Lying Together by Gaynor Arnold Page A

‘I forgot, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Weren’t you hungry?’ I was famished if I missed a meal, but there was always something to pick at in the kitchen as long as Mr Mullan didn’t see.
    â€˜I’m used to being hungry. You’re hungry all the time in prison. And anyway, I had a good tea. An extremely good tea, as it happens.’
    â€˜And you were reading, too.’ I nodded towards the book.
    â€˜Yes, Bertrand Russell kept me busy. You should try him some time.’
    I wasn’t sure I could read hard books like that but I said I might try. He held out the finished cup and I stretched out my hand to take it. As I did so, my cuff slid back and a flaky red patch of skin slipped into view. He frowned. ‘Oh dear, have you scalded yourself?’ He put down the cup, and bent forward, taking my hand in his, examining my wrist in a probing way, like a doctor.
    I felt myself go scarlet. All evening I’d kept imagining how it would feel if he touched me, but not in this pitying way because of my wretched scabs. ‘No, it’s a skin disease,’ I said quickly, pushing down my sleeve and pulling my hand away from his. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not catching.’
    â€˜I’m not worried. And don’t be ashamed. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ His voice was very gentle.
    â€˜But it’s ugly, horrible. People don’t want to see it. It makes them sick.’ I couldn’t let myself speak any more, I was so afraid I would cry.
    â€˜People are fools. I don’t mind looking at it.’ He delicately lifted the edge of my cuff. ‘May I?’
    â€˜But it’s really awful,’ I said. ‘And it’s all over me. Except my face. I don’t get it on my face.’
    I was gabbling with nerves, but he seemed not to notice as he edged my sleeve further up my arm, revealing the horrible red mess around my elbow, all the shiny scales and flakes fluttering onto his trousers. ‘People pay too much attention to the surface of things,’ he said, letting his fingers caress my skin in a dreamlike way. ‘It’s what’s inside that counts.’
    â€˜Yes.’ I closed my eyes. His fingers were calloused, but they felt like gossamer to me, just as I had always imagined. I couldn’t stop trembling. I wanted him to slide his hand further and further, right up to my armpit. I wanted him to unbutton my blouse and touch my breasts. I wanted him to touch me all over, even where my skin was at its worst. He was very close, now, his face near mine, his hair brushing my cheek. I could hear his breathing; I was sure he could hear mine. I closed my eyes, ready for him to ravish me.
    But instead I felt him pull my sleeve back down, and I slowly opened my eyes. He was watching me, a strange look on his face. Then he patted my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve overstepped the mark.’
    â€˜I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It felt nice. You’ve got nice hands.’
    He raised his eyebrows. ‘Hardly. But it’s getting late. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’ And he got up and handed me the empty cup. And I got up and took it. And he opened the door. And we both said goodnight in a fumbled sort of way. And I went downstairs with my heart pounding and the stupid cup in my hand.
    He didn’t come down to breakfast so I asked Mr Reeves if I should take a tray up. He said there would be no need for that as Mr Thompson had already gone on the early train to Taunton. I nearly dropped the coffee jug, and had to put it down quickly. ‘Gone?’
    â€˜Yes, gone , Elsie. People come and go, you know. In a hotel.’
    â€˜Didn’t he leave a message?’
    â€˜Message? Why should he leave a message?’ he said sharply.
    I thought quickly. ‘I mean, Mr Thompson owed for a cup of cocoa. Last night.’
    â€˜Well,