The Immaculate by Mark Morris Page A

maybe that’s got something to do with it. Maybe, for the first time in your life, you’ve got something you’re terrified of losing. Perhaps, subconsciously, you think the only threat to your happiness are the monsters of your childhood, the bad memories which are locked in here.” She tapped his head.
    Jack thought about it. At last he said, “No, I don’t think so.”
    â€œOh, you’re impossible,” Gail said in exasperation. “Tell me about your childhood then, get it all out in the open.”
    Jack felt his temper rising a little and tried to stifle it. “I will,” he said.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . sometime.”
    â€œWhy not now?”
    Jack waved a hand at the clock. “Don’t be stupid, it’s . . . ,” he squinted at the luminous hands “ten past three in the morning.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo it’s bedtime.”
    â€œWe’re in bed.”
    â€œOkay then, sleep time.”
    Gail snorted. “Excuses.”
    Jack’s breathing became quicker as his anger rose. “Don’t hassle me, Gail,” he snapped. “I’ll tell you in my own time, okay?”
    She hugged him hard, almost roughly. “I love you,” she said. “I don’t want us to have secrets from each other.”
    â€œWe won’t,” Jack said.
    â€œBut we do.”
    â€œWe won’t,” he repeated more firmly. “I’ll tell you sometime, I promise.”
    â€œSoon?”
    â€œYeah, yeah.”
    â€œYou mean it?”
    â€œYes,” he snapped. “Now let’s go to sleep.”
    She sighed, disentangled herself from him. They lay back, Jack grimacing at the clammy sheets.
    There was silence for a time. Then Gail said, “Jack?”
    â€œMm?”
    â€œWas your childhood really bad?”
    He paused. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it was.”
    â€œOh. I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault.”
    â€œNo, I know.”
    Silence enfolded them again. Jack closed his eyes and slept uneasily till dawn.

4
C ROSS M Y H EART
    On Saturday, May 8 th , Jack woke up feeling edgy, tense and irritable. Normally when he awoke, even without the aid of an alarm, Gail awoke too, as if their body clocks were perfectly attuned. Today, however, she slept on, perhaps because Jack’s muscles had been so taut that his body had remained still even as his brain clicked on and his eyes fluttered open. He was glad that she had stayed asleep. He didn’t know why he should be feeling this way and he wanted some time to ponder it. He stared up at the ceiling, aware of the rigidity in his back and shoulders and limbs, the nervous curling in his innards that Gail always referred to as a “twizzly tummy.” He tried to smile at that, but it was a tight smile, hard to maintain. He felt as if his anxious thoughts were clenching their teeth and their fists, locking themselves into his head.
    But why? He had no reason to be worried or uptight, had he? His new book was coming along nicely, his relationship with Gail was as close and loving as ever, his health, as far as he knew, was good, and his money worries minimal. His last nightmare, the one about the ogre, had been five days ago, and since then Gail had left the subject of his childhood alone. So why did he feel as if something bad was about to happen? Trying to create as little noise and disturbance as possible he slid out of bed.
    He stood for a moment, naked, and listened to Gail’s breathing; it remained unchanged. The sound of the heating, its soft, comforting
shhhh,
was like breathing, too. Jack could feel its benefit, its warmth permeating the flat, which meant it was sometime after 7 A.M. He crossed to the armchair, the seat on which he had tossed his clothes last night, and fished around in the folds for his watch. He unearthed it and looked at the time—7:15. Pale grey shadows, soft as felt,