Free The Stranger Came by Frederic Lindsay Page A

beating of his hand.
    'I'm punishing you for what you did,' he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.
    But, 'No!' she cried, and heaved herself away from him. How dare he! 'You said you believed me!'
    'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.’ His contrition whispered over her out of the dark. 'Sorry. Sorry. It's only our game. I wasn't talking about that – what happened. That's forgotten.’ He kissed her on the lips. 'My darling, my love.’ How could she help forgiving him? 'My love.’
    His hands moved on her, but she could not see his face.
    Later she woke and heard the deep rasp of his breathing and felt the weight of his leg across hers. At the moment of entering her, he had whispered something she hadn't made out and she'd thought, I can hardly ask him to say it again, it's not the moment, and he had gone in. She had been afraid he wouldn't, holding him to guide him in, it had seemed too big in all the years it had never seemed so large, and he was in and she thought of how he would pull back to prepare the noise of the little packet tearing and the soft grunt and fumble of him as he drew it over himself but never so large as tonight would a sheath hold it? Would it have burst in her? he was always so careful pressing out the air with his fingers so careful , the thick brute came as a stranger into the dance, forcing her, parting her, driving, driving, driving in. Until she milked the strength from it at last.
    He had collapsed with his face nestled into her and perhaps he had slept for a moment for she had felt the water from his mouth dribble on to her shoulder and then he rolled away. And startled her with a noise she did not recognise at first as laughter. 'Remember the last night we made love? I'll bet every woman at the party got it that night – except poor Janet. There's no justice.’ And laughed and yawned together.
    She eased from under him gradually, intent upon not waking him.
    In the bathroom the small mirror above the sink was not enough. She came out and into the guest bedroom where Monty Norman had slept. She drew the curtains before putting on the light. On the inner side of the wardrobe door there was a full-length mirror. She set it open and stood naked before it. On her left breast there was bruising round the nipple. She turned her breast to the light with trembling fingers. She twisted to glimpse the length of her back and buttocks. There was no mark on the white full flesh. She faced the mirror again and parting her legs saw the dark welts on her inner thighs.
    She hated the pink-tinted, complacent image of her face in the glass. What did it have to do with her horror, with her fear? She had seen these bruises last night and they had not been caused by Maitland; they had not made love for weeks and in any case he was a gentle lover who would not do that to her. She had blamed him for accusing her – yet how could anyone tell what was behind that blankness caught in a mirror, frowning now as she had seen it frown over a menu for dinner? People slept defenceless by one another – ate what the other prepared – teetered side by side on cliff edges. Her body had been marked in some dream. If trust stopped, there was no safety anywhere. Oh, she should warn him there was malice in the world, warn him to be afraid.
    Gently she touched the bruised nipple, comforting herself. She raised her head and saw Maitland's reflection. Her first instinct was to turn and hold out her arms to him, but she was ashamed of her nakedness. She had not taken her hand from where it cupped her injured breast, and now saw her free hand with an agonisingly slow furtive movement creep across and cover her sex.
    The face of her husband watching seemed to her without expression, but then neither his own nor hers were flesh but only surfaces set side by side in a glass.

 
    BOOK TWO

 
    Chapter 7
     
     
    Something to Tell You
     
    She wanted to cross the road. The car, though, had stopped in front of her and now as the woman got out