The Monster's Wife(46)

“Don’t you appreciate my drawings?” The words sounded half offended, but he ended them with a laugh.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Ah, do you think so? Well you have marvellous taste.” He sat down on the bed and patted the space beside him. “Come and I’ll show you something much better.”

She took in the sinewy strength of his chest, the smooth hairlessness of it, then looked away quickly, ashamed to feel her cheeks grow hot.

“Come,” he smiled. “I won’t bite.”

On the bed, she hid her swollen knuckles and ragged fingernails in her skirts. Victor smelled of cologne. From his open valise, he drew a small book and opened it to a page marked with red ribbon. She saw a delicate drawing of what looked like a smooth grey stone. Four thick stalks rose from it, curved, twisted and neatly cut short. Leaves and roots undulated down from the stalks, some thick and branched, some fine as hairs.

“Can you tell me what this is?”

“It’s a mossy stone, at the base of a tree I think.”

He laughed, shook his head. “It is a human heart, the body’s most vital organ. As long as this beats, blood courses through the veins and arteries, bringing necessary elements to the organs and nervous system, pumping life upwards to the seat of human identity - the brain - and downwards.” He turned the page to a drawing of a sweet pea flower, its round fruit curving up from it on long tendrils. “Down to the organs of generation, the seat of the feminine. Eve’s curse...or blessing, as the Minister in your church might deem it to be.” He closed the book and laid it on her lap, let his hand rest there.

She searched his face. There was a new aspect to it, a tremble of the lips, a feverish gleam to his silver eyes. She let herself float for a moment, existing in nothing other than his steady gaze and feeling more than ever that she might confide in him.

“I visited Stuart yesterday, and Old Cormick - they know something of May’s whereabouts, I feel it. They did something to her.” She spoke the words quietly, measuring each out carefully because they were all so heavy.

“Did something?” His eyebrows flew up and she thought how expressive his face was. You could read each tiny change of sentiment upon it. She almost felt that she could read his thoughts.

“I’ve told you many times now… I feel certain that something bad has befallen her and that she is hurt, or worse.” A drop of water fell on the book’s cover, ran into the finely tooled lettering of the Latin words on the front, De humani corporis fabrica.

His hand slipped over hers, the fingers closing on her palm. “You fear for her.”

“She’s my dearest friend.” Her voice broke.

“She is near to your heart.” He pulled her towards him. “And what a kind heart it is.”

Her head was on his shoulder, her face fitting the hollow of his neck as if the space was made for her to hide in. “She is my better half,” she murmured, letting the tears run now.

His hand was on her hair and he was whispering words she could not understand, but they sounded more tender than any she knew. She felt his fingers under her chin, lifting her face to him. For what seemed like a long time, he just looked at her, then his mouth was on hers, soft and hot. His hands pressed into her back, pulling her closer, kissing her harder.

Suddenly, he broke away. “Sorry. I should not have... You’re distraught and I—”

She touched his hand. “I took no offence.”

“It is merely that...” he stood, walked to the window, running his hand over his flushed face, through his damp hair. He stared out at the fields’ patchwork, the mountain’s veiled green. “At home I am to be married.” His voice sounded far away.

She stood unsteadily. Air rushed into her ears and made a harsh whining noise. “They are certain it is you, you know.”

He spun around. “What is me?” He looked angry and at the same time inscrutable. Whatever foolishness had made her think she could read his mind had vanished. “And who is certain?”

“Everyone on this island believes that you killed May and that I am your accomplice. They think we are murderers, both.”





40


It was one of those golden days where the sea was blue as blue and you could see the whole world from the shore. Yesterday’s clouds had cleared. The mist round the mountain was gone. Loons sang from sand banks stranded in the ebbing tide, sounding half-human, half like ghosts.

It might have been beautiful to some, but to Oona it felt like what she imagined Hell must be. When she rose, she’d splashed her face with ice water, but she could still taste Victor. Worse, she could still see the anger in his eyes. Whatever hope she’d had of asking his help had shrivelled.

The sun brought flies - fat, thirsty ones. She swatted them away and tapped her foot on the dirt, counting out the moments it took for Granny to make water before they went to kirk. Usually she felt sleepy at the thought of the Minister’s sermons. Sleepiness sometimes became dreaminess when her eyes turned to the bright day outside and her mind turned to the thought of dangling her legs in the burn. Once in a while the angry words read from the Good Book stirred her and she resolved to be more Christlike. Today an eel bit at her guts. It was the twelfth day without May and for all Oona’s turning of stones, she’d found nothing.