She gave a small gasp of pleasure. Mark, of course, Mark. She took his arm impetuously and drew him over the threshold. He has spoken of you so often, I feel I know you so well. Like a member of the family, like a brother, she still had his arm, standing close to him, laughing up at him. Come in, Mark, come in.
I am Helena. Fergus MacDonald sat at the head of the deal table in the dingy kitchen. The table was covered with sheets of newsprint instead of a cloth and Fergus hunched over his plate, and scowled angrily as he listened to Mark's account of his flight from Ladyburg. The bastards, they are the enemy, Mark. The new enemy. ) His mouth was filled with potato and heavily spiced boerewors, thick farmer's sausage, and he spoke through it. We are in another war, lad, and this time they are worse than the bloody Hun. More beer, Mark. Helena leaned across to fill his tumbler from the black quart bottle. Thank you. Mark watched the foaming head rise in his glass, and he pondered Fergus' statement. I don't understand, Fergus. I don't know who these men are, I don't know why they tried to kill me. They are the bosses, lad. That's who we are fighting now. The rich, the mine-owners, the bankers, all those who oppress the working man. Mark took a long swallow of his beer, and Helena smiled at him from across the table. Fergus is right, Mark. We have to destroy them. And she began to talk. It was strange confusing talk from a woman, and there was a fanatical light in her dark eyes.
The words had a compelling power in her clear articulate voice with its lilting accent, and Mark watched the way she used her hands to emphasize each point. They were neat strong hands with gracefully tapered fingers and short nails. The nails were clean and trimmed but the first two fingers of her right hand were stained pale yellow. Mark wondered at that, until suddenly Helena reached across and took a cigarette from the packet at Fergus'elbow.
Still talking, she lit the cigarette from a match in her cupped hands, and drew deeply before exhaling forcibly through pursed lips. Mark had never seen a woman smoke before, and he stared at her. She shook her head vehemently.
The history of the people's revolt is written in blood.
Look at France, see how the revolution sweeps forward in Russia. The short dark shining curls danced around her smooth pale cheeks, and she pursed her lips again to drag at the cigarette, and in some strange fashion Mark found the mannish act shocking, and exciting.
He felt his groin clenching, the tight swollen hardening of his flesh, beyond his reason, far beyond his control.
His breathing caught with shock and embarrassment, and he leaned back and slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, certain that both of them must be aware of his shameful reaction, but instead Helena reached across the table and seized his other wrist in a surprisingly powerful grip.
We know our enemy, we know what must be done and how we must do it, Mark. Her fingers seemed to burn like heated iron into his flesh, he felt dizzy with the force of it. His voice was hoarse as he forced himself to reply. They are strong, Helena, powerful No, no, Mark, the workers are strong, the enemy are weak, and smug. They suspect nothing, they wallow like hogs in the false security of their golden sovereigns, but in reality they are few and unprepared. They do not know their own weakness, and as yet the workers do not realize their great strength. We will teach them. You're right, lass. Fergus wiped the gravy from the plate with a crust of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Listen to her, Mark, we are building a new world, a brave and beautiful new world. He belched loudly and pushed his plate away, leaving both elbows on the table. But first we have to tear down and destroy this rotten, unjust and corrupt society. There will be hard fighting, and we will need good hard fighting men. He laughed harshly and slapped Mark's shoulder. They'll call for MacDonald and Anders again, lad, you hear me. There is nothing for us to lose, Mark. Helena's cheeks were flushed. Nothing but our chains, and there is a whole world to win. Karl Marx said that, and it's one of the great truths of history. Helena, are you, he hesitated to use the word, are you and Fergus, well I mean, you aren't Bolsheviks are you? That's what the bosses, and their minions, the police, call us. She laughed contemptuously. They try to make us criminals, already they fear us. With reason, Mark, we will give them reason. No, lad, don't call us Bolsheviks. We are members of the communist party, dedicated to universal communism.
I'm the local party secretary and shop steward of the mineworkers union for the boilermakers shop. Have you read Karl Marx? Helena demanded. No. Mark shook his head, dazed and shocked, but still sexually excited by her to the edge of pain. Fergus a Bolshevik? A bomb-throwing monster? But he knew he was not.
He was an old and trusted comrade. I will lend you my copy. Come on, lass, Fergus chuckled, and shook his head. We are going too fast for the lad. He's got a right barmy look right now. He leaned over and placed an affectionate arm around Mark's shoulders, drawing him close. Have you a place to stay, lad? A job? A place to go? No. Mark flushed. I haven't, Fergus. Oh, yes you have, Helena cut in quickly. I have fixed the bed in the other room, you'll stay there, Mark. Oh, but I couldn't -It's done, she said simply. You'll stay, lad. Fergus squeezed him hard. And we'll see about a job for you tomorrow, you're book-learned.
You can read and write and figure, it will be easy to fix you. I know they need a clerk up at the pay office, and the paymaster is a comrade, a member of the party. I'll pay you for lodging. Of course you will, Fergus chuckled again, and filled his glass to the brim with beer. It's good to see you again, son and he raised his own glass. Send down the line for MacDonald and Anders, and warn the bastards we are coming! He took a long swallow, the pointed Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, then wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
The regimental chaplain had called it the sin of Onan, while the rankers had many more ribald terms for it, toss the caber or visit Mrs Hand and her five daughters. The chaplain had warned of the dire consequences that it would bring, failing sight, and falling hair, a palsied shaking hand and at last idiocy and the insane asylum. Mark lay in the narrow iron bed and stared with unseeing eyes at the faded pink rose-pattern wallpaper of the tiny room. It had the musty smell of being long closed, and there was a wash-basin in an iron frame with an enamel basin against the far wall. A single unshaded bulb hung on a length of flex from the ceiling, and the white plaster around it was fly- speckled; even at the moment three drowsy flies sat on the flex in a stupor. Mark swivelled his attention to them, trying to put aside the waves of temptation that flowed up through his body.
Light steps in the passage stopped opposite his bedroom door, and now there was a tap on the woodwork. Mark? He sat up quickly, letting the single thin blanket fall to
his waist. May I come in? Yes, he husked, and the door swung open. Helena crossed to his bed. She wore a gown of light pink shiny material that buttoned down the front; the skirt opened at each step and there was a glimpse of smooth white flesh above her knees.
She carried a slim book in one hand. I said I would lend it to you, she explained. Read it, Mark. She held out the volume.
The Communist Manifesto was the title, and Mark took it from her, opening it at random. He bowed his head over the open pages to cover the confusion into which her near presence plunged him. Thank you, Helena. He used her name for the first time, wanting her to leave and yet hoping she would stay.
She leaned over him a little, looking at the open book, and the bodice of her gown fell apart an inch. Mark looked up, and saw the incredibly silky sheen where the beginning of one white breast pressed against the lace that
