The Immaculate by Mark Morris

were white he felt himself squirming beneath their accusing gaze. A single tear of blood brimmed and then trickled down her cheek. She drifted closer to him. Slowly, her hands took the bloodied hem of her robe and began to raise it. Jack caught the barest glimpse of something slick and pulsing between her legs, something that seemed made of purplish-grey flesh. . . .
    And then he woke, bathed in sweat, his choking cry teasing at his throat, puncturing the darkness.
    He sat up in bed, panting, his heartbeat tight and violent in his chest. He had a sour taste in his mouth. The cold air quickly dried the sweat on him and started him shivering. He realised he was clenching handfuls of duvet, and relaxed his grip with an effort. He released a shudder of stale breath. Beside him Gail stirred.
    â€œJack?” she murmured dreamily. “Are you okay?”
    He swallowed. “I had one of my dreams,” he said hoarsely.
    He heard the soft sound of her body on the sheets and knew that she was striving to wake, perhaps propping herself on an elbow. When she touched his arm he felt his skin flinch, shrivel into itself; a bristling wave of goosebumps coursed up his arm, across his shoulders and down his back. “Poor honey,” she murmured. “What was this one about?”
    Jack was getting cold again. He pulled the duvet up to his chin. “The usual,” he said flatly.
    â€œBeckford?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWas it another childhood dream?”
    This time he simply nodded.
    She drew closer to him, began to stroke his hair with one hand and then gently to knead the bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders. “You’re so tense,” she said. She sat up, dragging herself from beneath the duvet, and then moved behind him and hugged him, her arms going over his shoulders and encircling his neck, her breasts pushing into his back, her legs straddling him from behind. She kissed his ear and cheek. His sweat was like the sediment of his dream, clinging and coppery. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Everything’s okay now. It’s all over.”
    He was silent for a long, long moment. At last he said, “Why is this happening now?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Gail said.
    Jack shrugged, and again didn’t reply immediately. He took one of her hands, meshed his fingers with hers.
    Finally he said, “When I left Beckford I was pretty screwed up. I did not have a happy childhood.” He snorted without humour. “That’s an understatement. But . . . well . . . I’m over that now. I’ve been over it a long time. So why am I suddenly having these dreams? Why now, when everything’s going so well?”
    Gail kissed his ear gently, hugged him tighter. “Maybe you’re not fully over it. Maybe it’s been lying dormant inside you all these years and it’s finally working its way out.”
    Jack thought of a friend of his who had had a car accident. It had taken two years for a shard of metal the size of a fingernail to work its way out of his leg.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, unconvinced.
    â€œBut you still don’t like to talk about your childhood, do you?”
    â€œNo, but . . . I don’t know. That’s different.”
    â€œWhy is it different? If you were over it you’d be able to talk about it. Whenever I ask you anything you just clam up, give me that dangerous look of yours. If I push it, you get angry.”
    Jack scowled, felt himself tensing. “No, I don’t.”
    â€œYes, you do. You’re doing it now.”
    He was. He knew he was and he couldn’t help it.
    â€œOkay,” he conceded grumpily, “but I still don’t see why all this should choose now to emerge. I’m not unhappy. In fact I’m the happiest I’ve been for a long time. I’ve got you, and I’ve finally hit the bestseller lists. Everything’s going really well.”
    â€œWell,