Free Forget Yourself by Redfern Jon Barrett Page B

me again, and this time there was no interruption, just a phrase which stuck to my mind:
     
    You love one person.
     
    And it was so early on in the book that it hardly mattered now.

THE NIGHT AT THE CASINO WAS OVER . Daylight clawed through the window. Our corner was vacant, a mass of bodies sleeping away the drink and dice and the dizzying air. It was cold and I was frozen, waiting for them to wake up and begin talking, tongues lashing tales of Burberry and Blondee, who had pressed their lips together and ran away, away into the emptiness of the night. The news would thaw and feed drip-drip-drip, until it built and welled, it would flood across our corner and over into the rest of the world, flowing over Tanned, flowing over Frederick. What explanation did I have? She loved me, and she loved Tanned, and doing so she had broken the rules of the world. There she lay, sleeping next to me. Grief and pleasure both infected her dreams and both made me lie back down and hold her.
    The world would have to wait.
    We were both naked, our skin smooth against rough blankets. Her breath was light and even, lightly stale, her arm slung beneath my neck. I ran my fingertips over her, from her face down the dark sweep of her neck, down further, down over her breasts, lightly over the soft circle of nipple, from there to her stomach, over the furry trail from her stomach to her tangle of pubic hair, through its coarseness, over the warmth of her—she mumbled and moved, turning over onto her front, pulling her arm free. I ran my fingers over the mount of her buttocks, down the back of her thigh, the light fuzz of her calf, to her ankle.
    Did I think? I must have thought. I must have thought of her, not only of her skin but her heartbreak, her pain, its intermingling with her desire for me. Love. Did she feel love—or hard, driving, exhaustible lust? She had abandoned Tanned for me, however unwillingly. I wouldn’t want her to regret that.
    And how did I feel about her? She had always been an accessory to Tanned, an extra, an adornment—one which needed the other to function. But I wanted her. My body wanted her.
    I don’t believe I really thought of Tanned. At that moment he will have been intangible, a theory—unreal in the presence of Burberry’s bare skin.
    I will have thought of Frederick. If Frederick was unhappy that would be a problem—I needed his soft skin and simple thoughts. To hurt or anger him, to turn warm embraces cold—that would be too painful.
    In truth, however, I don’t really remember if I thought at all. I simply remember the dream of her, in the dusky light filtered through the curtains.
    She slept, so I slept.
     
    The tring of notes bounced about my hut. The little music player was on, knocking me awake.
    “Blondee.” Burberry was smiling. I sat up.
    “You were asleep,” she explained. “I still have some rations left—would you like some?”
    We ate together.
    We talked quickly.
    She would move in, as was the way—she would move in before the day ended. I agreed: I was glad of someone to share the space. Now and then she would heavy-sigh for Tanned, she would light-sigh for me and I enjoyed her, savouring every taste and smell and sigh. Suddenly she had appeared, right there in my hut, as though she had always been there. I had let her speak, telling me of her now-ex, of how they had fought and he was gone, to another part of our corner. She asked me about Ketamine, how I could bear her leaving, and the thought of never touching her again. I found Ketamine’s shirt crumple-balled beneath the bed and showed it to her. She drifted back into talk of Tanned and then on to how much she liked the triangle-hut.
    Eventually I had to take my turn, to tell her about Frederick. I told her quickly, tripping over my own words.
    “Oh. I didn’t realise.” She fixed her eyes on me.
    “Well, we’re not lovers, not really, we just ...” I let my voice drift away. There wasn’t any way of finishing the