Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire Page B

had been five years, which was almost a quarter of her whole life.
    The man sipped his beer, staring intently at the nicotine yellow wall in front of him. ‘How old did you say you were?’
    ‘I didn’t.’ Sarah peeled off her jacket and kicked off her shoes, sighing at the immediate relief this gave her feet. ‘Smoke?’ she offered.
    ‘No, I don’t–’ He nodded at the pile of textbooks on her foldout card table. ‘You’re a student.’
    ‘When I’m not a waitress.’ Sarah sank into one of the five-dollar chairs, indicating to the man that he should sit in the other. He hesitated, perhaps wondering if the rickety old thing would hold him, then lowered himself until he was perched on the edge of the seat.
    ‘What do you study?’
    ‘Arts.’ Sarah stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. At first she had thought he was the nervous type, but it was clear now he was a protector. She could see the cogs turning behind his small black eyes: how it would only take a little money to get her some decent furniture, how the least he could do was pay her uni fees, how he could make sure he always picked her up when she worked late, so she wouldn’t have to come back alone to this grim little flat.
    ‘Hey, you haven’t seen the view.’ Sarah stood and walked the three steps to her bedroom and then the two to her bedroom window. She knew without checking that he was right behind her.
    ‘It’s an alley.’ There was an angry edge to his voice. ‘A garbage filled alley.’
    ‘What a pessimist. You’re looking at a treasure trove. Look, we’ve got a couple of mattresses, some car tyres, and that cane chair would be lovely if only the seat wasn’t punched out.’ Sarah felt his breath on the back of her neck. ‘That TV out in the kitchen came from that alley. It doesn’t have colour, but it works well enough otherwise. I like to watch the late news when I get home from work. It keeps me company.’
    ‘Don’t you have parents?’
    ‘Everyone has parents, silly.’
    ‘Where are they? Why do you live like this?’
    Sarah loved that he wanted to understand her. There was not a chance in hell he ever would, but she loved that he wanted to. She reached behind her, catching his hands, drawing his arms around her waist. He made a small noise of pleasure and nuzzled the back of her neck.
    ‘Have you read
Jane Eyre
?’ she asked.
    ‘Have I…’ He was audibly surprised, but recovered quickly. ‘Ah, yes, yes, I think so, at school. A long time ago.’
    ‘Do you remember why Jane leaves the comfort of Thornfield Hall even though she will be homeless and poverty stricken? Why she voluntarily reduces her station in life from governess to beggar?’
    ‘I don’t…’ He chuckled into her hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting a test. I haven’t studied.’
    ‘She left because her dignity was worth more to her than physical comfort.’ Sarah turned around and looked up into his face. ‘And that’s why I live like this.’
    Oh, the pity in his eyes! Sarah took off his glasses so she could see it without interference, and the pure, wet, sincerity of it made her ache. With a burst of passion she kissed him, tugged at his shirt,his belt, his fly. She grabbed a handful of the delicious soft flesh around his middle and pulled him to her bed which squealed in protest. She knew she stank of lard and stale smoke and beer, but the man did not seem to care. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, repeatedly.
    His efficiency at undressing her – the ease with which he lifted her dress over her head without catching the zip on her ponytail, his practised way of loosing her hair from its elastic – impressed her. He must have a daughter, she thought. Men with daughters knew how to painlessly undress a girl.
    Sarah had her own much practiced actions to impress with: the condom plucked seemingly from thin air, opened with one hand, rolled on before he had a chance to tell her he would rather not wear it. And then, with the smallest movement of her