The Comforts of Madness by Paul Sayer

Author:Paul Sayer [Sayer, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780094684805
Publisher: Paul Sayer
Published: 2015-03-15T04:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

My sister, Alison, if that was her name, (yes, that was her name) led me by the hand to a clearing she had made in our weed-strewn back garden, her white fingers wrapped firmly about my wrist. Maybe she was eleven or twelve years old then, I don’t know, a bit older than me, I think. ‘You can sit there,’ she said, pointing to a corner of the rug she had brought from the kitchen and laid in the green overgrowth. I sat down.

She was wearing shorts, a yellow vest, and a pair of our mother’s sunglasses which covered half her face. When she saw that I was sitting down she lay on her back in the thundery warmth, looking at the skies for a few moments. Then she sat up again, snatching an old magazine from the untidy pile at her side, magazines given to her by a girlfriend a long time ago. She flicked the pages over irritably then stopped to read for a while. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my dear God, the things they put in here. Rubbish. For kids. “Hazel eyes”, “Dreamboats”, it’s enough to make you puke.’ She threw the magazine aside and stood up, kicking off her sandals. She knelt beside me. ‘Do you know what I’d do,’ she said, ‘if my “Dreamboat” lover came along right now, right this very minute?’ She leaned closer, whispering, her lemon breath on my cheek. ‘Do you know what I would do, my little quiet one?’ She lay on her back again, her legs flat on the rug, her toes twitching. ‘I’d do this,’ she said, ‘sit back just like this. Then I’d let him have his rotten way with me. And afterwards . . .’ She paused, cupping her hand over her mouth, her soft yellow stomach quivering with suppressed laughter. ‘Afterwards,’ she said, ‘before he went on his way again, he might condescend to toss me a nice bright shiny coin.’ She laughed forcibly, rolling on to her side, her long straight hair falling over her face.

Thunder rumbled from somewhere over the fields at the back of the estate where we lived. A woman appeared in the next garden to bring in washing from her line. She stared at us, her hands on her hips. Alison sat up and returned her stare, making a screeching noise then flopping back to the dirty wool of the rug, her arms and legs tremulous, crooking slowly into the shape of a human swastika, her tongue lolling, her eyes strained to show the whites. She remained motionless, unbreathing. The woman stepped up to the fence. ‘Is she all right? Your sister? What’s the matter with her?’ Alison suddenly jumped up, dancing and kicking. ‘No,’ said my sister, ‘I’m not all right. I’m a loony, you know that. We’re all loonies here, that’s what you all say, isn’t it?’ She fell into the grass, then crawled up to me, sobbing now, resting her head on my crossed leg. The woman tutted.

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