oval opening, around which the weed-furred and barnacle-encrusted
exterior changed dramatically, flaring into the pouting lips and
exposing the inner mother-of-pearl surfaces that were slippery to the
touch, a glossy satin sheen, pale translucent pink, folded and
convoluted upon them selves, shading darker into fleshy crimsons and
wine purples as the passage narrowed and sank away into the mysterious
lustrous depths of the shell.
Then abruptly, the dream image changed in his mind.
The projected opening in the trumpet shell expanded, articulating on
jaw-hinges and he was gaping into the deep and terrible maw of some
great predatory sea-creature, lined with multiple rows of serrated
triangular teeth, - shark!
like, terrifying, so he cried out In half-sleep, startling him self
awake, and he rolled quickly on to his side and raised himself on one
elbow. Her perfume still lingered on his skin, mingled with the smell
of his own sweat, but the bed beside him was empty, though warm and
redolent with the memory of her body.
Across the room, the early sun struck a long sliver of light through a
narrow chink in the curtains. It looked like a blade, a golden blade.
It reminded him instantly of Samantha Silver. He saw her again wearing
sunlight like a cloak, barefoot in the sand - and it seemed that the
blade of sunlight was being driven up slowly under his ribs.
He swung his feet off the wide bed and padded softly across to the gold
and onyx bathroom. There was a dull ache of sleeplessness and remorse
behind his eyes and as he ran hot water from the dolphin's mouth into
the basin, he looked at himself in the mirror although the steam slowly
clouded the image of his own face. There were dark smears below his
eyes and his features were gaunt, harsh angles of bone beneath drawn
skin.
You bastard/ he whispered at the shadowy face in the mirror.
'You bloody bastard. They were waiting breakfast for him, in the
sunlight on the terrace under the gaily coloured umbrellas. Peter had
preserved the mood of the previous evening, and he ran laughing to meet
Nicholas.
Dad, hey Dad. He seized Nicholas, hand and led him to the table.
Chantelle wore a long loose housegown, and her hair was down on her
shoulders, so soft that it stirred like spun silk in even that whisper
of breeze. It was calculated, Chantelle did nothing by chance; the
intimately elegant attire and the loose fall of her hair set the mood of
domesticity - and Nicholas found himself resisting it fiercely.
Peter sensed his father's change of mood with an intuitive understanding
beyond his years, and his dismay was a palpable thing, the hurt and
reproach in his eyes as he looked at Nicholas; and then the chatter died
on his lips and he bent his head studiously over his plate and ate in
silence.
Nicholas deliberately refused the festival array of food, took only a
cup of coffee, and lit a cheroot, without asking Chantelle's permission,
knowing how she would resent that. He waited in silence and as soon as
Peter had eaten he said: I'd like to speak to your mother, Peter. The
boy stood up obediently.
