Read Online Staring At The Light by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online Page A

the rules as long as it’s him who makes
     them.’
    ‘Why don’t you just give him everything? Give him what he wants? Everything. Even the picture.’ It was a sad question, not
     really expecting an answer.
    ‘You know why. Because it leaves nothing. He’d burn the picture. I couldn’t bear it. And because it would never be enough.
     It’s
me
he wants. Me, coming home.’
    ‘Yes, yes, I know. D-darling, I know.’
    Just as she knew why she was here. She was both his strength and the weak link in his fence against the enemy. His hidden
     weapon, his vulnerability. Because she knew, as well as Johnny knew, that Cannon would lose his mind if Johnny ever attacked
     her again. She was small, brown-haired, otherwise insignificant, except to him. And she knew there was no worse enemy than
     one related by blood; no worse adversary than a lover betrayed; and Johnnyboy Smith was both.
    The tingling of blood was impervious to the chill. The embrace on the hard bench becoming frantic,his hand now beneath the two layers of sweater, cradling her breast, full and soft, large for her miniature person, perfect.
     Ah, he could paint a naked woman, but never desire any other than this. She had taken his scarf and wound it playfully around
     both their necks, binding them. The kiss was an endless kiss. There was nothing to say, everything to do.
    ‘Cannon, we
c-can’t
. We
can’t
.’
    ‘Yes, we can … Oh, I do love you. And the babies we’ll have …’
    ‘Oh, you and your babies,’ she said. ‘That’s all you want from me.’
    ‘No. But we
must
have a baby,’ he said. ‘We
must
. I’d die for the chance and I’d die for you both.’ He wanted to climb inside her for safety; he wanted the baby to prove
     what he was.
    The light was suddenly blinding: he felt he heard it rather than saw it, coming at him like a monster and assaulting his eyes.
     A torch shining straight at his face, catching his white skin and making it glow red. Then the beam played over the length
     of his body, with hers curled inside his coat, and dropped, modestly, to play around his feet. Instinctively, he curled his
     feet beneath the bench, clutched his wife closer and, for a moment, forgot to breathe until he heard her whimper. He clutched
     too tight for comfort. The light snapped off. There was movement away from them before the light clicked on again, illuminating
     the linoleum floor and another pair of feet that were clearly not his own. They were half covered by black cloth.
    ‘No,’ said a voice, whispering like their own, butlouder and far more precise. ‘No, you can’t. I’m awfully sorry, but you just can’t.’
    Cannon felt a jolt of sheer relief run through him like an electric shock. Julie shivered in embarrassment and a similar relief,
     struggling to sit upright, if not quite detach herself: she could not bear to do that.
    ‘I’m sorry, Sister. We were c-c-c-c-carried away.’ Her small voice was apologetic.
    The torch illuminated a pale hand, waving a gesture of dismissal. There was a flurry of shushing sound as the woman sat down
     beside them, arranging the folds of her robe with one hand and adjusting the rosary beads that hung from her waist. She must
     have held them as she moved, put them in a pocket. Such silent creatures they were, these nuns; only the beads gave away their
     presence with the polite clatter they made in movement, like a version of a motor horn. So silent, he wondered how they knew
     the presence of each other.
    Sister Pauline was sighing gustily. ‘Oh, Lord. It wasn’t apology I was wanting,’ she said. ‘It’s I who feel I should do that.
     We aren’t very hospitable at this hour of night, are we? But you can’t take your clothes off in the house of God to make babies.
     Quite apart from anything else, you’ll catch your death.’
    They were silent.
    ‘Mind you,’ Sister Pauline continued, ‘I doubt if He would mind. If you’ve created man in your image and liking, you can hardly