Two Dark Tales: Jack Squat and The Niche by Charles Lambert

Author:Charles Lambert [Charles Lambert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781910709238
Publisher: Gallic Books
Published: 2017-06-14T23:00:00+00:00

Gordon woke again that night, fuzzy from wine and sex, this time to find himself alone in bed. He could tell without moving that Omar wasn’t beside him, but still he felt for the body, sliding his hand into the emptiness. A fly was buzzing in the room. Was that what had woken him, he wondered as he sat up. The absence of his lover, the presence of a fly, battering against the glass? He listened for some other noise, and then, as if dreamt, he heard Omar’s voice in the other bedroom. He got up and walked through, his heart beating, his mouth dry. He hadn’t thought once about Lolita.

Omar was standing with his hands pressed against the wall opposite the door. The window had been opened, and so had the external shutters; the room was luminous with moonlight. He was naked, beautiful, shivering in the cold air from outside. He didn’t react when Gordon asked him what he was doing; he carried on talking, some kind of incantation, the same few words repeated, it seemed to Gordon, although he couldn’t make out what they were, nor even what language. Perhaps they meant nothing at all, he thought. Perhaps they meant jack squat. He crossed the room until he was within reach of Omar, but he didn’t touch him; it was as if he didn’t dare. Omar’s face was strained. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were taut with effort, livid; he had caught the sun that day, but the skin on his sides, beneath his arms, was white as milk. He was pushing against the wall with all his strength. And then Gordon heard the words. Let me out, Omar was saying. There are four ways in but no way out. Let me out. There are four ways in but no way out. Let me out. The sun-reddened skin on his shoulders was gleaming with sweat in the pale light, his lips were drawn back, his teeth bared. He was an animal loose in the house.

‘Come here,’ said Gordon, trying to fold his own arms around Omar, to pull him close, to warm him somehow. To silence him. But Omar resisted. He struggled to free himself, fretful, the words tumbling out of him. His eyes were open, but he seemed to be asleep, dreaming perhaps, staring hard at something that wasn’t there, or that couldn’t be seen by Gordon. He pulled an arm free and started to scratch at the wall until he broke a nail and left a smear of blood on the freshly painted plaster. Gordon had begun to whimper with desperation. He didn’t recognise the noise he was making as something that belonged to him, as being made by him. He had never known Omar so strong, so impervious to his pleading. ‘For God’s sake, Omar,’ he said. ‘You’ve made yourself bleed.’ He dragged him away from the wall, finally, when Omar’s strength seemed to leave him. They stood together, holding each other, at the heart of the still-unfurnished room.

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