The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [136]
Oh, no. How could I have done that?
I’d known it was a terrible mistake less than five minutes in. His fingers tangling in my hair (grubby fingers, how had I forgotten?), his soft, damp mouth exploring my face and neck like he wanted to suck me in; the somehow rubbery feel of that smooth skin against mine as he butted for entrance.
But by then it was too late to draw back and make apologies.
What followed was…awful.
Tears spring into my eyes, tears of shame, disgust, anger with myself for letting it happen. Poor bastard, it wasn’t his fault. I should never have followed him into the tomb. Should have retreated the moment he touched my breast. There was nothing gross about his approach: his fingers were delicate, hesitant, and I–
–behaved like a slut. Forgot how to say no.
I roll over, careful not to disturb the sleeping dog. I’m even embarrassed about the dog being there. It feels sordid, like parents who make love in the same room as their children are sleeping. He tried, he really tried. None of it worked for me. Not a quiver. Everything getting more and more sore. Easiest to fake it, and let him finish.
Then, right at the end, I thought of Ed, and felt the blood gather and my breath starting to quicken but it was too late.
After it was over he wiped himself. ‘She said you’d come.’
‘Who?’
‘The Goddess. She told me you’d be here with me.’
That was all I needed. I fucked a fruitcake. Feel sick to think of it.
The hard object under my shoulder turns out to be Bryn’s Gurdjieff book. In the wavering light it’s hard to read my watch, but–Oh, my God. Frannie. On her own all evening, no idea where I am, probably frantic with worry.
Mustn’t wake him. I crawl off the ground sheet, dragging my clothes into the muddy passageway, not caring how filthy they get, hauling them on any old how…Bryn hasn’t stirred. One last look into the chamber–no. I don’t believe it. On a ledge in the corner, so high I’d missed it before, watching me, mocking. It’s one of the figurines you can buy in the village gift shop, a resin copy of a stone carving, in primitive style: bulging eyes, big-breasted, big-bellied, a crude slit between its legs. The Goddess. We shagged in front of the Goddess. That’s somehow…even sicker.
Cynon trembles all over, as dogs do when they’re dreaming, and I back slowly out of the chamber.
* * *
It’s nearly eleven o’clock when I limp into Trusloe. John’s pickup is parked outside the house. The front door swings open as I come up the path; he’s been looking out for me. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
I lift my shoulders in a weary shrug. ‘Walking. Lost track.’
‘Frannie’s been worried sick. I wasn’t, mind. Knew you’d gone off with your arse in your hand. No convincing her, though, that you weren’t lying with your throat cut under the stars.’
‘Can I come in now?’
He stands back to let me step into the hallway, under the light. ‘Jesus, you’re a mess. You been rolling in mud?’
Frannie comes out of her room, and utters a shriek. ‘India, you bin digging. What you bin digging, this time of night?’ There’s panic in her eyes. ‘You mustn’t dig.’
She’s still fully dressed, probably refused to go to bed until I was home safe. My heart twists, my eyes start watering again. I can’t bear having made her suffer. ‘Sorry, Frannie, I–I fell over. No digging, I promise.’
‘What were you doin’, then? You all right, darlin’?’ She reaches up and strokes my cheek. Her hand is icy.
‘Honestly, I was walking on the Downs and went too far south, lost my way.’
A tear spills onto her seamed cheek. ‘It’s me, isn’t it? I don’t want to be a trouble.’ She turns her head away, her purplish lips trembling. ‘Wouldn’t blame you for going. Did a bad thing, didn’ I?’
CHAPTER 37
1941
‘I knew you’d turn up eventually, Heartbreaker,’ said Mr Cromley.
Pilot Officer