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

again. It is clear that even he doesn’t quite know what he’ll do – that the further she goes from him, the louder he’s likely to ask, ‘Do you use protection, or does he come right into you, can you feel it push and run uninterrupted – his semen, seminal fluid, cum, spunk – and his little – what would they be: grunts, pants, hisses? Damp words? Is that how it is with him? Pushing and damp?’ As it is, with Elizabeth so near him, he grinds out his sentences, flat and soft, to somewhere beside her, some shape in the air that he can bear to look at, fix. He’s unable to bear her.
    Unable, perhaps, to bear anything.
    He coughs, clears his throat, coughs again. And this time it’s Elizabeth who wags her head and she isn’t sure of why.
    Wrong move – like trying to make fun of him – trying to mirror him.
    Mirror and you show him you’ll follow his lead, give him sympathy and dominance, you prove you’re alike. People like people they’re like. People remember their fathers, mothers, the peering down of family faces, smile answering smile, leading smile – seeing their own muscles apparently move someone else, a proof of mind-in-mind, of love.
    Which is completely fucking obvious and he’s not stupid.
    Fit his shape and you might understand him, though . . .
    Lockwood notices her efforts and only smiles – this young, gentle look which meets her and isn’t answered, which pierces and leaves. After this he seems to relent, there’s a sort of sinking in his spine, a withdrawal of engagement. His head falls and he murmurs to the tabletop, ‘No, don’t answer. Don’t. Personal question. All personal questions and inappropriate from a stranger. My comments have been an unsuitable intrusion and I should apologise but will, of course, not.’
    He pauses and the floor bucks, shivers, rests.
    Then Lockwood fades himself close to whispering, each word sounding on the same low note before breaking into breath, raw breath. ‘You touched my arm.’
    Elizabeth can’t swallow. Inside she is filling with silence. It tastes like milk – yes, it’s milky and thick in her mouth.
    So concentrate on that.
    â€˜You touched my arm.’
    Milk and stillness.
    Not that it isn’t hard to hold.
    Stillness.
    It’s the worst thing to keep, but I do want it – a rest from the gabbling, the nonsense, keeping up the pace and always being tired from not sleeping because of the noise – my noise – because of the rubbish just spooling away in here beneath the hair, the skin, the bones, just mazing around and around in the brain.
    Distraction.
    A distraction that doesn’t distract me enough – an inadequate misdirection from the forthcoming panic, which might as well panic me now because I know it’s on the way.
    Then again, I no longer need the gabble. No more diversions required, because right here is the perfect fear for me and I can step out of hiding.
    Should be a relief.
    â€˜You touched my arm.’
    No more guesses, worries: the real thing.
    And at that same moment, both of them – Elizabeth and Lockwood – become aware of Derek. He’s weaving back from the toilets, greyish and heavy-limbed, skin shining with water or sweat. He is obviously ill. Both of them – Elizabeth and Lockwood – follow his progress and, if he were inclined to give them his attention, he might perhaps be puzzled by their very similar expressions of true concern.
    Another and a better worry: altruistic, practical. He’s poorly, seasick. He’s plainly a priority.
    And a reason to leave.
    Thank fuck.
    Elizabeth gets up from the table, ‘I’ll have to . . . He needs . . .’ and she motions to Derek that they will go – head for the cabin and peace, take care of his ills.
    Give him the tablets to settle him – he should have taken them before – and then he