The Mariner

“Yes.” Or at least McConnell does. Me? I don’t know what I feel, that’s a question best left unanswered. “And although bad thoughts can return and upset you every so often, they can’t hurt you. Not really.”

Grace looked assured, and the Mariner felt guilty. He’d fed her a pack of lies. Sure his mother couldn’t hurt him, not physically, but the damage done to the boy then had turned him into the man, and the man saw to it he was hurt over and over again. Continuing her work.

“Grace?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“I understand there is pain, but I want you to do something for me?”

“What?”

“Let me take it. I will take the blame, the hurt, the anger. I will tend that fire if it must be kept. You don’t need to. And if you ever feel you are betraying the past by forgetting it, then remember I’m honouring the memory for you. Let me take the blame.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes. Yes I can.” He allowed himself to touch her once more on the arm, ever so briefly, and the young girl seemed to brighten, ever so slightly. “Now, Miss O’Hara, let’s get you to bed.”

Each room was decorated with a simple bed, a small lantern, and a single grubby window behind thick iron bars. Outside the rain still poured down with a ferocity that made the Mariner feel rare gratitude for being on land.

He carried Grace up the stairs, stepping gingerly, afraid that at any moment he would slip and send them both back down, no doubt twisting their necks in the process. But his steps were true and once inside her room he laid the child upon her bed. Just as sleep claimed her eyes, he gave a her forehead a solitary kiss, bade her goodnight, and left.

He found Heidi waiting in the corridor. She was leaning against the banister, smiling a drunken grin and swaying to the gust of an alcoholic breeze.

“You’re awfully sweet to that girl. Both of you are.”

“She’s had an awful life.”

“Are you sweet to everyone who’s had an awful life?”

“No.” He began to grin back, just as drunk as she. “Just those to whom my devils take a liking.”

“Ah yes, the Tasmanian devils. The devil-whisperer! The man who can make devils do as he says!”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I did once get them to kill a rat, though I think they wanted to do that anyway. You should really call them the devils that can make a man go hungry.”

She laughed and wagged a finger at him. “There’s something very strange about you!”

He studied her face, high cheek-bones, piercing eyes and dainty chin. She really was very beautiful. “And you. You remind me of someone, though I don’t remember who.”

She took his hand in hers and led him up a second flight of stairs. “Let’s see if this jolts your memory.”

He followed in a drunken haze, stumbling as he stared at her hypnotic behind, lost in a sudden and powerful desire. At the top, outside her bedroom door, Heidi turned and pressed her lips to his. Despite the sour liquor, her mouth tasted sweet and inviting, and like a spooked horse, his lust reared, seizing all senses and directing them towards one goal.

They fell against her door, the thin wood shaking with the impact, whilst their hands clawed at each other’s clothes. He felt a stiff nipple greeting his hand though her shirt as he pawed hungrily, urgent in desire. Heidi too, just as needful of intimacy, pulled him close and arched her back, pushing her breast into his palm. Hooking his leg with hers she ground against him, causing him to groan into her open mouth.

Suddenly he pulled away, his eyes seeking hers. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for this,” he began, though his body eagerly betrayed the sentiment.

Heidi put a hand gently on the traitorous appendage. “It’s the end of the world, Arthur.” Her voice was serious and her breath shallow. “What’s left to wait for?”

With her other hand she deftly opened her bedroom door, kicking it wide with the heel of her boot, pulling him inside. He offered no resistance.

They undressed in a blur, plunged into darkness as the door was locked behind. The Mariner’s befogged mind managed to register gratitude for that, he didn’t want her to see his scarred body, a multitude of self-inflicted wounds both ancient and fresh.

“Come to me,” she whispered, and he joined her on the bed, climbing atop whilst she wrapped the blanket around them. The material was far from comfy, its rough thread itched and scratched his back, yet with Heidi warm and soft beneath he drifted away from discomfort. Gone were his aches, his sore wounds, his tortured self-loathing, now there was just her and he, locked together as one.

Once again their lips pressed together, tongues dancing. She took his hand and guided it between her legs, groaning as he found the mark. Letting go of his wrist, now it had found its place, she clasped the back of his head and pulled him even tighter, raising her hips against his fingers.