‘OK,’ she said, but remained unmoving on the mattress. I felt her nod slowly with her face in the pillow.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No … I’m just so tired.’

‘Should we wait a bit?’

‘Yeah. Till I can get up.’ She started to sob again.

So I lay there for a while as the pee soaked into my mattress, the smell of urine intensifying. I continued to stroke Carral’s body, first her cheek, puffy and wet, and then her hand. Then I was braver, stroking her naked back, letting my fingers walk her ribs like rungs on a ladder up to her throat. Where everything on Pym’s body bulged, as if something under his skin was always trying to tear its way out, Carral’s skin was the pristine surface of water. She let me stroke her, lying completely still.

Later I moved close to her side again. Our bodies dried-up like a crystal fist.

‘Jo? Could you tell me something nice?’ Carral asked after a while. Her voice was shaky.

‘What?’

‘Anything … A story from Norway or something.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll tell you about the toughest girl in my primary school class. Do you wanna hear about her?’

‘That sounds nice.’

‘She was called Emma,’ I said, ‘and one time I visited hers, she asked me if I dared get into bed with her naked.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seven, maybe? I was in year one. We didn’t start school till we were seven in Norway when I was little. Anyway, I said I’d do it, I wanted her to think I was as tough as she was.’

‘Were you scared?’

‘A little. We undressed and lay down on her bed. And then Emma said that we could get pregnant.’

‘By lying there like that?’

‘Yeah.’

Carral chuckled softly.

‘Did you believe her?’

‘No. I knew about sex, but she sounded dead sure. And, in a way, the toughest girl is always right. So I got scared, and I put my clothes back on.’

‘Did you get pregnant?’ Carral wasn’t whispering anymore. I could feel her chest moving against my back in shallow laughter.

‘Not that I know.’

When we got up and put all the wet things in the washer, my skin was cold and sticky, like fish skin. Even after showering I smelled faintly of urine. On the sofa cushions, a fidgety Carral in my arms, I wondered why I’d been so scared in Emma’s bed back in year one. I thought about how later that same night I had sat by the dinner table with all my clothes on, even my coat. Still I’d felt see-through. I’d imagined that I could feel something growing in my belly, something that wouldn’t become a proper foetus, but something much worse: a blackened, dead, and rotten fruit.

The Honey Mushroom

The Honey Mushroom