Free Harm's Way by Celia Walden

muscles in my neck so tightly I felt unable to move my head. I risked a glance at the hand, which lay on the arm rest, an inch away from mine, as though discarded by the rest of his body. Its stillness seemed a gesture of such defiance that I resolved to block him from my mind, and concentrate on the film.
    â€˜I want this son of a bitch nailed and I’m feeling like I’m on a roll. Friday is pay day.’
    Four men had been shot, and Christian’s hand still hadn’t moved. The paralysis seemed to have pervaded the rest of his body, so that I wondered hopefully whether he might have fallen asleep. But no, nothing about those knees, the caps pronounced cleft domes beneath his jeans, could possibly be relaxed. Someone’s arm, Vincent’s, was winding itself around my neck now, lightly passing over my right shoulder before alighting on a curling strand of hair tucked behind my ear. Fingers, grotesque tentacles in my mind, filled the corner of my vision with a flesh-coloured haze. The knowledge that Christian was witnessing the whole scene caused me such a sense of mortification I could almost hear it in the darkness.
    â€˜Stop it: you’re tickling me,’ I hissed, trying to keep the anger from my voice.
    â€˜Am I, baby?’ He mistook it for teasing. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
    â€˜Yes. I do. I’m trying to watch the film.’
    Giving me a final squeeze of the neck as he withdrew his hand, Vincent put both hands back in his lap and laughed suddenly, too loud, at one of the protagonists’ witticisms. Beth hadn’t so much as chuckled: having seen her kick off her shoes at the start, I imagined her seeking Christian’s feet with her own. During quiet moments in the film, when neither of the actors spoke and the incidental music was kept to a minimum, I could hear my neighbour’s shallow breaths punctuated by the occasional swallow.
    â€˜This is surveillance, not narcotics. Shit like this is what makes people hate cops.’
    Around us was a plethora of movement: for the past hour people had been wriggling in their seats, sucking sweets, clearing their throats, rustling wrappers and sneezing. Christian and I were a static island, shadows frozen like Hiroshima victims. Finally, having contained itself too long, my discomfort came to the fore, manifesting itself in a hollow twinge down my left leg: cramp. I reached down to rub the offending calf, forgetting that this would instantly rekindle Vincent’s attention.
    â€˜You OK, darling? You got cramp?’
    â€˜Yes, just a little,’ I whispered, ‘but …’
    â€˜Shhhh!’ came an imperious order from the row behind. It broke the paralysis. I turned towards Christian. Where was the harm in looking? But to look was everything. His face – bisected into a Pierrot-like mask by the screen lights – eventually succumbed to my unspoken plea. His soft sigh of frustration had just cemented my sense of victory when he leant abruptly towards Beth, whispered something in her ear, muttered ‘excuse me’ to Vincent and me, and left the cinema.
    â€˜What was up with him?’ I asked twenty minutes later as, with that peculiar sense of disorientated despondency specific to cinema leavers, we trudged silently through the foyer.
    â€˜Oh, he wasn’t feeling too great, so he’s gone back to mine. What did you think then? It wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. In fact …’
    Our conversation, and that of the two men, was arduous. The evening ahead now appeared charmless to me, and I tugged Vincent’s hand discreetly.
    â€˜Well, I’m going to get this young lady into bed,’ he responded obediently, kissing Beth on the cheek.
    My goodbyes were cut blessedly short by the arrival of our bus, but once aboard I heard Beth’s voice shouting after us: ‘Anna, Ialmost forgot to tell you: Ruth – Stephen’s sister – is coming to stay on