Free Last Day in the Dynamite Factory by Annah Faulkner Page B

continuing to the end of the page. He shuts his eyes and rubs them. ‘Shit.’ He wanders into the small kitchen and comes back with a couple of beers. ‘You poor bastard.’ He hands Chris a beer. ‘Diane know?’
    â€˜Yeah. She’s already written a happy ending.’
    â€˜Jesus.’ Judge shakes his head.
    â€˜She hasn’t a clue, Judge; not a bloody clue.’

    Diane looks up from her computer. ‘Oh, good. You’re back. I was beginning to worry. Been with Ben?’
    Chris takes off his glasses and mashes the heel of his hand into his eyes.
    Diane stands up. ‘I know it’s been a shock, Chris, but can’t you see it’s a good thing? You’ve found your father.’
    â€˜He didn’t want finding. He didn’t
want
to be my father.’
    â€˜Nonsense. He’s been a wonderful father. Imagine if you’d had mine.’
    â€˜At least yours didn’t pretend he wasn’t.’
    Diane goes into the kitchen and takes the makings of dinner from the fridge. ‘I agree, he should have told you, but until you know why he didn’t, try not to blow things out of proportion.’
    â€˜There
is
no bloody proportion!’
    â€˜All right, we’ll leave it for now. I’ll make chilli burgers for dinner, your favourite. That’ll make you feel better.’
    He pushes his favourite food around the plate; poking the meat and torturing the noodles with his fork until Diane puts a stilling hand over his. She clears away the plates and fills the dishwasher, hands him a glass of wine and pats the sofa beside her in front of the TV.
    â€˜We’ll watch Rumpole,’ she says. But it’s the wrong night for
Rumpole of the Bailey
. They watch instead the long green legs of a frog thrash futilely in the jaws of a snake. Its head has disappeared down the snake’s gaping mouth. Chris looks away in distress, feeling complicit in the frog’s death, while the narrator calmly proclaims nature is taking its course.
    Diane, similarly repelled, aims the remote at the TV and switches it off. ‘Early night?’
    Chris wonders if it’s an invitation to cuddle. But no. ‘You’ve had a big day. A good night’s sleep and tomorrow things will be clearer.’
    He dozes restlessly; wakes damp with sweat. Gets up and turns on the ceiling fan, climbs back into bed and nuzzles Diane’s neck, inhaling her smell of linen and shampoo. His balls begin to ache. He twirls a hank of her hair between his fingers, feels it slip from his grasp and moves his hand over the Swiss cotton nightie onto her flesh. His fingers begin a joy-ride over her skin – smooth as wet soap, cool and deliciously fine – down her arm, over her breasts, stomach and thighs. He rests his cheek against her back. She stirs, turns to him and gropes sleepily for his penis – reliably ready – and begins to stroke it with competent pressure. When he is primed, she pulls him on top of her, but as he glides into her accommodating warmth he feels another part of her withdraw – her spirit or soul – the part of her that never waits for him. He holds her, kisses her, pumps her, harder and faster in his lonely quest, but all that lies between them is the sweat of his endeavours. After a while she shifts and he rolls onto his back.
    For a while they lie side by side, not touching. Then Diane turns to him. ‘Are you all right?’
    A pulse bangs in his neck.
    â€˜You didn’t come,’ she says.
    â€˜Neither did you.’
    â€˜I never do. You know that.’
    â€˜I wish … I wish you trusted me enough to … to let go.’
    â€˜I don’t trust anybody enough.’
    â€˜Not even yourself?’
    â€˜Especially not myself.’
    â€˜Why, Di?’
    â€˜Oh, please. Not this again.’
    â€˜Why is it a crime to want to be closer to you?’
    â€˜How much closer can we be? I’m right here,