Counting Stars by David Almond Page B

Christ exposing his heart for us. I smelt Theresa, felt her hand brush against mine.
    “Nobody in?” said Mick.
    Maria laughed.
    “They’re at the vigil.”
    We drank sherry that tasted like altar wine. The girls sat on a sofa and Mick and I on deep chairs. Smokey finished and the Temptations slapped down onto the turntable. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece. Plaster angels flew across the walls. We tapped our cigarettes relentlessly on the rims of ashtrays. Theresa talked about Winlaton, in the hills beyond Felling. So rough, lads fighting in the streets all the time. She’d dreamt for weeks of coming here.
    “But I can’t stay long,” she said, and she gazed into my eyes.
    Mick left me and sat on the sofa with his arm around Maria. Theresa smiled and turned the light off and came to me and we kissed.
    “I hoped you’d come,” she whispered.
    We kissed again.
    “Don’t be scared,” she said.
    I imagined floating through the room, seeing the two of us tangled below me on the armchair.
    “Keep calm,” whispered Theresa.
    I ran my hands across her.
    “Not too far,” she whispered.
    We lay sighing.
    “I’m glad you were in the church,” she whispered. “You believe in it?”
    “It?”
    “God. Sin. Angels. Hell and Heaven. Soul and body. All that. The Cross. That He came back from death and ascended into Heaven.”
    “No.”
    “Me neither.
    “You like my body?” she whispered.
    I sighed and my heart raced.
    “Yes. I believe in astral bodies, as well,” I said.
    “Astral bodies?”
    “They’re like souls. You float out of yourself and travel in the astral plane. It’s true. All it takes is imagination.”
    She sniggered.
    “Imagine it,” I said. “Close your eyes. Imagine that we’re rising together from the chair, that we can look down at ourselves. Imagine it. It can happen. It can really happen.”
    “I’m floating,” she murmured.
    For a moment it seemed true. We felt Lobsang’s swaying, we began to rise from the chair. We held each other tight and kissed. Then Maria called.
    “Hey. You two.” She giggled. “Come back to the real world. Time to go.”
    We went into the night, all four of us. Theresa pressed against me as we walked.
    I told her about Lobsang, Tibet, the Himalayas, the astral plane.
    Our breath glowed and thickened beneath the lights. Our lips were tender. We hid in the shadows as families moved past us from the vigil. Soon Maria said they’d have to go. Theresa drew me into a heavy overhanging hedge and we kissed again.
    I walked with Mick through the mist to Felling Square. I could still smell her, feel her skin, hear her breath in my ear. Mick trembled and skipped in excitement.
    “Wow,” he kept saying. “Wow. How far’d you go?” he said.
    I smiled.
    “Far enough.”
    “Aye. Far enough.”
    We smoked a cigarette beside the fountain, then went our separate ways into the gloom.
    “You weren’t at the vigil,” said Mam as I entered the house.
    I turned my eyes down.
    “Your faith’s your most precious thing,” she said.
    “I know that.”
    I felt sure they must catch the smell of Theresa that surrounded me. I stared at our statues and angels. A rosary lay in a little heap on the mantelpiece.
    “I was talking about your Tibetan bloke in the club,” said Dad. “It seems he’s a Kerry man that’s not set foot outside Ireland.”
    “I’ve seen that. Nobody’s certain, though.”
    He smiled.
    “He’s the real thing to you.”
    “Yes.”
    That night as I slept I traveled over Felling. Theresa raised her arms to welcome me. Our bodies mingled like breath in mist, like angels are supposed to, like astral bodies must.
    Easter Sunday morning: the empty tomb, the risen body, the defeat of death, the resurrection of us all. We wore spring clothes and sunlight poured through the windows. Mick was at my side. Close by was Theresa, her eyes so warm each time I turned to her.
    The priest held out the body and blood. We lowered our