Mother of Pearl by Mary Morrissy

house.
    â€˜I don’t think you should go in there, Mrs B,’ the traveller said pulling the bathroom door to.
    Mrs Blessed caught a glimpse of a pair of hairy legs and Michael Carpenter’s bloated member. She blessed herself swiftly.
    Michael Carpenter was one of Mrs Blessed’s radio officers. To her he was a happy-go-lucky boy with a black mop of curly hair and a bridge of freckles across his nose, whose only sin was to wear his socks in bed. She would find them in the mornings, lost among the sheets, and would have to open wide the window to rid the place of their vile smell. He wolfed his food, mopping up after his fry in the mornings with handfuls of extra bread (strictly rationed in Mrs Blessed’s establishment). But beyond his healthy appetite she had noticed nothing, nothing to account for
this
. She did not realise that he used his socks to masturbate into. Nor that he and Conway (they always called one another by their surnames; it was a form of intimacy) indulged in half-naked horseplay in their room that stopped just short of buggery. Conway had a girlfriend which meant that he would not go all the way. He had gone to visit her that weekend leaving Carpenter to that particular boredom of the young in rented accommodation. It was a furtive kind of indolence, a lethargy in search of oblivion. He had heard somewhere – probably in the lavatories at the naval college – that a constriction around the neck enhanced erection. With a fetishist’s care he had bought a length of washing line several weeks previously in a hardware store in the city. As he fastened a knot around the skylight in the bathroom, he remembered entering the shop past the mournful clanking of the buckets, bins and watering cans hung up outside.
    â€˜How many feet will she be wanting?’ the man behind the counter had asked, presuming that the washing line was for the young man’s mother.
    Michael climbed up on to the chair he had brought from his room, testing to see if the rope would hold. He was pleased with the result. Knots were his speciality, after all. The bath was running as he did this, to disguise the sounds of his labour. He checked the lock on the door once more, then undressed quickly in the foggy room and climbed, shivering, on to the chair. Despite the steam, his skin bristled. He tugged on the rope once more then slipped the noose he had fashioned around his neck, and tightened it. He braced himself, then out of habit made a brief sign of the cross before stepping out into mid-air. As he did, Irene Godwin, tried the handle of the door outside. He saw a woman’s outline through the dimpled glass and scrambling to regain the chair, his legs wheeling, he tipped it over with his right heel. He watched with horror as it keeled over. The blood rushed to his loins and flailing and kicking, eyes bulging with disbelief, Michael Carpenter had the biggest orgasm of his life.
    Mrs Blessed searched in vain for a note. It gave her an excuse to rummage through his belongings. She was certain there was a girl involved, she told the police. Maybe he had left something in code.
    â€˜In code?’ the detective asked.
    â€˜You know, dots and dashes,’ Mrs Blessed explained obligingly.
    â€˜Morse, you mean?’
    â€˜Yes, he used to send messages to his friend, spoons on the teacups.’ The detective shut his notebook resignedly. The world, he was convinced, was going mad.
    A familiar combination of smells assailed Irene’s nostrils when she entered the hospital just after eleven. Ether and floor polish. She inhaled it deeply, savouring the lostness of the memories it evoked. The lift beckoned. She hesitated before taking it; confinement frightened her. But she wanted to act, to do the deed as quickly as possible. She stepped inside, noting the three other occupants, an elderly man, a mother and a small child. She kept her eyes on the floor, firm in the belief that if she didn’t look