The Tied Man

‘Sick fuck,’ I giggled, and burrowed a little further into bed.  Bran gave a soft grunt at the disturbance.

‘Better now?’

‘Much.’

‘Good.’ Finn settled back into the armchair and brought his knees to his chest.  Even in the dim light I could see the goosebumps that covered his bare arms.  I immediately felt guilty.

“Shit.  You must be absolutely freezing.’

Finn shrugged.  ‘I’m used to it.’

‘That’s not the point.’ I reached under the bed and offered him one of the soft white blankets that were stored there.  ‘Here, take this.  I don’t want you getting hypothermia on my account.’

Finn hesitated as if even this simple transaction might tip the delicate balance that kept him in my room.  Eventually he held out his arms.  ‘Cheers.’

I threw the blanket across to him.  He wrapped himself in it so that just his eyes and tousled hair were visible.  Content that he was as comfortable as he could be, I felt the first pull of sleep and reached out to turn down the oil lamp.  That’s when I heard the panicked little gasp catch in his throat.

Finn

‘That scares you.’  Lilith let her hand drop.

I thought about denying it, but she said it with a certainty that was becoming familiar.  ‘Yeah.  It does.  Impressive, huh?  A twenty four year-old fella scared of the fucking dark.’

‘I’ll leave it on.  It’s not a problem.’

I prepared myself for the inquisition, but none came.  I was glad she didn’t push it: it wasn’t a story I ever planned on sharing.  In the dark I was forever fourteen, in my second care home and kneeling in front of a pock-marked young priest who bound my eyes with a ripped sheet so that he didn’t have to look into them as he forced me to take his cock into my unwilling mouth, or lying silent in my bed and listening to his sobs as he thrust against me again and again, praying out loud that the cover of darkness would hide his sin from God’s sight.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Lilith asked in a voice already full of sleep.

No.  I’m just having a wee flashback to giving Father McKenna a blowjob.  I buried my mouth into the blanket.  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.  No worries,’ I replied.

‘S’all right then.  I owe you one for this, Finn.’

‘Don’t be so feckin’ daft,’ I said as she pulled her duvet over her shoulders and shut her eyes.

Lilith even slept tidily.  Simply turned onto her right side and drifted off with a light sigh, as still as Snow White in her glass coffin.

I sat there for a while, wrapped in my blanket and just listening to her soft, regular breathing, until to my shame I realised that I wanted nothing more than to curl up, surrounded by the order that Lilith had created in the heart of so much chaos, and sleep.

Even Blaine, who would – had – let guests do pretty much anything with me for the right price, did not let anyone keep me overnight in case I fell asleep in their company.  According to Blaine, who had witnessed it, I tended to spend most of my time howling out the dissent I was denied whilst awake.  Not at all good for business.

That was why I had paused before I took the blanket from Lilith:  it increased the risk that I would get too comfortable and do something really stupid.  Tonight had been dangerous for both of us, even though we had not been caught:  for a while it had been all too easy to pretend that this was a nascent friendship, and that would only make another thing for Blaine to convert into her own sick currency.

I reluctantly shrugged myself free of the blanket’s warmth and folded it into a haphazard square before resting it gently on the foot of the bed.  Then I clicked Bran to my side and left Lilith’s room without looking back.

Chapter Eleven

Lilith

I had always been a watcher.  From an early age I had learnt that if I stayed still and quiet enough for long enough, things would happen around me as though I were invisible.

It used to send my father demented.  As a child I could sit a corner of his office for hours, watching him work and listening to his calls to his constituents, his colleagues and his lovers, and he would only notice me when I had had enough of my game and decided to leave.

This particular morning in mid-July, I lurked in a dark corner of Henry’s kitchen, behind the door and with my back to the range, feeling its warmth along my spine.  My sketch pad rested on my knees and I worked on a drawing of Bran, who was obligingly posing for me by sleeping in a brindled, softly snoring ball of fur at my feet.