets.
There had been an orange nylon quilt when she was sick. It had crackled with static. Flattened out on the sofa, she had leaned against her mother and looked down over a soft tangerine landscape. She had bent a knee and watched the earth ripple. An orange stream would run down that gorge; tiny orange forests would cling on the slopes, and in the dip a perfect orange lake would settle. The photograph album was dark and heavy on her lap. Slowly turning pages, her mother’s grained finger drew Claire from orange into grey. Beards and waistcoats, glossy bosomy cars, thin-dressed women and boys in baggy shorts.
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