Free Cuckoo by Wendy Perriam Page A

front axle. Anyway, the music had started up again, roaring through her head, shattering the glasses, emptying the bar. She had to follow it. It was like the tide, dragging her in, dashing her down.
    Now, it was easier to dance. She didn’t even have to look at Ned, but could feel him through her feet and through her heartbeat, plunging her under, swirling her round, as rules and Richmond soared out of the window in a white avalanche of sound. The music was no longer pain. The screaming guitars were only fronds of seaweed, the feverish drumbeats only froth and spume. Even the beseeching, shrieking singer had been turned into a stream of silver bubbles. She was drunk, dazed, crazy, and she ought to go straight home. But she didn’t really own herself; the music was in charge. She was only a pounding, syncopated part of it; couldn’t stop the ocean single-handed. If she left, or wavered, the whole reverberating harmony might stumble into discord.
    She was stumbling. Ned’s small, hot hand had snapped across her back and ripped the rhythm into shreds. He was shouting something at her, underneath the drumfire, guiding her through the tangle of dancers, across the beer-swilled floor towards the exit.
    â€˜Hot!’ he panted. ‘Need some air.’
    The swing doors clashed behind them, muffling the music to a muted roar. She blinked against the harsher light outside, crash-landed on blundering feet, almost deafened by the quiet. They were in a small, fuggy corridor, with windows all along one side. Ned pushed one open and gulped down air like beer. It was dark now outside, and his pale torso cut into the dead black square of sky and quickened it. His shirt was open almost to the waist. His body shouted at her. With Charles, it was always the clothes you saw first: Savile Row pin-stripes or Christian Dior tie, all style and surface, with nothing real or risky underneath. But Ned was naked flesh and blood – hot hands, live hair, real sweat mixed and shaken in some dangerous, heady cocktail. His clothes were hardly there.
    Frances shivered suddenly. Reality was surging back like a spoilsport wave of nausea. She could feel Young’s Bitter heaving against her stomach, nagging in her head. What in God’s name was she doing, gate-crashing a party, losing track of time, making unfair comparisons with her husband, when she should have been sitting safe at home, waiting for his call. She pulled her dress to order, smoothed her tousled hair.
    â€˜What’s the time?’
    â€˜Time to kiss you.’
    His mouth was hovering dangerously close. She tried to dodge away. He had a large wet patch under each armpit, and she could smell the raw, brutish odour of his sweat.
    â€˜My watch has stopped.’ She glanced at its gold face. The hands pointed stupidly at seven.
    â€˜Southmead Poly must have overpowered it. It does have that effect on people.’
    â€˜Ned, do stop fooling and tell me the time.’
    â€˜Only if you call me Ned again. I like the way you say it. Like a very special sergeant major.’
    â€˜Ned, I …’
    â€˜No, not like that. Nicely, the way you did before. OK, OK, I’ll tell you. Hold on a minute … at the third stroke, it will be 22.02.’
    â€˜You’re joking!’
    â€˜Well, that’s only British Summer Time. It’s after midnight in Ethiopia, and more or less siesta time in Las Vegas. Let’s pretend we’re in Las Vegas.’
    â€˜Ned, it can’t be after ten!’ How on earth could a whole evening have drained away like that? She had only stopped for one small drink, one short dance. Charles would have phoned her several times by now. She had assured him she’d be home by early evening. She’d missed the sacred formula: Love you. Love you, too. He might even have rung round all her friends to find out where she was.
    â€˜Look, Ned, I simply must go home. Now.’
    â€˜You said that three hours ago. You