In bed that night I kept the lamp on beside me.

Chill after chill ran through me. If I closed my eyes I saw Lorraine standing over me, stealing Samson’s words and gleaning something of his tongue.

Had I channelled some of my want into her aged, damp body?

Was my need of him so warm and alive it took up space in the nearest Cure?

A pain behind my eyes. The soreness of needful sleep. And the ache in me still pounding, still raw from having been so stirred. The bruised longing there telling me what I knew but couldn’t fathom; that what was happening to Lorraine was not my doing at all.

Quick haze of a dream.

Of lying down on the lawn.

Of a magpie circling.

Lorraine was due and I met her on the porch. Father was working in the garden, down at the far end near the trees. She’d driven herself, for a change.

–How you feeling today, Lorraine?

–Oh, I’m wonderful.

Reaching for her handbag in the backseat.

–Slept like a dream.

–I see.

Inside the house she made for the sitting room, but I said

–Some tea, before we start?

–Oh, how nice! Yes!

She sat at the kitchen table and crossed her fleshy legs. Put her hands on the table and started to play with a bracelet, undoing the clasp.

–So, you slept well?

Kettle on the stove.

–Yes! Well. Just the occasional strange dream.

–What did you dream of?

Taking the tea leaves from their tin.

Though she was tired she kept her shoulders back, her breasts seemed to me a touch higher, a touch more pointed and firm. Whatever was happening to her, it agreed with her.

–It really was strange … I was deep in a swamp, or something like it. But I couldn’t swim, and I didn’t drown …

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

–Well, why don’t we just sit here a moment.

Looking out at the garden, the lawn looking so harmless and smooth. Father with his back to us. Squatting, standing again.

–I’m not keeping you today?

–No Lorraine, you’re my only Cure.

I brought the tea to the table. A teapot I had to wipe clean of dust and two porcelain cups. I poured her a cup and looked at her face, her sagging jaw, her pockmarked brow. She was twitching. The muscles in her throat shot up and down like little bolts of lightening and her lips pulled back from her teeth. I said –I’m afraid we don’t have milk … or sugar.

She leaned forward and lashed the full cup toward me so it landed scalding in my lap. I felt it sizzle and burn while I looked at her, looked out the window. Father was still looking away, but Lorraine was leaned over the table now, her hands fisted up and knuckle-down on the wood. Wheezing, her shoulders forward. And then: she slumped back, nearly knocking the chair.

–Oh Ada, little Ada – I am sorry, I don’t know what—

–That’s all right Mrs Languid, why don’t we go inside.

And she lay back on the couch and kept on rasping until I put my hand over her eyes.

I didn’t open her, just let her sleep, putting my hand over her face and singing the song harder to make sure the slumber stayed deep. After a little while I lifted up my dress to remove the burnt skin where it was coming away in thin, papery layers. Shimmering where it caught the light. Lorraine kept sleeping, but even in her sleep I saw her muscles stutter and leap.

Not my desire. Not any of my feelings at all.

Damn, damn, damn.

Gilda Flynn

I haven’t thought about Samson Wyde in years. Him and his sister, we used to call them ‘rumour-rich’. He disappeared and then she was gone a month or two after.

No doubt they’re off living in sin somewhere, thinking us all fools.

From my bedroom I heard a car approaching. I assumed it was Lorraine, thinking she could call on us at her leisure. I was still thinking what to do with her, how to temper Samson in The Ground.

But it was Olivia.

I looked out my window and saw her in the drive, went quickly downstairs and met her on the porch, stopped her on the steps.

She was shining across her collar and her eyes were twitching at their corners, where the soft lid ran into the sides of her face. Pretty, pretty woman.

–Hi, Mrs Claudette. I’m afraid I can’t see you now. It really is better you make an appointment—

–You seen my brother?

Taking deep breaths through her nose like she’d been tracking his scent and it had lead her here.

–No, I haven’t.

Looking over my shoulder.

–Your father here?

–Yes.

–Has he seen him?

–He hasn’t been here, Mrs Claudette. Would be unusual if he had.

–He’s gone. He’s gone and with no word left behind him.

–Has he been gone a long time?

–I’d like to ask your father if he’s seen him.

–Father gets angry when people waste his time.

She looked back to the truck, thinking, and I kept my face very still and hoped hard that Father wouldn’t hear anything she said, anything that would entice him to come outside. I said –I don’t know why you think he’d be here, Mrs Claudette. Your brother is nothing but healthy.

She kept on looking at the truck, her lips came apart and let loose some unhappy laughter. I was pushing her now, making her angry enough to show it. I couldn’t help myself. I liked seeing her upset, liked knowing things she didn’t know. A warm shiver ran through me.