Ruthless - [24]

‘Go on,’ she urged him. ‘Do it.’

He opened the packet and slipped the condom on. Then he lay upon her, pushing his penis down between her thighs, desire overtaking his caution, his concern. He found the place, but discovered to his dismay that she was dry. Quickly he spat into his hand and wetted his cock so that he shouldn’t hurt her. Overwhelmed with his love for her, he pushed at the place eagerly, wanting her so much.

Orla stiffened.

‘Relax,’ he urged, kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulder.

Her hands were bunched into fists against his chest.

She was clenched shut – so firmly shut that he couldn’t enter her.

He pushed again. It was no good. He felt his erection wilt as his mind whirled with bewilderment. She was rejecting him, her actual body was saying no. He looked at her face and saw that her eyes were screwed up as if she couldn’t bear to even see what was happening to her.

‘I can’t breathe,’ she said, shoving her fists against him, starting to writhe in panic.

Instantly Rufus withdrew, flopping back on to the bed. He threw the condom aside. He was no longer erect. He turned his head and gazed at her.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

She nodded, her arm across her eyes.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

She said nothing.

‘I’ve rushed you,’ said Rufus. ‘I’m sorry. We can try again, later.’

Orla dropped her arm down on to the bed. Her eyes were wet.

‘Hey. Don’t cry. It doesn’t matter. We’ll leave it for tonight, OK? We’ve all the time we need, don’t worry.’

‘All right,’ she said faintly.

‘We’ll just sleep together,’ said Rufus. ‘Nice and cosy. All right?’

Orla nodded.

‘I’ll turn out the light,’ he said, and did so, pulling the sheets and blankets up to cover them both, snuggling in against her back. It felt so good that he almost forgot his worry at their abortive attempt at love-making. He drifted off to sleep, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair, his arm around her. When the morning light flooded in, she was no longer in the bed with him; he found her asleep on the chaise-longue under the window, wrapped in one of the blankets.

‘Hey,’ he said, nudging her awake. ‘You OK? Why are you over here?’

Orla stretched and woke. ‘It’s nothing. I find it hard to sleep with someone else in the bed with me, that’s all.’

But I’m not just someone, he thought, hurt. I’m Rufus. And I thought we were childhood sweethearts, adult lovers.

Clearly she wasn’t used to sharing her life, that was the problem. He reassured himself with that thought as he left her there and padded along to his own room to shower and dress. It would all come right, in the end.

22

He left it a while, let the dust settle. He was kicking himself because he’d charged at it like a bull at a gate, he should have held back. He finished chopping the wood, mended a leaking gutter, made himself useful. Then a week later, as the evening drew in, he said:

‘I thought I might come to your room tonight. If you’d like that.’

Orla gazed at him across the kitchen table. ‘All right,’ she said at last.

After that, his blood fizzed with anticipation. It would be OK this time. She no longer saw him as some threatening stranger. They’d laughed and chatted together these last few days, walking the banks of the Shannon with the salty winds buffeting them, relaxing after they’d finished their chores on the farm, sitting in the shade of an old apple tree. Becoming familiar with each other after all those years apart.

This time, it would be fine.

Only it wasn’t.

The same thing happened. She was so tight, he couldn’t get inside her. In fact, he began to fear that if he did manage entry, he would hurt her badly. And that dissolved his arousal like nothing else could.

They lay afterwards, him cuddling up to her, Orla stiff as a board. In the early hours, he awoke. And she was gone again.

He fumbled for the bedside light, turned it on.

The room was empty but he could hear a distant thumping, like someone hammering a nail into a wall. He wrapped himself in a robe and went and opened the bedroom door. Instantly, the sound was louder. He went downstairs and stood in the hall, trying to place the direction of the noise.

It was coming from outside.

He went to the front door: it was unbolted. He opened it, stepped outside into the cool night air: out here the din was much louder. It was coming from the barn beside the house. And it wasn’t hammering. It was music.

He opened the barn door and the noise almost smashed him backward. AC/DC were belting out ‘Highway to Hell’. The interior of the barn was awash with brilliant strip lighting, and there was colour everywhere. At first he thought it looked like blood, but there were dark blues, indigo-deep, and fiery oranges, great swirls of chaotic colour. And there in the centre of it, the boom box perched on a chair at her side, was Orla. She was on her feet, in her nightdress, and she was feverishly daubing paint on to a big canvas set up on an easel. The scent of linseed oil and paint assaulted his nose.

‘Orla?’ he shouted.

She didn’t turn: couldn’t hear him.

He shut the door, so as not to wake the old folks.