What Becomes by A. L Kennedy Page A

aren’t right and your shirt is silly, too young, but she takes your arm and kisses your cheek and that’s the taxi sounding its horn in the street.
    The pub is in a basement, lots of woodwork, bare stone and leather sofas: the heat in it already a bit much. Out at the back, there’s a kind of garden and you fix yourself up there with drinks for both of you and she goes about and says hello to her pals and the birthday girl. That doesn’t take long.
    You meet three or four of her friends – four of them – and they seem pleasant and not surprised by you and she pats your arm while one of them is watching.
    Peter dabbed his hand dry, fumbled out some antiseptic ointment and a plaster. Tricky to do a proper job with his hands unsteady.
    It hadn’t been a bad evening. A bit dull when they talked about places you hadn’t been to, a past you didn’t know. But then they mentioned Amanda’s school, what she’d been like as a girl and that made her blush and unfurled the sum of you, rocked you.
    And you missed the third-last train and the second-last and then you have to let out the five words boiling in your chest, ‘I won’t be going home.’ You were quiet, but she heard you.
    â€˜No, Peter. You will be going home.’ And her grin came a breath too late to stop me shivering.
    Blood made a small stain through the dressing, as soon as he set it on straight. Small – nothing bad.
    And you said, you truly said, you let yourself say, ‘Well, I could get the bus. There’s a later bus that goes to Glasgow, isn’t there?’
    But then you saw her, all over again saw her, like a new first time.
    â€˜No. You’re going home to mine.’
    In a whisper.
    Like she’s slapped you.
    Whisper that runs down your neck and you’re puzzled, you’re knocked, you’re split – there’s this wonder yelling in you and all the outside of your face can do is frown, stare while she moves off into the room.
    â€˜No. You’re going home to mine.’
    She told me that and went away.
    Saying goodbye.
    She did a lot of hugging. I saw. And eventually she came and got me.
    Leaving together. Thick and friendly and curious air around us, we pair.
    There’s more hugging just as we go – strangers also hugging me, because I am with her – and then we walk – Amanda in heels, but she wants the air she says, she can make it as far as we need to. Just that far.
    A little bit drunk. Both of us.
    And we go.
    We take me home.
    We go home.
    Only a few bright windows as we pass: high, grey, empty streets.
    And I can’t remember, but I do, and I won’t remember, but I do. Her hands on my back, as if she was listening to me, reading.
    Holding each other so much we could hardly undress.
    Her eyes closed.
    Stockings, not tights.
    Flat stomach.
    Goldenish cunt.
    Sweet word and it fits.
    He squeezed the place where the bloodstain was, did it again, started climbing the stairs. A part of him hoped that he might faint soon.
    Fits the line and shape and promise of all my life.
    All my fucking life.
    Up in the shop it was quiet, almost closing time – the final half-hour when the ceiling would slowly grind down towards Peter and his skull would throb.
    You slept for a while, but then woke without knowing why.
    Amanda sitting on the edge of the bed and her skin cold, shuddering, makes you flinch when you move to touch her. So you wrap her up tight with you there in the sheet.
    Wanting to fuck her again, reaching round to her breast, but it’s sleeping, the nipple stays dull and her back is hard against you, unhappy.
    She’d begun with, ‘I’m sorry.’ Which is not a good beginning, but he’d tried to welcome it.
    â€˜That’s all right. I don’t mind.’ He’d been holding her hand, kissing it. ‘But what’s –’
    She’d shaken her head and worked away from him and this took the rest