Brian Stableford - Young Blood

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Primary Phase:

Impuissance

I let it happen. I wanted it to happen.

I could say that I was under some kind of magic spell, or that I was mesmerised, that I couldn't

help myself, but Dr Gray would call that fudging. According to Dr Gray—and he's right—words

like ‘magic spell’ and ‘mesmerised’ aren't proper explanations at all; they're just empty concepts,

lame excuses for not looking any further for real explanations.

I let it happen, even though I was afraid. I wanted it to happen. I wanted him, more than anything

on Earth ... I mean, more than anything else on Earth.

I wanted him, and Maldureve took me. He drew me a little way into his own world, which

overlaps with ours but isn't really ours. He came out of the shadows and acquired flesh. He

needed blood, and the blood he wanted most was mine, and I gave it to him. Knowing that it was

impossible, knowing that he was impossible, I gave him my blood to drink. I can't really explain

it. I have no excuse, if an excuse is what I need. I wanted it to happen, desperately. I needed it to

happen. Why an ordinary person like me should need something like that, I don't know, but I did.

Maybe it would have been more appropriate, in a way, if we had done it out of doors, while dark

shadows lay upon the world like a great blanket of mystery. Perhaps I should have laid myself

down in that soft leaf-litter which carpeted the ground beneath the gnarled trees in the Marquis of

Membury's Garden: the exotic, foreign trees which didn't really belong there. Perhaps we should

have made love in the heart of the moon-shadow cast by one of the gabled attics of Wombwell

House.

If he'd been hungrier, more desperate, I suppose it might have been like that. But Maldureve was

very patient—even more patient than Gil. He was a gentleman, very scrupulous about touching,

pressuring. I suppose he had to be, when he was only shadow and hadn't yet found substance, but

even when he'd put on flesh, he didn't pressure me. He knew that I would give him what he

wanted—what he needed—in my own time, and he wanted to wait, for my sake. He lived with

his hunger until I was ready to appease it.

We did it, in the end, in a very ordinary place, which seemed to me to be a million miles away

from the shadowy world from which he'd come, but wasn't. The borderlands are everywhere. By

that time, he could tolerate dull daylight. Even the glare of the electric lights wouldn't have hurt

or dissolved him, but we steered clear of those anyhow.

It was in my room in Brennan Hall, which wasn't even in the old part of the campus, although it

was on the edge opposite to the science blocks. We used the same bed on which I'd sweated and

wriggled and shuffled and shoved with Gil without—as yet—going all the way. The light was

off, but the curtains were half-open. There was a yellow sodium light just outside, and although

the bulb was below the level of the sill, and had a hood on it to reflect its light downwards, it still

leaked a muted fiery glow into the room. So we weren't exactly doing it in the dark; once my eyes

had adjusted to the dimness, I could see the contours of his face.

I went into it, you see, with my eyes open. I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn't hypnotised.

It was very different from what I had expected sex to be like, and from what sex eventually

turned out to be like. It seems slightly absurd to say that, given that it wasn't sex at all, and there

was no reason to think that it should be in any way similar—but it was similar, in some ways. It

wasn't sex, but it felt sexy. In fact, although Dr Gray might consider it an incoherent thing to say,

it felt much sexier than sex. Perhaps what I really mean is that Maldureve made me feel all the

things that sex is supposed to make you feel, whereas being screwed by Gil, when I finally let

him do it, didn't. Being screwed by Gil, even though we were civilised and gentle about it, felt

much more like what I'd imagined Sharon must have felt, being screwed up against the back

garden wall by some scrawny sixteen-year-old goth. She'd told me that it wasn't so bad, but she'd

also confessed that she was high on ecstasy, so I knew that she probably hadn't a clue what it

really had been like.

I'd never taken ecstasy or anything else. I valued my clarity of mind too much.

There was no real need for us to be naked, but we were. We both wanted to be. It must have been

like sex for Maldureve too, although he didn't get excited in any recognizable way. He didn't have

an erection. He didn't do anything with that at all—but he caressed me with his silky hands,

lightly, affectionately. He touched my breasts, my shoulders, my back, my thighs, but he didn't

touch me between my legs. It wasn't actual sex, but it was unbelievably sensuous.

His body was as silky as his hands: smooth, flawless, beautifully shaped. It wasn't soft, but its

hardness wasn't coarse, like Gil's. Maldureve's body was like a work of art: something patiently

carved out of some strange, exotic substance; like wood, but not wood; like marble, but not

marble. He was massive, but he didn't seem oppressive. Somehow, he supported most of his own

weight, the way Gil tried to but couldn't ever quite sustain, even when we were only messing

about. I didn't feel uncomfortable under Maldureve—pinned down, yes; imprisoned, yes; but not

trapped. It was like being tied up with rope so gentle and so velvety that the restraint was sheer

delight.

I kissed him a lot, mostly around the neck and the shoulders. I think he liked being kissed on the

neck best of all. I think that meant more to him. He kissed me, too. Eyes, mouth, neck, breasts—

nothing lower down. His kisses were very gentle, but not weak. He didn't try to force his tongue

into my mouth, but there was nothing damp and feeble about his kissing. They were strong

kisses, insistent in their way.

I got very hot, I burned ... long before he actually did anything ... anything that could be thought

of as a climax, as it ... I was swimming in supernatural heat, in fervour, in tides of pleasure, the

way I never had done in damp and distant dreams, or when I brought myself off. Long before we

got to the actual point of it all, I felt that I was in another world, and that it was a better world,

where it felt better simply to be ... the kind of world we ought to be in all the time.

I don't mean to imply that I wasn't frightened. I was. But the fear—even the thought of my blood

being let—was just part of it. I thought it would hurt more than it actually did, but the thought of

being hurt was just part of it, another dimension of excitement. The fear was part of the thrill, as

it always had been with Maldureve. That was Maldureve's magic, if he had any magic at all: the

ability to transmute fear into something welcome, something sexy.

I had never felt like that before, but once I'd had a taste of it, I didn't ever want to go back. I felt

that I was only just waking up from a lifelong sleep.

When you think about it, there's no real reason why ordinary, everyday consciousness should be

as dull, as empty, as desolate, as near to being nothingness as it is. We might be permanently high

on our own endorphins, if only natural selection had made a better job of shaping our minds; but

we're not, and that's why we have to go searching for sensation, even in the most absurd places:

in pills and powders, mushrooms and weeds; in the further reaches of the imagination; in

relationships; in sex.

Maybe sex does deliver, for some. Maybe Jackie Collins really can scale those heights of ecstasy

she writes about. Maybe Barbara Cartland really can get blown away simply by being in love.

Maybe I could have followed that route, if only I had found the right man (not Gil), but I don't

think so. I certainly don't think that Maldureve was simply the right man: my Lord Byron, my

Rhett Butler. He got me to where I wanted to be not because he was handsome, charming or

overpowering, or because I was ‘in love’ with him, and certainly not by virtue of the awesome

power of his utterly uninterested phallus. I was hot and high long before he did it, but that was

because of what he was, and because of what it was, not because of the masculinity of the form

he'd taken on when he came out of the borderlands.

Maldureve really made me live, the way nothing ever had before.

I have to say all this now because I still have to make it clear in my own mind. A lot has

happened since that first fateful night in Brennan Hall, but I have to be certain that the memory I

have of it is true and accurate and insightful. I have to be quite certain that I know what I did, and

how it felt, because I have to be quite certain about what I am. I have to understand what

happened to me, and how, and why, so that I can carry my life forward positively and

authoritatively.

Being with Maldureve, and making love to Maldureve, was the peak experience of my life. It was

so infinitely pleasurable, so fabulously intense, that had I been able to anticipate it in advance it

would inevitably have become the only worthwhile goal of my future existence, even if it had

been necessary for me to override all moral considerations, and all considerations of sanity and

reason. Maldureve accomplished my awakening purely and simply by virtue of what he was and

what he did.

I didn't know, at first, exactly what it was all leading up to. I knew what he was going to do, but I

didn't know precisely how. I only knew that what I thought I knew—derived from all those

stupidly gory books and ridiculously camp films—couldn't possibly be right. Vampires have no

fangs.

Recording that, even now, seems like a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous. But it only

seems that way because the words come trailing tattered clouds of association, like dusty

cobwebs, which can never entirely be shaken off. Write ‘vampire', think Christopher Lee, Bela

Lugosi or—these days—any one of a hundred others. But it isn't like that. Not really—if ‘really’

is a word that I'm entitled to use here. Dr Gray would say not; but Dr Gray doesn't know. I do

mean ‘really', and I don't just mean ‘real for me’ or any other weak and cowardly evasion of

authentic assertion. I mean really. Maldureve was a real vampire.

Maldureve came from the shadows and put on substance by slow degrees, but when he first drank

my blood he was no longer a shadow, and he certainly was not a dream. He was on my bed in

Brennan Hall, faintly illuminated by that inconvenient sodium light, holding me down and

bringing me up ... up as high as a kite, as high as a shooting star, as high as Heaven itself.

Cliché, I know, cliché, cliché, cliché ... but what other words do we have for talking about our

emotional ascents to the limits and beyond, except those which have been crudely hacked to

death by romantic novelists for hundreds of years?

That's irrelevant, of course. It doesn't matter how others have abused the words; I must do the

best I can to describe how I felt, and what it meant to me. I need to remember, to analyse, to

understand.

At first, it was like a long kiss. He did use his teeth, but they were perfectly ordinary teeth—white

and neat, with canines no longer or sharper than the average. And yes, he used the side of my

neck, where—I suppose—the jugular vein is. But he didn't puncture the vein with his teeth, and

he didn't shoot in any kind of hypodermic syringe, mosquito-fashion. What he did was to make

my flesh change. By means of the teasing of his teeth and the seductive pressure of his lips he

reconstructed my tissues so that they would yield what he wanted, what he needed, what he

couldn't live without.

I felt my flesh changing, but it's difficult to describe because there's nothing to liken it to. I

suppose a man might think of his prick becoming erect, but that's just a matter of inflation; this

was much more complicated. If I'd been able to see what was happening, I could probably have

organised my sensations better, but I couldn't see—not then. I could only lay my head back to

bare my neck and study the delicate play of light and shadow on the ceiling.

Vampires can change their shape, within limits. It would take enormous effort and artistry to

become a bat or a wolf, but lesser changes are easy enough. The flesh of a vampire isn't as fixed

as human flesh, and when one feeds, he or she can communicate that relative fluidity, that power

of change. Under the pressure of Maldureve's special kiss, the flesh of my neck seemed to flow,

like some viscous liquid.

The sensation of flow was absolutely delicious.

When we speak of melting into someone's arms, we're trying to express the inexpressible by

means of metaphor, but on those magical occasions when our world is infected by the world from

which Maldureve emerged, we really can acquire the ability to melt under the pressure of a

lover's kiss, and it really is a passionate experience: hot, beautiful, like floating beneath the

surface of an ocean of pure calmness.

It must be wonderful, I thought, to melt like this entirely: to become lava, pure flux, glowing with

internal fire...

I don't know what men feel when they come—when the semen spurts out of them—but it can't be

smooth. It's spasmodic, interrupted, jagged. My orgasms tend that way, too, when I bring myself

off. The flow of blood, when Maldureve began to feed, wasn't like that. Not only was it perfectly

smooth, but there wasn't any sensation of expulsion through a channel or duct. However

Maldureve's kiss had restructured the flesh of my neck, it hadn't turned it into any kind of tap or

fountain, or even a tit, although it must have been something not too unlike a tit. Perhaps the

process is more like a kind of osmosis, with the red blood cells migrating across some specially

constituted membrane. It didn't feel as though he were drinking my blood; it felt as if my blood

were somehow reaching out to him. The manner of our connection was quite unique, nothing at

all like what you read in Dracula or see on the screen.

It was infinitely better, of course.

It was as if that connection—which was sustained, I suppose, for seven or eight minutes—

affected all the blood in my body, and hence all the places in my body that my blood could reach

while my heart pumped it round and round and round. The feeling filled me up, from top to toe. I

can only call it ecstasy, though I certainly don't mean the stuff that Sharon and her goth had

popped at the party; I mean the real thing.

I don't know how much blood Maldureve actually took—maybe less than a pint, maybe more—

but he gave such an unimaginable thrill to all that remained that I couldn't have cared even if he'd

taken it all. Even though it felt better simply to be than ever before, I think I could have been

content to die while he was feeding off me.

Afterwards, of course, it was different. Afterwards, I felt good in a more relaxed sort of way, and

though I knew that I'd want to do it again, eventually, there was nothing urgent about the feeling.

But while it was happening, I was out of this world, untouchable by any fear of pain or injury or

death.

I remember thinking that when I died, I wanted to die in that way. I instructed myself, quite

earnestly, that I was to make certain that I died in the arms of a vampire lover: weighed down but

not oppressed; imprisoned by gentle, sensuous bonds.

If I died, that is.

While I lay beneath Maldureve, that night, I didn't want to die for a long time. Being had become

so intoxicating, so lovely, so full of pleasure, now that I actually knew how to be...

That's what I learned, that night in my room, while Maldureve made love to me by the mute

overflow of the yellow light that was supposed to make the pathway beside the Hall safe—safe

from the kind of predator that waits in darkness near places where succulent young girls live and

sleep, with the bright, sweet blood pulsing through their satin flesh...

That's what I learned, when I let the vampire feed on my blood. I learned to be. Maybe I should

have known that before, but I never had. In spite of all the practice I'd had, between birth and

being eighteen, I never had. Even Sharon had been better at it than I had, despite the fact that I'd

had two years start on her; but I'd certainly made up for that now. I was way ahead of the field.

I'd gone from last to first in one single, devastating swoop.

And I never looked back. If I'm looking back now, it's simply because I need to understand as

fully as I can, before I can go forward again into the terra incognita of experience.

In spite of all that was later to happen—and I had already sensed, even then, that Maldureve

knew fear as intimately and as keenly as he knew joy—I never once regretted what I'd done. I

never for an instant wanted to be what I'd been before.

Going to university seemed to have been the one goal of my existence since I was fourteen or

fifteen. Mum and Dad certainly took it for granted that it was a necessary next step in life, and

did everything they could to make sure that I didn't miss my chance. They took great care to

explain to me exactly why it was so vital, and why I mustn't let anything distract me from my

school work. They seemed desperately afraid that I'd let things slide if I got too interested in

boys, and I saw that they were right to be afraid when I watched what happened to some of my

friends.

They didn't seem to have such high expectations of Sharon, maybe because they took it for

granted that a younger sister would make every effort to be different, to avoid being caught up in

a lifelong competition in which she'd always be two years behind. Sometimes I envied Sharon,

just a little. I didn't approve when she dyed her hair black, and I certainly didn't approve when she

lost her virginity up against the wall, before she'd even reached the age of consent, but there was

something about being a goth, about running just a little bit wild, which I couldn't help but envy.

I wasn't tempted, though. I was careful not to get distracted, to make sure that I kept the course of

my life on the right track. I knew that Mum and Dad were right, even if everything that Sharon

said about them was true. They were boring and conventional, but they were right about

education, about making the most of one's opportunities. I wanted to make the most of my

opportunities. I wanted to build my life on a secure basis. I was prepared to be patient.

University was the end I always had in mind, from the time I first went to secondary school. I

didn't ever want to be a rebel; I wanted to be a swot.

Oddly enough, when I actually got to university—when Dad waved goodbye after unloading all

the stuff from the back of the car into my room in Brennan Hall—I felt a sudden shock of panic,

and a sense of terrible unease, simply because I realised that I didn't know what to do next. There

were other goals already about to replace the one I had just attained—first-year exams, second-

year exams, finals—but somehow, they didn't seem quite important enough to fill the void. I tried

to explain it to Mum when I phoned home that first night, but she said I was just nervous and

would get over it soon enough. What else could she say? I had every right to be nervous, after all

the warnings she'd been careful to remind me of on the way down. She was nervous, too, of all

the things that might happen to me now that I was out of sight and there was no one to insist that

I be safe indoors by eleven at the latest.

They were good parents, Mum and Dad. They loved their kids, and they still quite liked one

another, after a fashion. They were the kind of parents who made it difficult to believe in things

like divorce and child abuse. They stuck to the script, and they played their parts with real

conviction. They weren't ashamed to be conventional; in fact, they were proud of being ordinary,

of having all the ordinary ambitions. They thought that if everybody in the world could think like

them and live like them, everything would be okay: no hatred, no violence, no evil. All it took,

they thought, was decency. They were decent about everything, including Sharon's hair. They

expected a certain amount of adolescent rebellion. ‘It's only young blood,’ Dad would say.

They'd expected it from me but they hadn't got it, and that really pleased them. ‘You've an old

head on young shoulders,’ Dad told me, when I was packing to leave. ‘You'll go far.’ I was really

pleased. ‘Make sure you eat properly’ was all Mum said, but I knew what she meant.

In spite of Mum's reassurances, I didn't get any less nervous during the first few days. If I hadn't

been terrified enough already, my first meeting with my tutor would have done the job.

Dr Gray was over sixty, and not very well preserved. His hair was wispy, and he looked as if he

had once been a much taller man who was now slowly crumpling and collapsing into a shortness

he was unprepared to tolerate. He was nearly as thin as I, but his skin was so slack that he must

once have been much fuller of face and figure. His office, which was on the third floor, right

under the eaves of Wombwell House, was full of books and dust. Some people might have said it

was full of character, too, but Mum would have said it was disgracefully scruffy. Unlike the

offices on the lower floors, it had a carpet, and its thick red curtains were not in the conventional

university style. The fireplace had never been bricked up, and the grate was still in it, although

the room was centrally heated. Dr Gray didn't seem out of place as long as he was in his office,

but he and his office taken together seemed to be not only out of place but out of time. What

decade or century they really belonged to I couldn't tell, but I knew that it wasn't mine.

'Charet,’ he said, when I first told him my surname. ‘Is that French in origin?'

'I don't know,’ I said, and immediately felt that the answer was inadequate. ‘I don't have any

French relatives. My father says that there was an inquisitor named Clement Charet in the

sixteenth century, who burned witches in the south of France, but that he can't have been an

ancestor of ours because he was a Dominican monk and wouldn't have been able to get married.'

'Quite so,’ he said. ‘It would not have been a matter for undue anxiety in any case, given that a

propensity for witch-burning is highly unlikely to be hereditary. Long before the university

received its royal charter it was a theological college, and probably produced its fair share of

inquisitors, so we start even on that score. But I shouldn't mock—it's because the philosophy

department was once affiliated to the theology department that it had sufficient prestige to be

allotted Wombwell House when the family petered out and abandoned its estates to become a

university campus. Wombwell is the family name of the Marquis of Membury, as you probably

know. That little woodland behind the house is still known as the Marquis of Membury's Garden,

after a nineteenth-century scion of the family who persisted in bringing back seeds from his

various foreign tours, which he then flung about at random, to see which would germinate and

which would not. The wood has several exotic trees found nowhere else in the northern

hemisphere. Were you interviewed before being accepted?'

'No,’ I said, wishing that I had been. ‘I got a conditional offer on my A levels. Three Cs. I got

three As.'

He sighed. ‘I wish we could interview all our applicants,’ he said. ‘So many of them apply to us

in the mistaken belief that philosophy is all about learning to run one's life, or selecting some

kind of mystical faith that might make one feel happy.'

My cheeks must have been burning. I felt that I was there under false pretences. I didn't say

anything, because I didn't know what to say.

'No matter,’ he went on, sadly. ‘My job, as your tutor, is to monitor your academic progress, and

to provide you with a point of contact within the department should you experience any

problems. Many years ago, tutors stood in loco parentis to their students, but ever since the

government obligingly lowered the age of majority to eighteen, students have been assumed to be

adults and are held to be responsible for their own moral safety. Older members of staff like

myself, however, for whom obsolete ideas die hard, still feel a certain obligation to pry in the

interests of our tutees’ welfare. May I enquire whether you are a sufferer from the complaint

known as anorexia nervosa?'

'No,’ I said, startled by the question although it was by no means the first time I'd been asked.

‘I'm just thin.'

'I'm glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘Although I suppose I shouldn't be entirely content with such an

answer, given that one of the symptoms of the disease is rumoured to be a reluctance to admit to

suffering from it. I don't mean to imply that you are in any way dishonest, but I do feel obliged to

mention that were you, in fact, to be suffering from any such disorder, you would be unable to

rely on me to interfere with its course. I could not claim to understand or sympathize with a

desire on your part to starve yourself, but as an old-fashioned liberal I would defend to the

death—anyone's death—your right to do so.'

What could I say to that? I was eighteen years old, away from home for the first time, utterly

intimidated, and out of my depth. I just blushed and wished that I were somewhere else. Dr Gray

scared me. He was uncontrollable. He could say what he liked, and he had a licence to be clever

at my expense. I wasn't sure he actually cared whether I was anorexic or not.

I wasn't. I was just thin.

Things didn't seem to be getting any easier when I was introduced, a little later, to the other two

members of my tutorial group, in whose company I would have to face Dr Gray once a week, so

that he could discuss our essays with us. One was a boy named Daniel Calvert, who was trying to

grow a beard and not having much luck with it; he seemed bright and rather argumentative, but

easily flustered and confused. His manner veered from awkward aggression to defensive

sullenness and back again with bewildering rapidity as Dr Gray smoothly tied him in knots. The

other was a rather plain and stout mature student in her late twenties, named Cynthia Leigh. She

wore a gay pride badge which featured two overlapping white circles with pendant crosses. She

was discreet enough not to try to be clever, and thus avoided the more sarcastic edge of Dr Gray's

tongue, but he seemed slightly pained when she made a point of informing us all that she was a

single parent and that she hoped he would bear in mind the occasional difficulties that might arise

from her situation.

We all listened politely while Dr Gray tried to explain to us that his job was not to tell us the

truth, but merely to challenge whatever beliefs we happened to have or to adopt, in order to

subject them to a proper trial by ordeal. I didn't understand. I simply assumed, on the basis of

common sense and past experience, that what a teacher was supposed to do was to tell you the

truth and explain it carefully, so that you'd know why it was true. Even though I did know—in

spite of Dr Gray's fears—that much of philosophy had to do with trying to decide what the word

‘truth’ actually meant and what ‘an explanation’ actually was, I was still slow to understand that

Dr Gray's method of teaching really was teaching, and not cruel mockery.

In time, I began to see why it all made sense, and that Dr Gray wasn't quite the ogre that he

seemed, but after that first dismal introductory session I went back to my room convinced that I

had made a dreadful mistake, and that I was not cut out for university at all.

The freshers’ dance was that evening. I wasn't sure that I ought to go. One of Mum's many

warnings had concerned the number of older boys who would be avid for every opportunity to

take advantage of me, and who would regard the dance as a kind of meat-market. I knew that she

was right, and that the darkness beyond the madly flashing strobe lights would be full of

predators on the lookout, all determined to score with some innocent new girl who would be

carried away by the excitement of it all. On the other hand, I didn't want to be left out, and I didn't

want to be a coward. Sharon, for one, would have been utterly contemptuous if I'd missed it—all

the more so because the group that was playing was a minor gothic band called the Night Land

who normally did the northern circuit. She'd seen them on one of her trips to Leeds.

I'd never been with Sharon on any of her outings, and I didn't really share her taste in music.

Music was one of the things I'd always set aside, one of the things I didn't want to be interested

in. That might have had something to do with Sharon's enthusiasm. I always bought her a tape for

Christmas and her birthday, and she always took care to ask me to get her the one she really

wanted. Mostly she played them to herself, using her Walkman so as not to disturb Mum and

Dad, but during the summer holidays, when we were both at home, she'd use Dad's midi system

whenever Mum was out shopping, playing her favourites at full blast. She said that was the only

way to hear them properly—to fill the room with sound and let the drumbeat resonate your

ribcage. This summer's favourite had been Vision Thing by the Sisters of Mercy. Last summer's—

that was before she'd become a dedicated goth—had been Stay Sick by the Cramps. I could still

hum most of the choruses from both records; they'd seeped into my consciousness. In future

years, I thought, I'd still be able to remember those summers every time I heard any track off the

relevant tape.

I knew that I had to go to the dance, for Sharon's sake. It would be something to connect us.

I went with a group of girls who lived on the same corridor in Brennan Hall. The girl who lived

next door to me was called Karen, and though she was very friendly she seemed very different

from me. She told me that she'd never been north of Watford, and though she was only being

flippant I felt put down. Everybody else I met seemed to be from the south too; I felt like an

outsider, and was suddenly self-conscious about my accent. The other girls and I didn't have

much chance to get to know one another once we were at the dance, because the pauses in

between the music weren't long enough to fit in more than a couple of questions and answers.

Over the course of the evening the group dissolved by slow degrees as its members were picked

off by the predators. I felt slightly hurt that I was nearly the last to be targeted.

I knew, and understood perfectly well, that meeting Gil was just a freak of random chance. There

was a sense, to be sure, in which he selected me: he saw, he found me acceptable, he moved in—

but I could have been anyone, really. Anyone not too sour of face. It didn't even matter that I was

averagely pretty, and not fat; he didn't look at me and ask himself, ‘Is she beautiful?’ he looked at

me and asked himself, ‘Is she the type to spread her legs?’ If he'd been certain that I would let

him screw me, it wouldn't have mattered if I'd had a paper bag over my head and twenty pounds

of lard on my hips. I knew that even then, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. It was, as

Dad would have said, the way of the world.

Not that there was anything wrong with Gil. He was better than anything I could reasonably have

expected. He was tall, handsome and a lot older than most of the boys skulking in the shadows.

He was mature and self-assured, and his accent was even more exotic than mine. Sharon would

have said that I was lucky, and she'd have been right. In spite of everything, she'd have been

right.

Right from the beginning, he pressured me—literally pressured me. The dance floor was

crowded, its margins even more so. Circumstances licensed his pushing up against me, thigh to

thigh, hand to arm. I didn't like his touching me, at first—I'd never liked being touched, and ours

wasn't a very physical family—but I knew I'd have to get used to it, if I was going to go to bed

with him. And I was. Not right away, but eventually. From the very beginning, I knew that.

When temporary quietness gave him his chance, the first thing he said was: ‘You look lost.'

'Not as lost as you sound,’ I said, trying desperately to figure out which way was west. ‘I think

America's over there.’ He grinned, not so much at the joke as at the pleasure of having his accent

recognised. He was proud of being an American.

'What's your name?’ he asked.

'Anne Charet.'

'Is that French?'

'No. I'm from Yorkshire. Near Sheffield.'

'I think this band's from Yorkshire. Are they what you'd call a gothic band?'

'Yes. My sister saw them play once. She's got all the gear—black jacket, black jeans, black hair.’

I pointed to the place by the stage where the few goths in the audience had congregated. There

were only half a dozen, and I think they'd come in from off-campus. I couldn't believe that there'd

be any goths among the students. He looked at them vaguely, but he wasn't really interested

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Brian Stableford - Young Blood

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