The Line between Love and Death by Alex Woolf

7/29/2019 The Line between Love and Death by Alex Woolf

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Alex Woolf was born in London in 1964. He has worked as

a writer and editor for more than 20 years and has publishedover 60 works of fiction and non-fiction, mainly for young

adults. His fiction includes Chronosphere, a science-fiction

trilogy set in the 22nd century. Alex lives in Southgate,

North London, with his wife and two children.


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The Line Between

Love and Death


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A l e x W o o l f

The Line Between

Love and Death


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Copyright A l e x W o o l f

The right of Alex Woolf to be identified as author ofthis work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77

and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 211 9

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2013)

Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain


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To my mother and father


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P A R T I


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Chapter 1Confessions of a Hospital Porter

She had the most beautiful skin Id ever seen. It was like a

softly gleaming peach golden silk with hints of rose. I

wanted nothing more than to reach over and stroke it. Our

hands were mere inches apart. It would be as easy as touching

my own arm.

Im all for convention most of the time. It guides us

down certain avenues of socially acceptable behaviour and

stops us from making fools of ourselves. But then there are the

times, such as this one, when we hit that grey area, where the

rules of convention arent much help.

We were seated opposite each other in a busy hospital

staff canteen. This was the third coffee Id enjoyed with Nurse

Trudi Tyler in as many days. Now by the third coffee of any

relationship, you would normally hope to have figured out a

girls intentions, if she had any. A man ought by rights to be

allowed to make some assumptions by the third coffee. But the

only signals Trudi was giving out were confoundinglybewildering and contradictory. She was friendly, sure

sometimes very friendlybut where does mere amiability end

and amour begin? I wasnt even sure Trudi herself knew her

exact whereabouts on the friendship-flirtation axis half the

time. She seemed to totter one way or the other along the scale

like a drunken sailor in a storm. Just now, for example, she

was leaning in towards me doing that eyelash-batting thingwith the lopsided smile, tracing little circles with her forefinger

on the table between us while confiding how empty her life

currently was. A minute later I was having to listen to her


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drone on about her on-off boyfriend Darren in Radiology, as if

the only part of my anatomy she was remotely interested in

was my shoulder to cry on.

The girl was an enigma. But still, that skin of hers

sunset on alabaster, wild primrose ice cream, the metaphors

kept flowing. I could almost see my finger drawing a gentle

line along her arm, just above the wrist.

But you dont, do you? Or do you?

I should say at this point that I was working as a hospital

porter and nearing the end of a 12-hour shift, transporting

patients, delivering meals, moving medical equipment. I was

tired and probably not thinking straight.

What was the worst that could happen? A slapped cheek?

I had no idea.

You know you really do have a remarkable epidermis, I

remarked casually.

You what?

I smiled and began gently stroking her arm. In the

background I could hear the canteen clatter of knives on plates

and smell the canteen smell of old chips and custard.

Hospitals are not sexy places. Id been portering for long

enough to work that one out. Carry on Doctor it was not. The

smells, the stress, the sickness conspire against all but the most

urgent erotic impulses. But human nature is what it is: peopletake their chances where they can find them. And if youre

young and single and its late spring when the sap is rising and

youre working long hours in a building with plenty of spare

beds and about as many willing women, maybe its not so

surprising how many chances come your way.

At the touch of my finger, Nurse Trudis aquamarine eyeswidened and her little blonde forearm hairs rose up as if by

magnetism or static electricity. When shed got over her initial

surprise, she began to smile. She leaned towards me and


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whispered: Room 17 in the cardiology wing is free right now.

If youre interested, Ill see you there in ten minutes. Then she

picked up her tray and departed with a swish of nylon trouser

fabric.

The modern nurses uniform again, a far cry from Carry

On Doctor is very unsexy: sensible and blue, with baggy

black trousers. But as I watched Trudi sashay through the

canteen, she might as well have been wearing a low-cut,

figure-hugging cocktail dress for the thrill of anticipation the

sight of her provoked. I felt like Zeus or Thor at that moment.

Like Midas.

It was just then, as I was watching her leave, that I made a

diabolical decision, the consequences of which Im still living

with to this day. I suppose I was scared of losing the

opportunity, but thats still no excuse, I realize, for deciding to

switch off my pager. After all, Trudi would have understood if

Id been called away. We could have rearranged. But maybe

thats just me being wise after the event. At the time, I was

feeling overworked and a bit resentful, not to mention fairly

godlike and all-powerful. I took a gamble. What were the

chances they would need me for anything urgent in the next 20

minutes?

What were the chances...?

I dont know exactly what I was doing at the very second

the pager failed to go off, but I may have been kissing orstroking her excellent skin or performing some other intimate

activity upon dear Trudis person, and no doubt I would have

cursed heavily, and so probably would she, and Id quite likely

have kicked or punched something in my frustration as I

clambered off the bed and got dressed. Anyway, the oxygen

cylinder would have been taken from the storage bay and

delivered in reasonable time to the ICU and the patient inurgent need of ventilatory support, Mrs C HodgekissI never

did find out her first namewould very probably still be alive

today.


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But the pager was switched off and unable to do the thing,

the only thing, it was created to do. And Trudi and I continued

undisturbed to the mutually delicious conclusion of our sweaty

endeavours. The scent of her was still in my nostrils as I

climbed back into my uniform and returned to the corridors

with my trolley. Another fifteen minutes would pass before I

learned the totality of the price I, and more particularly Mrs C

Hodgekiss, had to pay for my few snatched moments of lust.

Someone had witnessed Trudi and I sneaking into Room 17.

There was no denying our guilt.

Oh, I could seek to deflect some of the blame: the staff

shortages that meant only I was around to do this particular job

at this particular time; the fact that not a single member of the

nursing staff saw fit to fetch the cylinder once it was clear that

I wasnt answering the call. But that wasnt the way I saw it.

The way I saw it was that, for the second time in my life, my

sexual urges had led directly to someones death.

The second time?

Ill come to that.

Anyway, thats why, when the disciplinary hearings

began, I didnt offer any excuses. Id done wrong. Dereliction

of duty. Reckless behaviour. Gross negligence. I hung my head

and accepted all the charges they threw at me.

The episode that cost us our jobs had no sequels. Trudi

called me up a few days after the dismissal and we went outfor a meal and a drink very polite, very friendly, but no

question of anything more. We were both too shaken up, too

wounded. Trudi didnt suffer the guilt I did shed never

asked me to switch off the pager. But she was angry at the

hospital management thought wed been treated shabbily,

was in the mood to appeal. I took it much more personally, as

an indictment of my whole lifestyle, a painful and muchneeded corrective, a lesson in personal morality. What I

needed, I told her, was a prolonged period of self-reflection

and sexual abstinence to purge my degenerate soul. I think I


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went on about this for quite some time that evening. Great

entertainment I must have been. No wonder I never heard from

her again!

Someone I knew once said that love in its purest form

always exists in close proximity to death. I guess he was

talking about how people are so often prepared to die or kill

for lovethat love is no respecter of life and often seems more

at ease in the company of its opposite. The way he put it, love

extends beyond the borders of life, into that hinterland between

the here and the hereafter. I dont know if I would go that far.

But in a funny way, that comment did have a kind of relevance

to my life. After all, it was my desire to make love to Nurse

Trudi Tyler that resulted in the death of Mrs C Hodgekiss. And

ten years earlier, when I was seventeen, a similar thing

happened, but with consequences far more personally tragic.

It was New Years Eve in the year 2000, and getting on

for midnight. The girl called at around half past eleven. I dont

even remember her name now: Susie? Sarah? Something like

that. She was my current obsession anyway. Where are you,

Jack? she asked above a background of party sounds. I was

so looking forward to seeing you. Alcohol was slurring her

words deliciously. Now I might just have to get off with

Nigel. Or it may have been Nick.

A sense of urgency overwhelmed me. I simply had to stopNigel or Nick getting his dirty paws on Susie or Sarah before I

did, which meant getting there before midnight, when the

smooching was bound to start.

I put the phone down and turned to my dad, who was

chatting and laughing with his mates, whiskey in one hand,

cigar in the other.

Can you give me a lift to the party? I asked him.He gave me a pained look. I thought you didnt want to

go?

Ive changed my mind.


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Dad protested. He wanted to see in the New Year with his

guestsand he was enjoying his cigar.

Youll make it back here before midnight if we leave

now, I urged. I hated doing this because I knew my dad

wouldnt be able to say noit simply wasnt in his nature.

Dad dropped me at the partyprobably driving too fast

then headed for home. He never made itkilled in a head-on

collision with a drunk driver. I reckon it couldnt have been

later than 11.50 when the crash occurred. Hed only wanted a

quiet evening in with his mates, and to enjoy the rest of his

cigar.

Theres a lot I dont know about dads death. What were

his final thoughts? Was he angry? Bitter? Regretful? Amused?

Did he die instantly or did the life force flicker on a while

within the twisted metal and broken glass? Did he make it to

2001? The pathologist was never clear about that. It would

have been nice, at the very least, to know which year, which

century, my dad died in.


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Chapter 2The Narcoleptic Nephew

My parents hadnt wanted a child. They were in their forties

when I was conceivedboth were successful tax accountants.Dad always referred to me half-jokingly as an accident waiting

to happen. That was true enough. My mum got eclamptic

convulsions within minutes of giving birth to me, then went

into a coma from which she never emerged. Technically it was

the placenta that killed her, but thats not how I reasoned it to

myself by the time I was old enough to understand such things.

I killed her, simple as that, just by being born. She was 43.After mum died after I killed her dad changed jobs.

Hed been working as a consultant for Everdell Industries.

Now he became personal tax advisor to the companys founder

and CEO, Paul Everdell. That gave him more flexibility. He

could work from home, look after me as well as Paulease

my colic and Pauls tax burden at the same time, milk bottle in

one hand, calculator in the other at least that was how daddescribed it to me later.

For a tax accountant, dad was not a very serious man. He

cracked up quite easily and at odd moments in churches,

libraries, graveyards, those sorts of placessomething would

catch his eye and hed have to giggle. He was like an

adolescent serious situations just set him off. I dont know

how he controlled himself at work. He was pretty emotionalwhen I got him on the subject of mum. He said she was the

brightest, most capable woman hed ever met a woman of a

thousand practical solutions. Shed have made agreat mum,


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he often said. Except that she was always too anxious. Shed

have swaddled you in cotton wool.

He was also pretty passionate about mealways talking

to my teachers, discussing my progress. He was at every

school open day, sports day, end-of-year show. Parenthood

came late to him, but he embraced it like no other mum or dad

at my school. Everything I achieved in the pool and the

classroom was for dad something I only fully realized after

he was gone. I never thought about why I tortured my brain to

pass a dozen GCSEs or burned up my lungs to win a cabinet-

full of swimming medals. There was never any why about itI

just got on with it. But then he died and suddenly it was a

struggle getting up in the mornings. Suddenly I didnt want to

look at a swimming pool or a school textbook ever again. I

failed my A-levels and then sort of dropped out. I didnt

completely drop outI always had a home and a job of some

description. But it wasnt the life Id envisaged for myself

when I was younger; it wasnt the life my dad would have

wanted for me.

One of my fleeting other-halves once told me I looked

like everyone and no one. She was probably right. After dads

death, a big part of me died too. I felt empty inside, and that

emptiness of spirit must have gradually robbed my eyes, my

face, of anything definable as character. I embarked on a

nomadic, butterfly existence. I was rootless, unable to committo or connect with anyone. I doubt I left a lasting impression

on a single person during those years. Relationships evolved

and dissolved within weeks; friendships rarely went further

than the odd after-work drink.

I dont know why Paul Everdell bothered to stay in touch

after dads death, or why he invited me to meet him for coffeeor lunch whenever he was in town on business. Maybe he was

doing it for dad. Maybe he had a soft spot for me. I just dont

know. Anyway, it was Paul who came to my rescue in the


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wake of the Hodgekiss Scandal and my subsequent dismissal

from my job at the hospital. Two weeks into my new life as an

unemployed monk, Paul called me up.

I heard what happened, Jack, he said in his slow, careful

manner, the manner of a man whod spent his life watching his

words in verbal contracts and gentlemens agreements. And I

just wanted you to know that Im sorry.

It was my own fault, I told him. I got what I deserved.

Even so, its a tough thing to have to go through He

paused and I stayed quiet, guessing there was something else

he wanted to say. Listen, Jack. Ive got a proposal I want to

talk over with you. Why dont you come down to my place this

weekend? Are you free?

I rustled some papers on my desk, pretending to consult

my diaryI didnt actually own a diary, and if I did it would

be as empty as the left-hand side of my bed had been these past

three weeks. Yes, I believe I am, Paul. Are you still living in

Bradenstoke?

Yes. You can catch the 10.35 from Waterloo. Ill have a

car waiting for you at Maiden Newton.

So, the following Saturday, 12 June, I took a train to the

Dorset coast, my first visit there for more than 10 years. My

meetings with Paul since then had been in Londonsnatched

lunches or coffees between his various business appointments.I was curious to see his house again, and Bradenstoke, a place

Id got to know on frequent visits during my early teens when

dad was still alive. The platform at Maiden Newton was

deserted apart from a man in a raincoat. I hadnt brought mine,

which was foolish as the dark clouds mustering above the town

chose that moment to burst with a loud crack and a hiss.

Fortunately, the man in the raincoat turned out to be my driverand he had come equipped with a capacious umbrella. He held

it above me as we splashed with all haste to his silver Jaguar S-

Type, skulking like a supercilious predator in the empty,


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puddle-filled car park. We took off at high speed along the

narrow country lanes, reaching Bradenstoke in less than half

an hour.

The village, though hunkered down and dripping beneath

the wet onslaught from above, was very much as I remembered

it: thatched cottages, slate-grey roofs, the square, crenelated

tower of St Marys, and the white walls of the Old Bride where

I had sampled my first pint of ale, aged 14. On these roads I

had first learned to drive, under dads instruction, in Pauls

battered red Renault 5. As the High Street bent eastwards, we

headed up the steep Cliff Road, then turned right onto a

narrow, stony track. Ahead I glimpsed the bleak tops of the

famous Braden Cliffs, along which Id taken many a stroll with

Nancy Stumbles, a local girl who I remembered chiefly for her

freckled cleavage and my curiosity never satisfied about

how far down those freckles went.

Paul stood watching us from his study window as we

crunched up the gravel to the porticoed front door of his grey-

stone residence, Graston Manor. His long, serious face broke

into a small smile. The shower was easing off now and shafts

of Chardonnay-coloured sunlight broke through in the southern

sky, making the drenched trees and hedgerows glitter in their

cloak of raindrops. Paul came out to greet us. Everything about

him was understated and cool, from the faded blue T-shirt and

loose-fitting, cream-coloured slacks to the slow, easy gait. Hehad to be in his late fifties by now, with several decades of

business lunches behind him, but he looked lean and fit. Jack!

Its good to see you. We embraced, as we always did. And he

smelled, as always, of old cracked leather, firewood and witch-

hazel.

Harding, Pauls valet and chef, remembered me from the

last time I was there, over a decade ago. There were a fewmore lines around his eyes and greys in his hair, but otherwise

everything felt surreally familiar, like the 2000s had never

happened and dad was still alive. He even cooked us up some


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of his speciality nettle and oyster soup and Dorset jugged steak

as if I wasnt feeling nostalgic enough already.

After lunch, Paul and I retired to his lounge and I

sprawled in the corner of one of his aircraft-carrier-sized sofas.

Paul stood near the fireplace he had never been much of a

sitter, still less a lounger. He was calm and composed, as

alwaysevery movement he made, like every word he uttered,

was considered and full of purpose. I have a job for you, he

said simply.

I raised my eyebrows. It wasnt the job offer that surprised

me Pauls business empire employed hundreds and always

had openings for every kind of person, including, no doubt,

disgraced ex-hospital porters like me. What surprised me was

that hed bothered to invite me all the way down here to tell

me this. He could have just told me on the phone who to report

to and when.

Its not a job with Everdell Industries, said Paul, reading

my thoughts. Its more personal than that. You see, I have a

nephew. Did I ever mention him? His name is Roland.

The name rang no bells with me. I shook my head.

Hes about your age, maybe a couple of years younger. I

suppose I wasnt so close to him in the days when you used to

visit. My sisterhis mother and I had our differences. I

glimpsed a world of bitterness, perhaps regret, in that brief

pause. That may be why you never met him But nine yearsago, Lucille, his mother, died, and Roland effectively became

an orphan, the father having long ago disappeared. I became

his legal guardian. For three years he lived with me here. Then

he went to university. Hes now living in London. Im very

fond of the boy and I do my best to keep in touch with him, but

its becoming harder what with me being down here He

likes to lead an independent existence, and I respect that. Thetrouble is hes not like other young men. He has a condition, a

medical condition, and Im concerned that in his desire to


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behave like other people of his age, he may neglect his health

and come to harm.

What kind of condition does he have? I asked, beginning

to wonder whether Paul had mistaken me for someone with

medical training.

Its called narcolepsy. Paul observed my frown of

ignorance, and elaborated: Its a sleep disorder. He gets very

sleepy during the day and can sometimes nod off at

inappropriate moments. Hes on medication and whenever I

speak to him he always tells me its not a problem. But he had

an accident recently I only found out when the hospital

contacted me. It wasnt too serious he fell off some sort of

raised walkway outside a library, broke an arm but its

brought it home to me that the boy could do with some

informal support. Its not something I can do myself he

wouldnt accept me nosing my way into his life, and I can

understand that. But someone closer to him in age, someone

like you perhaps

You want me to snoop on your nephew for you? I said,

finally getting it.

Paul gave a snort. That is putting it far too crudely. He

examined his fingernails for a moment, like an officer

inspecting a row of soldiers, then returned his attention to me.

I want you to befriend Roland. It wont be difficult. Youll

find him a charming fellow. And, as a friend, I want you tokeep an eye out for him, make sure hes okay. Of course you

mustnt let on that you know me. The boy has his pridehell

almost certainly reject you the moment he discovers my

involvement. Youll need to make it appear that any concern

you have about his behaviour is motivated purely by

friendship. Once a fortnight, or more often if you have

something significant to report, I want you to call me and letme know how hes getting on. I also want you to tell me about

the company he keeps about the people close to him who

might encourage him to indulge in inappropriate activities for


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one of his fragile health. In return Ill pay a monthly fee into

your bank account. It wont be a fortune, but it will be enough

for you to get by on without the need to find an additional

source of income.

The way Paul put it, he made it sound highly tempting:

the makings of a very easy living. But I was suspicious. There

had to be more to it than he was letting on. And if Roland

comes to harm on my watch? I asked him Will you hold me

responsible?

Paul shook his head. Absolutely not. Im not employing

you as his bodyguard. If that was my intention, Id hire a

professional, and pay a lot more money. Im a realist, Jack. I

know that accidents can happen, and that you cant watch over

him twenty-four-seven. I certainly wouldnt hold you

responsible if something happened to Roland. But I do hope

that youd call me if you suspected he was planning something

that might put him in danger, or if you thought he was getting

in with bad company.

I nodded, fairly satisfied with this response. And how, I

asked, do you suggest Ibecome friends with him?

Ill explain all that, said Paul. But first tell me are you

interested?

That small smile Id glimpsed on my arrival reappeared

on his lips just then like a rare desert flower, and I began to see

why Paul Everdell was such an excellent businessman.

Thirteen days later, on Friday 25 June 2010, I met Roland

for the first time. Unfortunately, I didnt like him at all.


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Chapter 3An Exercise in Necrophilia

Paul gave me more than an entre into his nephews social

world he also gave me the use of a nicely appointed one-bedroom flat so as to situate myself within a reasonable

distance of my new best friend. I couldnt say I was unhappy

to give notice for my then residence, a rotten, bug-infested

bedsit in Hackney, and swap it for somewhere several notches

up on the salubriousness scale.

Roland lived, I discovered, in Southgate, a North London

suburb that had hitherto escaped my radar. My flat was in amodern development called Lipton Drive. Just a few minutes

walk from Southgate tube station, my immediate neighbours

were young, hard-faced, hard-working commuterseven less

my cup of tea than the long-term unemployables and drug

entrepreneurs of my former neighbourhood.

His uncle told me that Roland was a member of a group

known as the Edmonton Writers Circle, who met each Fridayevening in a place called Sarum House Community Centre.

This, he suggested, would be a good place to make his

nephews acquaintance. Id not tried my hand at creative

writing since my schooldays and I felt intimidated by the idea

of joining such a group. I let one Friday come and go, trying to

build up my nerve. I even had a go at writing somethinga

sort of diary provisionally entitled Memoir of a joblessmonk. But it was so dull that just rereading it made me come

over all narcoleptic.


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Id written barely three A4 sides of this drivel when

Friday rolled around again and, realizing I couldnt put this

thing off indefinitely, I shoved the pages into my bag and

hopped on the W6 to Edmonton. I tried to act casual as I

strolled up to the tall Jacobean pile with its overhanging upper

stories and small, yellow-lit window. I creaked up the dim

stairwell, squeaked along the narrow, crooked corridor and

nudged open the door at the end, from where low mutters were

emerging.

There were five of them in the room: three men and two

women, sitting around a large square table. They all turned as I

came in and for a minute I didnt know where to put my eyes.

Im funny like that give me a girl, a couple of beers and a

low-lit pub, and Im as cocky as a film star. But throw me in

with a bunch of writers or arty types and Im a bag of nerves.

One of the men, a silver-haired chap, said hello in a

friendly voice. He invited me to come and sit down. I found a

spare seat near the door which could be handy for a quick

getaway once theyd sussed I wasnt actually a writer at all.

And you are? he enquired.

Jack, I stammered. Jack Sipher. Im here for the

writers group.

Then youve come to the right place, he said as he

scribbled down my name.

To my left were two younger persons: one was a dark-haired woman with green eyes, pink, chapped lips and a long,

slightly bent nose. She looked Greek or Jewish maybe. She

wore a baggy black cardigan over a white T-shirt. Her head

was cocked as she doodled on her pad causing her long, wavy

hair to fall like a curtain diagonally across her face. Within the

mass of hair I glimpsed hoop earrings. Next to her sat a young

man, who I guessed must be Roland. His left arm was in aplaster castPaul had said hed had a fall recently. He had an

untidy mop of light-brown hair, long sideburns and full lips.

His heavy brows sheltered deep, dark eyes that blinked rapidly,


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almost like a shimmer, and he frequently ran a forefinger

against the underside of the right one as if suffering some

irritation there. His hunched demeanour and the menacing set

of his lips didnt invite approaches from strangers. This

befriending thing might prove more difficult than Paul had

intimated. The girl, on the other hand, was a different

proposition. If I hadnt been doing my monk thing right then, I

wouldnt have minded getting to know her a little better.

Were just waiting for Carol, our chairwoman, to arrive,

said the silver-haired man. Then we can get started Im

Ernie, by the way. And this is He introduced the others, but

the only names I took in were those of Roland and the young

womanSaffi.

Then the door opened and a tall, generously proportioned

woman came in. She had a perky smile, blue eyes and flicky

blonde hair and dressed like a young woman in her twenties in

a loose, belted top and too-tight jeans; a closer look at her face

revealed laughter lines and the skin of a long-term smoker.

Sorry Im late, she growled as she edged her way around the

room to a seat opposite me. She had the voice of a smoker, too.

Ah, a new person, she beamed, noticing me.

This is Jack, Ernie told her.

She took a pair of glasses from her handbag. Hello, Jack,

she said, peering at me over them. Do you have something to

read?Yes, but Im perfectly happy just to listen, I said. I felt

Saffis eyes on me, appraising. Id joined a gym since moving

to Southgate, and Id been down there nearly every day, lifting

weights. The results showed beneath my T-shirt.

Carols eyes, however, were on Saffi and she asked her to

read first.

The younger woman cleared her throat and her gazedropped to the paper in front of her, while her finger looped a

fallen strand of hair around her ear. She glanced briefly over at

me. For Jacks sake, I should just explain where Im at with


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this, she said. Her voice was melodic and husky; her accent

sounded privately educated. Im writing a kind of tribute to

Mario Santini, my former boyfriend who was also a member of

this group. He died last year. Its about a holiday we took

together in Zante two summers ago.

Then she started to read. To be honest, I didnt take a lot

of it in. I was too wrapped up in listening to the music of her

voice; her little intakes of breath; the movement of her hands

as she turned a page or entwined her forefinger in a strand of

hair; the way she sometimes pursed her lips to suppress a

smile, aware it might appear vain to find amusement in ones

own work. This self-imposed ban on sex, I realized, was

having an odd side-effect: a heightened sensitivity to female

pulchritude. During times of feast, a simple meal is hardly

tasted; in famine, every nuance of scent and flavour is noted

and treasured. I dont think I ever studied a woman Id just met

with more intensity and in more detail than I did Saffi during

the ten or so minutes that she read to us.

When she finished, there was a short silence, then Carol

asked for comments. Everyone was full of praise, especially

Carol. I would have liked to make some comment myself, and

probably would have done if I could think of anything to say

I wanted those eyes of hers on me again. But I was a fish out

of water here, to be honest. I didnt know the lingo. Anything I

said would have sounded inane or nonsensical or both, so Ikept my trap shut.

Roland also said nothing, just remained slumped, toying

with his pen. He didnt look happy. Finally, after everyone else

had spoken, he looked up and said in a high, home-counties

voice with a hint of a whine in it: Its a bit dull though, isnt it,

Saff? Like some teenagers holiday diary. You go to this island

and what do you do? Sit on the beach all day and then go tosome tacky bar and drink cocktails. And youre so lovey-

dovey with each other all the time. Id have liked a fight or

something just to relieve the boredom? You obviously enjoyed


25/26

yourselves, but its not exactly a page-turner is it? Pity poor

old jonny reader whos got to wade through all this.

It was the happiest time of my life, Saffi said calmly,

while giving him a pointed stare. I was describing how things

were. I was trying to be honest, and if its too mundane and

lovey-dovey for you, then Im sorry.

Heaven spare us from honesty, exclaimed Roland. We

dont want honesty, we want entertainment. The publishers

like to spin that this or that story is based on truth. Bullshit

I didnt write it for publication, cut in Saffi. I wrote it

for me and for Mario.

And I suppose you thought it would be entertaining for

us lot to sit through this exercise in necrophilia, said Roland

under his breath, inducing shocked murmurs from some of the

others.

Saffi shook her head, seemingly unfazed. Hes just

jealous, she explained to the room. He cant accept that I had

a love life before he came on the scene.

I covered up my embarrassment at this little exchange

with a smirk. Others were clearing their throats and shuffling

their papers. So, they were an item these two? That

complicated things. It would be even tougher befriending

Roland when my natural inclination would be to chat up his

girlfriend instead. To make things worse, it looked like a

relationship in trouble.At tea break, we ascended a spiral wooden staircase to the

canteen in the buildings half-timbered roof space. While the

three older members chatted in one corner, Carol monopolized

Saffi, handing me an opportunity to make my overture to

Roland. He was sprawled in an armchair next to me, one foot

propped on his knee, his forefinger slowly rubbing the bottom

of his eye.Have you been coming here long? I asked him.

He looked up and did the fast-blinking thing with his eyes.

I noticed he had quite prominent ears sticking out from his lean


26/26

face, though the long, floppy hair obscured most of them. A

few months, he sighed, and yawned. Saff got me into it. He

pointed in her direction.

What kind of stuff do you write? I asked him.

Stories, he said, and yawned again. Speculative fiction.

His yawning was setting me off. I forced myself to

concentrate. What exactly is that?

What most people call sci-fi. Only thats such a crap

term. The futures been hijacked by scientists. I blame Star

Trek. Its planted this myth that were on some unstoppable

escalator towards technological nirvana. The way I see it, the

future no way belongs to science. Were more likely to be

living in mud huts and fighting each other with spears in 100

yearstime, the way things are going. Then he leaned close to

me in the manner of a pub bore wishing to impart another pearl

of alcohol-inspired wisdom. The scientists are to blame for all

this, of course, he murmured. Thats the biggest irony.

Intensive agriculture, nuclear proliferation, global warming,

nanotechnology. Theyve opened so many Pandoras boxes,

its a wonder were still here.

Yes, its a wonder, I nodded, trying to look interested.

Do you enjoy the group?

He yawned and stretched. To be honest, I come here

mostly for Saff. I dont have a lot of time for this lot or their

scribblings. As for Carol, she published one reasonablysuccessful novel about 20 years ago and shes been dining out

on it ever since. Talk about a bunch of losers He yawned.

Once again hed led the conversation into realms I dared

not follow. Trouble was, my small talk skills were pretty

hopeless at the best of times and I was fast running out of new

topics to turn to. Then my eye fixed on his plaster cast. I was

about to ask him about that when I noticed that his head hadlolled onto his chest. Roland had fallen asleep.

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The Line between Love and Death by Alex Woolf

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