Part 15 (1/2)

*Dan . . . you know what I mean. It's time.'

*Time for what?'

*Time to make love again.'

*I'll drink to that.'

*We'll do that too.'

I squeezed her hand. I felt elated. But mildly panicked. *Are you sure it's okay?'

*Yes.'

*You're all healed?'

*Yes.'

*Are you sure?'

*Yes, Dan.'

*I don't want to hurt you.'

*I'm okay . . .'

*It just looked so . . . painful. Having Little Stevie.'

*Steven. It was. But I'm better now.'

*It's very soon.'

*Dan . . .'

*I know, I'm sorry. It's just . . . all the blood, the . . . mess . . .'

*Dan . . .'

*It was like a mortar bomb had scored a direct hit on an abattoir.'

She squeezed my hands firmly. Then pressed her lips to mine. *I want you, suns.h.i.+ne,' she hissed. *Now eat your dinner. Drink your drink. Then take me to bed.'

*Okay,' I said.

We made love in the still of the night, the quilt thrown back, the baby oblivious. Gentle. Slow. Gentle. Slow. As sweet and tender as the first time, but with the a.s.sured touch of familiarity.

We'd saved a gla.s.s of wine for the after-love. We clinked in the dark and whispered sweet everythings.

Patricia could be quite pa.s.sionate with her words, and I basked in it.

*I love you more than all the grains of sand on all the beaches on all the planets in the universe,' she whispered breathily.

*Aw.'

*I love you more than all the waves in the sea, all the seas in the world.'

*Aw.'

*I love you more and more with each pa.s.sing day, from here to eternity, to an eternity of eternities.'

She nestled under my arm. Stroked my stomach. *How much do you love me?' she asked quietly, after a while.

*Lots,' I said.

16.

The next morning, armed with a tape recorder and a swagger which comes with the love of a good woman, I set out for Moira's cottage. I didn't take the car. There was a cold breeze, but I was all man, plus a big fluffy coat with gloves. Along the way several people said h.e.l.lo to me, one person thanked me and a woman scrubbing her doorstep offered me a boiled egg. I was a made man. A hero, and I had bicycle spoke lacerations to prove it. I gave Moira's door a confident rap and stood back expectantly.

She answered with a snapped, *Do you smell vomit?'

I shook my head. It was one of her less memorable lines. It probably wouldn't make it into Bible II. She was wearing a pink housecoat and had a can of pine-fresh Haze in her hand.

*Somebody sick?' I enquired, stupidly.

*Christine,' Moira said, and turned on her heel. I followed her into the kitchen. *Just a bug, but you never can get rid of the smell, can you?'

*I don't smell anything.'

*That's very kind of you, but I know there's a stink of boke.'

*No, honestly, I don't . . .'

*Don't contradict me, Dan, I'm the mother of G.o.d.'

*Sorry.'

She paused and rolled her eyes. *I'm only raking.'

*You mean you're not the . . .'

*No . . . I mean you can contradict me.' She tutted. *This is the problem. People don't know how to take me. I'm perfectly normal.' She thumbed upstairs. *She's the odd one.'

I asked why she was pointing upstairs, seeing as how it was a cottage. She said the roof s.p.a.ce had been converted, and did I want to see. I said why not and she took me up. It was all pretty mundane stuff. I don't know what I expected. Heavenly choirs and shafts of G.o.dlight, not posters of Cliff Richard and a smell of vomit.

Christine was lying in bed, flicking through a book of nursery rhymes. There was a blue plastic basin beside her bed. It was empty. *How're you doing?' I asked.

*Bokey,' Christine said.