In Between the Sheets Read Free

tailed into another coughing fit. He leaned feebly against the wall, and when he had recovered sufficiently he raised his head and meaningfully winked his watery eye. But O’Byrne had turned and was wheeling the magazines out to the van.
    Lucy was ten years older than Pauline, and a little plump. But her flat was large and comfortable. She was a sister and Pauline no more than a trainee nurse. They knew nothing of each other. At the underground station O’Byrne bought flowers for Lucy, and when she opened the door to him he presented them with a mock bow and the clicking of heels. “A peace offering?” she said contemptuously and took the daffodils away. She had led him into the bedroom. They sat down side by side on the bed. O’Byrne ran his hand up her leg in a perfunctory kind of way. She pushed away his arm and said, “Come on, then. Where have you been the past threedays?” O’Byrne could barely remember. Two nights with Pauline, one night in the pub with friends of his brother.
    He stretched back luxuriously on the pink candlewick. “You know … working late for Harold. Changing the shop around. That kind of thing.”
    “Those dirty books,” said Lucy with a little high-pitched laugh.
    O’Byrne stood up and kicked off his shoes. “Don’t start that,” he said, glad to be off the defensive. Lucy leaned forwards and gathered up his shoes. “You’re going to ruin the backs of these,” she said busily, “kicking them off like that.”
    They both undressed. Lucy hung her clothes neatly in the wardrobe. When O’Byrne stood almost naked before her she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Is that you smelling?” O’Byrne was hurt. “I’ll have a bath,” he offered curtly.
    Lucy stirred the bathwater with her hand, and spoke loudly over the thunder of the taps. “You should have brought me some clothes to wash.” She hooked her fingers into the elastic of his shorts. “Give me these now and they’ll be dry by the morning.” O’Byrne laced his fingers into hers in a decoy of affection. “No, no,” he shouted rapidly. “They were clean on this morning, they were.” Playfully Lucy tried to get them off. They wrestled across the bathroom floor, Lucy shrieking with laughter, O’Byrne excited but determined.
    Finally Lucy put on her dressing gown and went away. O’Byrne heard her in the kitchen. He sat in the bath and washed away the bright green stains. When Lucy returned his shorts were drying on the radiator. “Women’s Lib, innit?” said O’Byrne from the bath. Lucysaid, “I’m getting in too,” and took off her dressing gown. O’Byrne made room for her. “Please yourself,” he said with a smile as she settled herself in the gray water.
    O’Byrne lay on his back on the clean white sheets, and Lucy eased herself onto his belly like a vast nesting bird. She would have it no other way, from the beginning she had said, “I’m in charge.” O’Byrne had replied, “We’ll see about that.” He was horrified, sickened, that he could enjoy being overwhelmed, like one of those cripples in his brother’s magazines. Lucy had spoken briskly, the kind of voice she used for difficult patients. “If you don’t like it then don’t come back.” Imperceptibly O’Byrne was initiated into Lucy’s wants. It was not simply that she wished to squat on him. She did not want him to move. “If you move again,” she warned him once, “you’ve had it.” From mere habit O’Byrne thrust upwards and deeper, and quick as the tongue of a snake she lashed his face several times with her open palm. On the instant she came, and afterwards lay across the bed, half sobbing, half laughing. O’Byrne, one side of his face swollen and pink, departed sulking. “You’re a bloody pervert,” he had shouted from the door.
    Next day he was back, and Lucy agreed not to hit him again. Instead she abused him. “You pathetic, helpless little shit!” she would scream at the peak of her excitement. And she seemed to