get him to strike her. It was a while before he realized, he didnât know what she was doing, provoking him with her teeth and nails, jumping from the bed to run across the room and stand pressed against the wall with her arms covering her body, then kicking him when he came near, hissing at him, darting her head like a snake. She had to tell him because he didnât understand.
âHit me, lover, hit me as hard as you can.â
He couldnât. He forced himself to pat her face, tap her shoulders a little harder with his fingers. That wasnât what she wanted. She wanted blows, she wanted pain. Why? How could she? You would have thought she had suffered enough of that from that father of hers. Barry struck her. He beat her hard but only with his hands. He hated it. He had to tell himself it wasnât Carol, it was someone he hated, and he shut his eyes to do it.
She never asked him for anything like that again. He tried to forget it, to put the memory of it out of his mind, and he nearly succeeded. Sometimes he thought that perhaps he had only dreamed he was beating Carol just as he had dreamed of seeing her strike Tanya. Since then, though, their love-making had been more strenuous, more savage really. Barry didnât mind that. It was a change to find a woman who preferred it that way. But then Carol wasnât like other women. She was one in a million . . .
After the children went back, they were alone. They went to bed. That was what they always did when they got thechance. When there were people there who were just going or when they were soon to be rid of the kids, Barry always had this sense of mounting excitement and, looking at Carol, he knew she had it too. It was all they could do to wait till the door closed. And yet such was the pleasure of anticipation that sometimes he hoped leave-takings would be prolonged or childrenâs departure delayed so that he might be kept a little longer on this pinnacle of breathless expectancy.
Once they were alone they fell into each otherâs arms, desperate by then for love, kissing and licking and biting and holding, laughing for no reason unless it was at their own thraldom. In that big bed with Carol there was no one else in the world for him, no one and nothing beyond the invisible dome that seemed to enclose the bed. Carol told him that once or twice she had watched them in the big mirror, it excited her more, but he never had. His love was here and now, not even at that small remove.
They slept. They awoke in darkness, still embraced, damp and cool with their own and each otherâs sweat. Carol got up first and washed and put on the black and white zig-zag dress. She painted her face with brushes, big ones for the foundation and the blusher and small fine ones for the eyelids and brows and outlining her lips. She combed her hair and wound the little tendril curls round her fingers. They were going out for a drink with Iris and Irisâs Jerry.
A big full moon was up, bright as a floodlight, competing with the harsh yellow that overhung Winterside Down. They went by way of the Chinese bridge where Barryâs graffiti still proclaimed his love and where it was light enough to see their own faces reflected in the calm glistening water of the canal. Their faces gazed back at them as from a mirror in a room which is dark but nevertheless faintly lit by light showing through an open door. Carol dropped her cigarette stub into the water. It was just heavy enough to fracture their images and, for a brief moment, distort them so horribly that Barry stepped back, removing his own. He had seen Carolâs beautiful face shudder andcollapse and melt until it became a rubber mask representing some cartoon character, voracious, lecherous and coarse, while his own was a gargoyle with bloated lips and rolling wobbly eyes.
He put his arm round her, rubbed her cheek with his and kissed her lips. Carol put sealant on her lips so that you could kiss a
âHit me, lover, hit me as hard as you can.â
He couldnât. He forced himself to pat her face, tap her shoulders a little harder with his fingers. That wasnât what she wanted. She wanted blows, she wanted pain. Why? How could she? You would have thought she had suffered enough of that from that father of hers. Barry struck her. He beat her hard but only with his hands. He hated it. He had to tell himself it wasnât Carol, it was someone he hated, and he shut his eyes to do it.
She never asked him for anything like that again. He tried to forget it, to put the memory of it out of his mind, and he nearly succeeded. Sometimes he thought that perhaps he had only dreamed he was beating Carol just as he had dreamed of seeing her strike Tanya. Since then, though, their love-making had been more strenuous, more savage really. Barry didnât mind that. It was a change to find a woman who preferred it that way. But then Carol wasnât like other women. She was one in a million . . .
After the children went back, they were alone. They went to bed. That was what they always did when they got thechance. When there were people there who were just going or when they were soon to be rid of the kids, Barry always had this sense of mounting excitement and, looking at Carol, he knew she had it too. It was all they could do to wait till the door closed. And yet such was the pleasure of anticipation that sometimes he hoped leave-takings would be prolonged or childrenâs departure delayed so that he might be kept a little longer on this pinnacle of breathless expectancy.
Once they were alone they fell into each otherâs arms, desperate by then for love, kissing and licking and biting and holding, laughing for no reason unless it was at their own thraldom. In that big bed with Carol there was no one else in the world for him, no one and nothing beyond the invisible dome that seemed to enclose the bed. Carol told him that once or twice she had watched them in the big mirror, it excited her more, but he never had. His love was here and now, not even at that small remove.
They slept. They awoke in darkness, still embraced, damp and cool with their own and each otherâs sweat. Carol got up first and washed and put on the black and white zig-zag dress. She painted her face with brushes, big ones for the foundation and the blusher and small fine ones for the eyelids and brows and outlining her lips. She combed her hair and wound the little tendril curls round her fingers. They were going out for a drink with Iris and Irisâs Jerry.
A big full moon was up, bright as a floodlight, competing with the harsh yellow that overhung Winterside Down. They went by way of the Chinese bridge where Barryâs graffiti still proclaimed his love and where it was light enough to see their own faces reflected in the calm glistening water of the canal. Their faces gazed back at them as from a mirror in a room which is dark but nevertheless faintly lit by light showing through an open door. Carol dropped her cigarette stub into the water. It was just heavy enough to fracture their images and, for a brief moment, distort them so horribly that Barry stepped back, removing his own. He had seen Carolâs beautiful face shudder andcollapse and melt until it became a rubber mask representing some cartoon character, voracious, lecherous and coarse, while his own was a gargoyle with bloated lips and rolling wobbly eyes.
He put his arm round her, rubbed her cheek with his and kissed her lips. Carol put sealant on her lips so that you could kiss a
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