Mrs. Hudson smiled, completely taken in, and almost giggled like a schoolgirl. "The MOD works you too hard," she said with sympathy, clearly assuming that Adam worked in the same, or a similar, department to me. I said nothing, making myself complicit in such deceit. "I understand that what you do is essential, but this war..." She rolled her eyes and looked skyward, through the roofing of the shelter, the earth above it, likely praying for deliverance. Or wondering if soon, she would be joining her husband, wherever he was now.
Time passed, and the all-clear sounded.
"Must get back to work; you understand, Mrs. Hudson? Sergeant Stephenson, I'll be in touch as soon as I can."
"Nice man," Mrs. Hudson commented as he fled. "Charming."
"Hmm," I murmured in tacit agreement, thinking, dangerously so.
The bombing panicked Adam in more ways than one. He didn't like being trapped in shelters with "Ordinaries," as he called us. "What happens if I get the bloodlust in me and end up killing you all in a frenzy?"
"Stop joking about it, Adam," I said.
"Who's joking? Nathan, you have no idea what it's like for me. Not only am I praying a bomb doesn't come along and blow you to bits---"
"What about you?"
"Never mind me. I'm worried about you coming to grief; I'm a bit more resilient than you. You've already seen evidence of that. But even if you're fine and dandy, how long will that continue for? How long can you get away with it? Plus, what if the all-clear doesn't come until daylight?
Have you thought about how awkward things would be then? I say awkward; I mean bloody agonising for me, and any witnesses to it? They'd be driven mad by the sight. We need to do something about this."
"Such as? Assassinate Hitler? Bring the war to an end overnight? I shouldn't be surprised if there were people attempting that very thing as we speak."
"No, you idiot. I mean this as in us. We have to do something to make sure we're safe."
"Such as?"
"You. I think you should join me."
"Pardon me?" I thought I knew what he was getting at, but I needed him to clarify.
"I want you to join us. I want you to become like me. Change. So we can be together properly. Forever."
I said no, vehemently. My refusal involved many words of four letters.
Adam was never good at taking no for an answer. I tried to shut him out, carry on with my work, but just as had been the case at the start of our relationship, he was always there. Not in a creepy way, or so I thought, but just waiting. I'd leave work, shake hands with a colleague to say goodbye, be on my way.
And there he would be. Stepping out of a doorway, throwing off the darkest of shadows so I could see him again---but only just, given the blackout. Sometimes with a demand to know who I'd been speaking to, as if I could throw him off that easily and move on to someone else.
Sometimes with accusations and always with a ready apology for smothering me, but hot on the heels of such apologies always came the pressing, the pushing, the demands. "You can't do this to me," "I need you," and the desperate-sounding "What will I do without you?"
I felt the weight of his expectation bearing down on me until it crushed my soul. What if he wasn't asking me to do this so that I could be happy? What if he was pushing me into this because he was running away from his own loneliness? I didn't know if I could be the one to put him back together again. Not that he was broken. He was just...demanding. Demanding that I love him.
On more than one occasion, I caught him looking at me. We'd be in the same room, candlelight flickering over us, and I'd look up from a book, some papers, and he'd be...looking. Just looking. As if he was scared one day I wouldn't be there anymore.
Given that we were slap bang in the middle of the Second World War that was a very real possibility---and strangely, it seemed to bother Adam more than it did me---I wanted to do the right thing, morally. He just wanted to possess me.
It was a scary thing, the force of his desire to own me. To inspire such desperation in a lover, male or female, was disconcerting. I wondered often if he'd prefer me to die in the war than actively choose to walk away from him. He could stand being disappointed, not being left.
But I couldn't let him go either; my addiction to what we were doing was just as strong, though of a different sort. I was curious about whether I could ever love and be loved by another man, and Adam? Adam was a steamroller in a man's body.
He worked on me. A full-on charm offensive. Not that I was charmed by his ability to cut himself and heal almost immediately. Or the fact he didn't breathe.
I will admit, though, that I was amused by his ability to stick his head in my washbowl and not come up for air for ten minutes.
"I could have done it for longer," he said at the time, "but it gets boring."
The first time he did it, I pulled him away, told him not to be so stupid, but he insisted it wasn't stupidity; it was him trying to show me what he was capable of. What I could be capable of too, if only I'd agree.
I said yes, I said no, I said yes again. I loved the
