Sister of Mercy
When they got back to her house, none of her flatmates were there, which was as she had hoped.
His hands were on her waist, under her shirt. His mouth around her bottom lip. This was better than she had expected and she had been anticipating the best from this moment for some time now. They had been close since that first game of Kings Cup at Bully’s house where she had a few too many ciders and spewed on his shoes, and instead of getting mad he held back his laughter, and held back her hair.
As she now walked her fingers across his abdomen, she wondered why they had waited all this time. He’d certainly walked her home more than once, and for the life of her she couldn’t remember him ever being unavailable; he’d never seriously dated anyone of whom she knew. How had she resisted that wolfish grin of his for so long? There was something there. Impossible to deny. Chemistry was a dull word, too cold – although fire was an effect of chemistry wasn’t it? And wasn’t love just friendship set on fire?
Maybe chemistry is the perfect word?
She felt him pulling her gently, innocently, towards the kitchen; so she corrected his sexual compass, the one that was pointing straight up but not in the direction of true north, and led him towards her bedroom.
She asked again, only herself, why this had been so long coming? He was a good guy. He was handsome, gentle without being mawkish or limp. But he was quiet – that must be the cause for the delay.
He was too quiet, too nice. Mr Right, never Mr Right-Now.
He’d let her save face the night after graduation: told everyone he only carried her shoes home from the Irish pub, but she knew he had basically carried her whole drunken self back, delivering her to her doorstep. Before he left she’d almost fallen over going in for the kiss he dodged better then he had her vomit that first time at Bully’s. Offered her ‘sweet dreams’ and walked off instead of staying and giving her a ‘good night’. She’d had to quell her frustration; stop herself from calling him words like Frigid, Mammas-boy. Virgin. .
She’d forced herself to be gracious. To be benevolent.
But that was weeks ago, and right now he was on top of her with all the grace of a baby deer taking its first tentative steps. She shuffled back on the bed and sank into the squishy nothingness of the un-sprung mattress she’d found on Gumtree that, when she moved into her new share house he had (surprise, surprise) helped her install.
She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled him closer.
He crawled atop her in a way she could only describe as polite. And this, she felt, was an odd way to phrase any movement of a boy with whom she was about to make the beast with two backs.
They were animals, doing an animal thing, but when she unhooked the clasp of her bra and her breasts dropped, moved just that little bit, his eyes too popped, just that little bit. Again, not in the way she had hoped. Not like a pet about to be fed. More like a dog that sees the belt.
What had she stopped herself from saying that drunken night? Mamma’s boy? Virgin?
Feeling like a thief, she dragged her hand along his shirt and undid the top button, trying to steal glances at the parts of his body that she was determined to take.
He flinched.
My god, this can’t be his first time, can it?
She wanted to believe no, yet there was the wrong kind of tension, apprehension rippling his flesh and electrifying its way through to her.
She unfastened another button, then another again because she was feeling slightly criminal, in the good kind of way.
He didn’t need to move to stop her. Whether it was compassion or confusion, she stopped herself.
Now exposed, his chest was a mass of colour. She thought it was a t-shirt underneath. She was not a religious girl by any stretch of the imagination, but even an atheist could recognise the Blessed Mary. And here she was, big and biblical and beautiful and sprawled across his mid-section. The tattoo was colourful and illuminated by that holy corona of light reserved for frescoes of the everlasting.
“What’s that?” She asked and drew back.
“What does it look like?” No hint of meanness in his soft voice.
“It’s … confronting? But it’s beautiful.” This was true. “Where’d you get it done?”
He didn’t hear properly, or chose to dodge the question. “When I turned eighteen.”
“How’d …?”
“A friend did it for me.” Waving his hand across his sternum. “A going-away present.”
“Going away?”
“Leaving … school.”
“A school-mate did this?” She was so rapt she forgot she was already unwrapped, already half naked.
“Not exactly. Forget it.” He hadn’t forgotten she was almost undressed. He hadn’t forgotten her flesh. He leant forward. She let him kiss her, mainly because he was making the move (for once). She continued.
“Mh-mm, no way, this is too interesting.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh, yes I do. At what kind of ridiculous school could you get this done?”
He gave her a moment to reflect on her words before he gave her the answer.
“’Sisters of Mercy’.”
“What? The …”
“Yeah.”
“But, you told me you went to a Catholic boarding school.” Frowning. She almost couldn’t keep up.
“It was run by Catholics. I lived on campus. I got an education … Never really lied.” And that damn smile flashed back, once more to devour her.
“’Sisters of Mercy’ is a fucking prison!” She nearly howled back at him because that wolfish grin of his had eaten her heart. “It’s a reformatory. You never told us? Well you never told me you were in prison.” She laughed one of those nervous laughs when she said this last word. A shocked titter. It was okay. He didn’t take offence. She told herself he was one of the good guys.
Tried to reaffirm that, anyway.
“It wasn’t technically a prison. I was too young to go to prison.”
She jumped right in. “What’d you do?”
He did his best Johnny Cash impression and sang. “’I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die’.”
She slapped him good-naturedly. It was vital for him to feel her skin again. She said, “Fuck you Sue. Be serious.”
“No, it is serious. Too serious. You don’t – I don’t want to tell you, don’t want to upset you.”
She tried to match his tone, tried to be as earnest. “I’m a big girl. You can tell me.”
And in that second while she sat semi-nude and vulnerable, he could see nothing but compassion beaming out of her, and he knew that the only reason he felt full was because she had allowed herself to be consumed, allowed herself to be taken, and her surrender, this giving unto him, was so intoxicating he decided there was nothing he wanted to do more than to confess to her. Tell her everything. Offer himself back.
“Well … the charge was Grievous Bodily Harm leading to Attempted Murder. Though I never intended to kill him.”
She believed every word. “Bullshit,” she said.
“They dropped it down to just GBH. I went in at fifteen.”
“There is no fucking way – I can’t believe, you of all people.” She wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but she felt it was something she should say.
“On my last week, one of the,” he broke off, trying to think, “not quite a counsellor, but a sponsor, I suppose; an ex-con turned good, would come every week to speak to the boys. In another life he did gang tattoos – he was an artist first and foremost, still is, but he gave me the tat.” Here he smiled at the memory. “I had to beg him for it.”
She dipped her toe in to test the water. “So are you … devout?”
“No. Christ, no.” The water was still nice and hot. “I guess it’s just, the idea really … A reminder to be kind. A reminder that we’ve all got someone to look after.”
“Why’d you try – I mean, you didn’t, you never intended to kill anyone, right?” Her eyes searched his for any flick of betrayal. She, thankfully, found none. “But who was he?” Even before she asked, she believed she knew the answer. “Who was this guy?”
He didn’t hesitate. “My father.”
In an instant she had heard the whole story; he didn’t have to tell her a thing. He didn’t have to show her, close up, the scars the tattoo covered. He didn’t have to explain why he never would close a door after entering or leaving a room; she knew as well as he that the clatter and confusion behind closed doors hid no happy meetings, because nothing happy need be hidden. And he didn’t need to tell her that ‘everything’s fine’ were the worst words he ever heard growing up, because coming from his mother they always meant the exact opposite. He needn’t tell her any of this because she had already heard it all from the woman etched into his abdomen; the eternal mother whose colours were louder than any voice.
She couldn’t respond. He didn’t want her to. There was nothing either of them could say. So they said nothing.
He scanned the floor apologetically for his shoes, waiting for her to kick him out of the house. Instead she threw herself at his mercy and gave him the most forgiving lips; the softest blessing he’d received.
Neither of them said a word. Actions spoke much louder.
Body talk.
They set about finishing, semi-nude, what they had started fully clothed. He buttoned his shirt back up. Neither of them wanted to look at the virgin across his chest. Not right now. Mary didn’t need to marry-in to this fresh sin. She could pray for them later.
It was all over fast enough for her to confirm those suspicions that he had never done this before, or at least not in a long while.
As he slept beside her afterwards, she studied the tattoo on his chest. The rise and fall of his gentle breath seemed to make the lilting form dance, and the saturated colours vibrate.
A reminder to be kind. A reminder that we’ve all got someone to look after.
It was a nice sentiment, nice enough to make her want to look after him.