Read Online The Blue Book by A. L Kennedy - Free Book Online

late for them now.
    Far too late.
    Beyond saving.
    We’ll have to go with him.
    And they proceed, the three of them together, as if they are friends.They work their way over the softly untrustworthy floor and then up the softly untrustworthy stairs, while Elizabeth tells herself – far too, far too, far too late and we should do anything but this – and notices she pats at Lockwood’s elbow, perhaps because she hopes to make him safer.
    Mild shirt and beneath the cloth is bone – the unprotected hardness of bone – he is down to his bone – little bone, big bone, little – bared and taut and listening – there it is, listening – requiring.
    And a jolt in the muscle.
    Another.
    It’s waking up.
    She raises her hand from him. Folds her arms across her waist as they continue to climb.
    It’s waking up – it said so.
    I noticed it and it knows.
    â€˜The one thing I do love – meat.’ Lockwood unloads his tray on to their table and has, indeed, collected a disturbing weight of meat – correctly pink and tender beef – which obscures a more restrained selection of vegetables.
    Outside the restaurant’s windows are blank water and blank air, this vast cave of night determined to confront them with their own reflections. Elizabeth watches a yellowed version of her body trying to eat lasagne, faltering cutlery, childish mouthfuls. The yellowed Lockwood shovels beef into himself intently, nods and encourages Derek into elaborate descriptions of his business, of how he first met Elizabeth, of other journeys they have undertaken, of his parents and schooling, hobbies. Derek nudges at his food, but barely alarms it. Lockwood consumes. Lockwood swallows in a way that seems near to pain, to choking.
    In the end, Derek stops talking, exhausted. He blinks. He is pale, quickly paler than when he sat down, than the minute before this one. ‘Excuse me.’ He runs his fingers along the back of Elizabeth’s wrist, gets up and walks away – tight steps, the ship adding a minor stagger on uneven beats. The sea is making itself felt.
    Lockwood watches Derek go, then lowers his knife and fork, crosses them on his plate.
    Elizabeth angles herself to face the window – she can feel him, though – Lockwood – his living and sitting and watching and thinking all prickle on her skin.
    There are small rattles of crockery that nag. The ship is beginning to flex, play.
    Oh, God.
    Whatever that means.
    Whatever does God mean?
    Elizabeth is dropping fast into a headache and also tired, tired, tired and so hollowed, so indefensible, undefended, when she needs to be something else. When she needs to be she isn’t sure of what.
    â€˜Merciless .’ Lockwood waits until she turns to him and then repeats, ‘ Merciless .’ He is studying the window and may be commenting on the ocean, which is certainly swelling visibly, tangibly.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜No. No, you’re not.’ He pushes away his plate and takes a sip from his water glass, rubs his face with his free hand, ‘Will you, Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth, will you fuck him tonight. Will you fuck him and will you say yes – will he hear your voice saying yes – and will he be inside you, hearing your voice – yes – and imagining – yes – that perhaps, that perhaps you’ll agree to be his wife – yes – and his prick in you, moving in you – yes – when you tell him will that make him come . . .’ He turns his palms down and then up and then down and studies them and seems bemused by his extremely clean, well-tended fingers, his buffed nails.
    Elizabeth half stands to get away, but he simply wags his head – quietly, deeply furious – a rage so confined and so injured that it scares her: these quick shadows and signs that it makes in his eyes, the tensions in his face – and she cannot help but sit