Rotten Gods by Greg Barron Page A

Simon for a good twenty minutes, and he had just emptied his plate for the third time when she came in. Again he felt that shock in his chest. Their eyes met for a moment before an elderly relative collared her, and he lost sight of her. He turned to Mabel, the sixty-something spinster aunt who, rumour had it, was either a lesbian or sexual predator — or both.
    â€˜Who’s that girl?’ he asked, inclining his head towards her.
    Mabel threw back her head and cackled, brown teeth sharp as files in her upper jaw. ‘That one caught your eye, didn’t she, boy?’ She slapped his knee, then lowered her voice. ‘That’s Isabella Wilkes-Tower. Her grandmother, Augustine, was Delilah’s friend, for many years. They went to school together.’
    Simon felt a lightening of the spirit. ‘So I am not related to her?’
    Another guffaw. ‘Oh no, dear boy, so rest assured, if you and she should happen to rub nasties, your offspring are unlikely to be born with two heads.’
    Simon felt his face burning. ‘Aunt Mabel, you’re disgusting.’
    The criticism added to the old lady’s mirth, and she held her chest as if to prevent her laughter from spilling out from between her bony cleavage.
    Â 
    An hour passed in which Simon attempted to hustle Isabella away from the henhouse of aunts, uncles and grandparents. People were leaving, cars crunching off down the gravel drive, and he had almost given up hope when he saw her out in the garden, kneeling at a bed of roses to inhale the scent of a blossom. He was too young and inexperienced to recognise a deliberate pose. He almost tripped in his hurry to get out there, but now that he was crossing the lawn towards her he felt as clumsy as a puppy in the shadow of her self-assured poise. He stopped five paces from her, thrust his hands in his pockets and said, ‘I missed out on a darn good cricket game for this funeral.’
    Isabella turned, then looked away. ‘I loathe cricket. So boring.’
    It was spring. Sunny. Bright. Bees over the flowers. A heady scent of blossoms in the air.
    Simon grinned and took another step. ‘Lots of people say that, but it’s not, you know. It’s quite fun, smashing the ball, and there’s an awful lot of skill involved. Hook shot, cover drive, leg glance and all that …’ His voice fell away.
    She was staring at him, lips tilting into a smile. ‘What’s your name?’
    â€˜Simon.’ He wished she would stay still but instead she began walking along the edge of the garden.
    â€˜Aren’t you going to ask mine?’
    â€˜I already know. You’re Isabella.’ He skipped a step or two to catch up. ‘I asked my auntie Mabel.’
    â€˜The old dyke.’ Isabella smiled. ‘Mum says that she’s had her hand up more skirts than a French dressmaker.’
    â€˜I like her. Well, she’s a bit different  — not so square, you know.’
    The garden was set on an incline, roses giving way to less labour-intensive blooms  — pansies and snapdragons, crowded and colourful. Down in the lower garden they were out of sight of the house, the bank above retained by a stone wall. Beyond was a valley of fields, and the village of Ellens Green in the distance.
    Isabella stopped and turned, then twirled once. ‘I had two glasses of Champagne, and now I feel silly.’
    Without warning, she gripped his arms and pressed her lips against his. At first it seemed like a joke — a careless gesture — but her mouth opened like a hot clam and her arms encircled his back. The kiss went on for a long time, and then she drew back.
    He stared, eyes wide, shoulders heaving with each breath.
    They kissed again. Isabella changed, her eyes huge and misty, her body becoming limp, as if she would fall if he didn’t support her. Then, abruptly, she stopped for a second time. ‘I’m sorry, that was naughty of