Ian McEwan - In Between the Sheets

The author and publishers wish to thank the following for permission to reproduce copyright material: The New Review for Pornography, Reflections of a Kept Ape and In Between the Sheets; Encounter for Saturday, March 199- (published as Without Blood); Harpers/Queen for Sunday, March 199-; Bananas for Dead as They Come and To and Fro; American Review for Psychopolis; and ABKCO Music, Inc. for excerpts from Live with Me written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, 1969 ABKCO Music, Inc., reprinted by permission; all rights reserved.

OByrne walked through Soho market to his brothers shop in Brewer Street A handful of customers leafing through the magazines and Harold watching them through pebble-thick lenses from his raised platform in the corner. Harold was barely five foot and wore built-up shoes. Before becoming his employee OByrne used to call him Little Runt. At Harolds elbow a miniature radio rasped details of race meetings for the afternoon. So, said Harold with thin contempt, the prodigal brother His magnified eyes fluttered at every consonant. He looked past OByrnes shoulder. All the magazines are for sale, gentlemen. The readers stirred uneasily like troubled dreamers. One replaced a magazine and walked quickly from the shop. Where dyou get to? Harold said in a quieter voice. He stepped from the dais, put on his coat and glared up at OByrne, waiting for an answer. Little Runt. OByrne was ten years younger than his brother, detested him and his success but now, strangely, wanted his approbation. I had an appointment, didnt I, he said quietly. I got the clap. Harold was pleased. He reached up and punched OByrnes shoulder playfully. Serves you, he said and cackled theatrically. Another customer edged out of the shop. From the doorway Harold called, Ill be back at five. OByrne smiled as his brother left. He hooked his thumbs into his jeans and sauntered towards the tight knot of customers. Can I help you gentlemen, the magazines are all for sale. They scattered before him like frightened fowl, and suddenly he was alone in the shop.

A plump woman of fifty or more stood in front of a plastic shower curtain, naked but for panties and gas mask. Her hands hung limply at her sides and in one of them a cigarette smoldered. Wife of the Month. Since gas masks and a thick rubber sheet on the bed, wrote J.N. of Andover, weve never looked back. OByrne played with the radio for a while then switched it off. Rhythmically he turned the pages of the magazine, and stopped to read the letters. An uncircumcised male virgin, without hygiene, forty-two next May, dared not peel back his foreskin now for fear of what he might see. I get these nightmares of worms. OByrne laughed and crossed his legs. He replaced the magazine, returned to the radio, switched it on and off rapidly and caught the unintelligible middle of a word. He walked about the shop straightening the magazines in the racks. He stood by the door and stared at the wet street intersected by the colored strips of the plastic walk-through. He whistled over and over a tune whose end immediately suggested its beginning. Then he returned to Harolds raised platform and made two telephone calls, both to the hospital, the first to Lucy. But Sister Drew was busy in the ward and could not come to the phone. OByrne left a message that he would not be able to see her that evening after all and would phone again tomorrow. He dialed the hospital switchboard and this time asked for Trainee Nurse Shepherd in the childrens ward. Hi, OByrne said when Pauline picked up the phone. Its me. And he stretched and leaned against the wall. Pauline was a silent girl who once wept at a film about the effects of pesticides on butterflies, who wanted to redeem OByrne with her love. Now she laughed, Ive been phoning you all morning, she said. Didnt your brother tell you?

Listen, said OByrne, Ill be at your place about eight, and replaced the receiver.

Harold did not return till after six, and OByrne was almost asleep, his head pillowed on his forearm. There were no customers. OByrnes only sale was American Bitch. Those American mags, said Harold as he emptied the till of 15 and a handful of silver, are good. Harolds new leather jacket. OByrne fingered it appreciatively. Seventy-eight quid, said Harold and braced himself in front of the fish-eye minor. His glasses flashed. Its all right, said OByrne. Fucking right it is, said Harold, and began to close up shop. Never take much on Wednesdays, he said wistfully as he reached up and switched on the burglar alarm. Wednesdays a cunt of a day. Now OByrne was in front of the mirror, examining a small trail of acne that led from the corner of his mouth. Youre not fucking kidding, he agreed.

Harolds house lay at the foot of the Post Office Tower and OByrne rented a room from him. They walked along together without speaking. From time to time Harold glanced sideways into a dark shop window to catch the reflection of himself and his new leather jacket. Little Runt. OByrne said, Cold, innit? and Harold said nothing. Minutes later, when they were passing a pub, Harold steered OByrne into the dank, deserted public house saying, Since you got the clap Ill buy you a drink. The publican heard the remark and regarded OByrne with interest. They drank three scotches apiece, and as OByrne was paying for the fourth round Harold said, Oh yeah, one of those two nurses youve been knocking around with phoned. OByrne nodded and wiped his lips. After a pause Harold said, Youre well in there OByrne nodded again. Yep. Harolds jacket shone. When he reached for his drink it creaked. OByrne was not going to tell him anything. He banged his hands together. Yep, he said once more, and stared over his brothers head at the empty bar. Harold tried again. She wanted to know where youd been I bet she did, OByrne muttered, and then smiled.

Pauline, short and untalkative, her face bloodlessly pale, intersected by a heavy black fringe, her eyes large, green and watchful, her flat small, damp and shared with a secretary who was never there. OByrne arrived after ten, a little drunk and in need of a bath to purge the faint purulent scent that lately had hung about his fingers. She sat on a small wooden stool to watch him luxuriate. Once she leaned forwards and touched his body where it broke the surface. OByrnes eyes were closed, his hands floating at his sides, the only sound the diminishing hiss of the cistern. Pauline rose quietly to bring a clean white towel from her bedroom, and OByrne did not hear her leave or return. She sat down again and ruffled, as far as it was possible, OByrnes damp, matted hair. The food is ruined, she said without accusation. Beads of perspiration collected in the corners of OByrnes eyes and rolled down the line of his nose like tears. Pauline rested her hand on OByrnes knee where it jutted through the gray water. Steam turned to water on the cold walls, senseless minutes passed. Never mind, love, said OByrne, and stood up.

Pauline went out to buy beer and pizzas, and OByrne lay down in her tiny bedroom to wait. Ten minutes passed. He dressed after cursory examination of his clean but swelling meatus, and wandered listlessly about the sitting room. Nothing interested him in Paulines small collection of books. There were no magazines. He entered the kitchen in search of a drink. There was nothing but an overcooked meat pie. He picked around the burned bits and as he ate turned the pages of a picture calendar. When he finished he remembered again he was waiting for Pauline. He looked at his watch. She had been gone now almost half an hour. He stood up quickly, tipping the kitchen chair behind him to the floor. He paused in the sitting room and then walked decisively out of the flat and slammed the front door on his way. He hurried down the stairs, anxious not to meet her now he had decided to get out. But she was there. Halfway up the second flight, a little out of breath, her arms full of bottles and tinfoil parcels. Where dyou get to? said OByrne. Pauline stopped several steps down from him, her face tilted up awkwardly over her purchases, the whites of her eyes and the tinfoil vivid in the dark. The usual place was closed. I had to walk miles sorry. They stood. OByrne was not hungry. He wanted to go. He hitched his thumbs into the waist of his jeans and cocked his head towards the invisible ceiling, then he looked down at Pauline who waited. Well, he said at last, I was thinking of going. Pauline came up, and as she pushed past whispered, Silly. OByrne turned and followed her, obscurely cheated.