Damage Read Online Free PDF Page A

thought of Christ, still nailed to the cross, which had been laid on the earth. Then with one hand grasping her hair, I entered her.
    And there we lay. Not speaking, not stirring until finally I moved my face across hers, and kissed her. And at last the age-old ritual possessed us, and I bit and tore and held her, round and round, as we rose and fell, rose and fell into the wilderness.
    Later there would be time for the pain and pleasure lust lends to love. Time for body lines and angles that provoke the astounded primitive to leap delighted from the civilised skin, and tear the woman to him. There would be time for words obscene and dangerous. There would be time for cruel laughter to excite, and for ribbons colourfully to bind limbs to a sickening, thrilling subjugation. There would be time for flowers to put out the eyes, and for silken softness to close the ears. And time also in that dark and silent world for the howl of the lonely man, who had feared eternal exile.
    Even if we had never come together again, my life would have been lost in contemplation of the emerging skeleton beneath my skin. It was as though a man’s bones broke through the face of the werewolf. Shining with humanity he stalked through his midnight life towards the first day.
    We bathed separately. I left alone, without speaking. I walked the long walk home. I stared at Ingrid as she came to greet me and muttered something about needing to rest for a few hours. I undressed and lay on the bed, and was instantly asleep. I slept through until morning, twelve hours, a kind of death perhaps.

E LEVEN
    ‘L AMB OR BEEF?’ asked Ingrid.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Lamb or beef? Sunday lunch, Martyn and Anna.’
    ‘Oh. Whatever you think.’
    ‘Lamb then. Good, that’s settled.’
    Anna wore white at lunch. It made her appear larger. The suggested innocence of the simple white dress disturbed my other vision of her. It broke my memory of her dark power. She was her other self; the self that dealt carefully with Ingrid, winning at least a grudging respect from her; that gazed openly at Martyn; that calmly spoke to me of food, flowers, and weather; spoke so well, that none could have guessed the truth.
    If Ingrid had expected an announcement, there was none forthcoming. They left at four, having refused tea.
    ‘Martyn seemed tense, I thought.’ Ingrid had begun the ritual post-mortem.
    ‘Really. I didn’t notice.’
    ‘No? Well, he did. He looks at her in a slightly pleading fashion. No doubt who’s the lover and the loved there. She seemed a bit less strange. More open, more friendly. Could have been the white dress, I suppose. White always disarms one.’
    Clever Ingrid, I thought, how you can surprise me.
    ‘Maybe it will all peter out. Oh God, I do hope so. I really couldn’t bear the idea of Anna as a daughter-in-law. Could you?’
    I paused. The idea seemed too preposterous. An alien concept outside the bounds of possibility. But the question demanded an answer.
    ‘No, I suppose not,’ I said. We left it there.

T WELVE
    I BATHED ANNA’S FACE , which was raw and damp, and squeezing the sponge let the water run through her hair. For hours, we had fought a battle with the barricades of the body. The battle over, I lay beside her.
    ‘Anna, please … talk to me … who are you?’
    There was a long silence.
    ‘I am what you desire,’ she said.
    ‘No. That’s not what I meant.’
    ‘No? But to you, that’s what I am. To others I am something else.’
    ‘Others? Something else?’
    ‘Martyn. My mother, my father.’ A long pause. ‘My family. Friends of my past, my present. It’s the same for everyone. For you as well.’
    ‘Does Martyn know more? Has he met your parents, your family?’
    ‘No. He asked once. I told him to love me as though he knew me. And if he could not — well then …’
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Do you have to ask? Oh well, it’s simple. My mother’s name is Elizabeth Hunter. She is the second wife of Wilbur Hunter, the