‘Hallelujah, it’s a miracle on earth!’ I cried at this discovery and Saul was not offended, nor rude in return. He laughed and pulled me close in a friendly way, urging me to shush so I didn’t get into trouble for using the Lord’s words in vain. The rest of our exchange is hazy, but I was definitely the one who suggested we go outside because the bar was too full, too hot. Then, when the cold wind hit the dampness of my blouse, I suggested we go inside the Customs House for blankets.

The record skips again, and the next thing I know we are on the floor of the front office of the Customs House. I am naked, on top of Saul; he is hard inside of me. I am reaching down and fingering myself, bucking towards a shuddering climax, and he looks afraid, says, ‘What are you doing?’

Another skip. He is reaching up for me, sucking on one of my breasts. The blankets we’ve laid on the floor are bunched together, not enough to stop our backs and knees from skinning as we grind against one another. I kiss him as violently as I’d seized that apple, biting at his lip and drawing blood. He pushes me over, flips himself on top of me, finishes what we’ve started, pulling free with a groan and spilling himself across the wooden floorboards.

‘That will leave a stain,’ I have the wherewithal to say.

Then, I am on my sofa, dressed, and I have woken breathlessly, my head hammering. I was dreaming of dragonflies, iridescent and beautiful, but trapped, banging themselves hopelessly against the glass of my kitchen window. A hopeful thought arrives: all that went before was just part of this same nightmare. Then I feel the stickiness between my thighs, the pain pulsing from the raw skin on my knees.

I did all that I did.

I realise I could have left this out, not mentioned what happened that night. But if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

Friday the 13th – April 2018

FRIDAY THE 13TH – APRIL 2018

Viola Kendrick does not run very far. How can she? In every direction, there is nothing but sea.

Hiding is the only option, so she slots herself into the stone arch in the Ornamental Gardens, pulling up her feet – and Dot – onto the recessed bench. She rests her back against the nubby surface, catching her breath. Shells – common cockles, blunt gapers, periwinkles – have been pressed into the render of the arch in patterns. Small red spiders run dizzy paths across these undulations.