Bone and Blood (13 page)

Aisling turned over in the single bed to escape the light from the street. Not a bad idea to go to the Patrice concert, she thought. She had never even heard of him before she got the email from Alex but she couldn't spend all her time holed up with Brigitte, mourning. Nobody expected her to be grief-stricken. Katharina was sixty years old. Probably she had enough of being sick and was glad to die.

She was now in possession of a key so she could come and go as she pleased. Her task of the day was to find out if she could get a ticket to the concert. She hadn't worked out Internet access on the laptop yet, so she headed for the nearest internet café. A bit of surfing would give her the information that she needed. It wasn't the easiest of searches but she did find it in the end. Postbahnhof sounded like a sorting office near a station. If it was not too expensive she would go. It was near the Ostbahnhof or East Station so easy to get to. She debated whether to take her phone. It would be class to send back live photos to Alex – or even Andrew himself – but Alex would turn it into something to boast about. Better to wait and e-mail a ‘By the way, I saw Patrice at the Postbahnhof,' dead casually. It would be worth going just for that even if she didn't like him. Free of bag, phone, and I-pod she felt light.

The venue looked a bit like one for a rave party rather than a concert but inside the atmosphere was good and the twenty-two euro ticket was comfortably inside her bargain zone. Without much of a queue! A much more civilised city than Dublin. The bar was big: most of the people were around her own age and she'd chosen the right clothes – her comfortable black Armani jeans and a black sleeveless top with a bit of stylish swirl design in discreet glitter. It was the sort of place where you could wear any style but she felt like she blended in. By the time she got a beer and had a wander around, there were sounds of something. He was on – no support group even and no hanging about for superstar tantrums.

Aisling had never been a fan of reggae music. She tried listening to it so that she could talk to Andrew. He liked the old stuff – the Bob Marley days. When she knew it was no go with Andrew, she stopped playing them. She hadn't even downloaded any reggae to her I-pod. This guy was better than any of the reggae that she had heard before. His name sounded French but he sang in English mostly and lived somewhere in Germany. He was dishy enough to rustle some feelings up in the pit of her stomach. That was the place to keep them she told herself.

It was a great feeling to be on the scene here, where no-body knew her and she knew nobody. She could dance and move as she liked. There was nobody to care about her pear shaped bum as she bumped around. Free to shift around and get more sightings of the tasty-looking Patrice. Enshultigung excuses from time to time to other good-humoured bum bouncers with camera phones above their heads. Light sweat on her lip – not enough to disturb her make-up.

Moving around and dancing on the spot made a bit of flirting inevitable. Not too close – she didn't want to get into a conversation about what she was doing in Berlin. It was the best live concert ever and she resolved to search out some Patrice to download. That laptop was going to be really useful. To-night was a night of finding something for herself. She sang along, revelling in the anonymity of it, and laughed out loud at the thought of playing it for the aunt.

If she had any criticism of Patrice he was a bit too sweet maybe – but tough and hard enough at other times to make that palatable. The concert finished early enough to get home for about 12.30. She saw the light on in the aunt's room. Since Michael died, her mother would lie awake until she came home. Aisling would leave it as late as she could but at 2, 3 or even 4, the light would still be on. She would call out, ‘I'm back, night-night,' but never waited to hear an answer. She did it now in automatic mode and heard an answering, ‘Sleep well, my dear.' The voice sounded so like Gran, it was a bit spooky. The aunt in some ways was so unlike Gran and yet in others they were like different versions of the same person. Her Gran wasn't so bad when she was on her own but the minute she got talking to that narrow-minded Annie, she took off. At least there was no sign of an Annie equivalent here in Berlin.

She grinned to herself as she remembered the last episode she'd overheard. Annie had a son who had lived in England like forever. As soon as he could afford a one-way ticket probably. His daughter Lucy was planning to come over from England for Christmas in Dublin. All she wanted was a bed at her Gran's for God's sake. Listening to Annie, you would think that she had done something dire.

‘So I said yes. Well I couldn't say no, could I? But would you believe it, she asks me, “Can I bring my partner?” Indeed, I soon saw her off – my partner indeed. The cheek of it – to think that I would have the two of them living in sin under my own roof and then I would be expected to cook Christmas dinner for them. It's enough work anyway for Mary and that husband of hers. They make me feel like they are doing me a favour to invite themselves round for Christmas dinner. Their two boys went off to spend Christmas in Spain and Aoife had to entertain the husband's parents. I've cooked Christmas Dinner long enough. At my age, I deserve to take a rest. Anyway Lucy went to Breege's in the end. You know what that means don't you – partners? Where Breege was going to put them, I don't know. Sleeping together of course and not only sleeping, you can be sure. These young people are no better than animals – lying down with whoever takes their fancy. It's the children that come out of it that I pity. Half of them don't know who their father is.'

Hypocrites! It was only because they never had the chance and now it was too late. Gran didn't mention any of her own grandchildren like Aisling's cousin in London, who was divorced and with a new partner. She toyed with the idea of finding a way to introduce that into the conversation. No. Better to laugh. She needed her Gran as a refuge and sometimes as a cover.

In bed she fingered her damp groin. Was there a chance of working her way to some relief? An image of her mother sitting her down at the kitchen table for the famous ‘sex' talk made her wriggle. ‘This experience should be a lesson to you Aisling.' All that stuff about saving yourself for a special someone. Too late. Never too late. Anyway she wouldn't fancy someone looking for a virgin bride. Her mum's version of sex was a bit like a recipe for a cake – where the love bit was the cake and the sex was the icing. She'd hate it if I told her that. For all her talk about sex, she never mentioned masturbation. Porno images didn't turn her on. Her own graphics were better. Images. Labia. Patrice's lips and tongue.

Michael's face floating into her consciousness was a turn-off she didn't need. With a look of pure fright on his face at her threat to reveal his big secret. It gave her a buzz to have power over him. Did Michael really like older men or did it just happen like that? You could see their eyes light up when they saw each other. Aisling wondered how anyone could miss it. She guessed right away. If only he knew – she was the one with the real secret. She hated her mother's combination of not saying anything along with the silent warning looks whenever there was a story of someone her age struggling along as a single parent.

Was Michael afraid their mother would treat his secret like a condition? Or was it the fear of being called a dirty pervert? Knowing Mum, she'd probably do both. First the hysterics, then a bit about how people give gay men such a hard time then after a bit of reflection, ‘How can we put it right?' Like that time that she was convinced that Michael was traumatised by the suicide of his classmate. Not likely, relieved more like. Ronan was a real bully especially with Michael. Maybe Ronan fancied Michael but couldn't face up to it. Mum wanted to take Michael to see a psychologist. To go with him too for God's sake. As if you would tell a psychologist how you really feel with your mother sitting there. Luckily Dad persuaded her out of it. Then after Michael died she blamed Dad for not letting her take him. ‘The trauma was there all the time under the surface.' It was one of the few times she showed any sign: Michael's death may not have been an accident after all.

Older men were a push-over for sex. Their eyes went right down your top if you were showing a bit of tit. Every time she went over to Maeve's she could see her Dad, Gerry, lick his lips like she was good enough to eat. She should've known Maeve would find out in the end. The sex wasn't worth the loss of her best friend but she'd been attracted by the maturity in him. He made her feel like a woman.

The BMW and the cocktails in fancy hotels were a turn-on too. She wore her sexiest clothes. The big turn-off was the way he grunted his way to relief with the beer belly weighing her down. Though to be fair to him, he did manage usually to wank her off first. But now no more rubbing off older men's paunches for her. Better someone she wouldn't mind waking up beside. Patrice won that round easily. She wished now she had taken her phone to get some sort of photo of Patrice. She'd got closer than she expected. It would have given her satisfaction to replace her sneaky photo of Andrew with his beautiful black shiny face.

She stood in front of the mirror in the light from the street outside getting her slimmest silhouette, one to make her hips slim and hide her saggy bottom inside the line of her briefs. She took off her bra but left her silky top on and lifted her breasts so that they showed over her top. She giggled at herself, emptying Ireland, her mother, Michael, Gran and the aunt in the other room from her head and filling it with Patrice.

She got into bed keeping her briefs and top on letting her hands go inside them first. She lay half on her side holding the firm pillow so that her nipples could rub against the silk and cotton contact. Which of them would she use for her DIY? Patrice or Andrew? Or maybe greasy-guts Gerry?

Not Gerry. She missed Maeve so much and those rows still hurt. At the time it wasn't such a big deal. Aisling hoped Maeve would get over it. It wasn't cool to make so much of a fuss about sex. You did it or you didn't – the virgins or the slags. Simple difference. But amongst the ‘slags' there were some who just did it at the drop of a hat, some who had done it once when they had one too many so ‘couldn't care less' and the rest were more like her: they just didn't want to be trapped, so they chose who they did it with. Her big mistake was expecting Gerry to have his own condoms.

*

*

Aisling put down the sheaf of papers. It had become more of a diary and felt more intrusive than reading letters. She felt embarrassed and ashamed. She had told herself it wasn't personal, it was history but it felt personal now. She lifted her sketch book. Making graphic images of everyday detail made the war more real. Would the cellar be a thread through the story from the green bomb of the Allies to the Russian bears? What about images of Germans?

Matthias told her that he was fed up with people who seemed to think being German was something to be ashamed of. Even his father and mother blamed his grandparents for letting it happen. Finding other people to blame meant you could ignore the Nazi in yourself. Creating space for neo-Nazis in your own denial. Matthias was a bit of a drama-merchant but Aisling liked his style. She agreed. Why should you take responsibility for something just because it was your country? She had never felt responsible for the IRA or their bombs in her lifetime. It didn't feel like it had anything to do with her. She didn't understand it.

Matthias was better company than Irish men of her age. She thought of him as her best friend. He wasn't bitchy like her new friends or self-righteous like Maeve. Some people thought they were going out together but there was no sex with Matthias. Matthias was the only one she could tell about the things she'd done to Michael. When he came back she would break her promise to her mother and tell him about the abortion and about Maeve's dad. She understood Brigitte wanting somebody she trusted to talk to.

The secrecy of the affair was so sexy at first. The freedom of being grown up, of wanting sex. The joking with him on the stairs. She didn't think he was really coming on to her. Horsing about a bit as they queued for the bathroom. At first it seemed like an accident when his hand went between her legs. She blushed and he knew. For days afterwards, an image of Gerry was enough to make her feel the wet wantonness in her knickers. Fuck me on the stairs please, please me. She denied all when Maeve teased her about being different. In love? Yes, Yes, Yes and No, No, No see-sawed internally with anticipation. She knew when he offered to give her a lift home there was a possibility.

Talking music, he was surprised she liked traditional Irish music. He parked up to reach over to the glove compartment to get his phone out to play Iarla Ó' Lionáird. Touched her knees as if by accident. A bit ridiculous like a B movie but better not giggle like a schoolgirl. She reached for his hand and put it between her legs. She felt his little finger on her clitoris through the damp knickers and squirmed in pleasure. ‘We shouldn't,' he said taking his hand away. ‘No we shouldn't,' she said and reached over to kiss him knowing her skirt would slide up. ‘Delicious,' he said and his hand slid down her back over her left buttock to her upper thigh. ‘You know how sexy you are, don't you?' he said. ‘But we really shouldn't,' and pulled back again.

‘You're a bit of a tease,' she said.

‘I don't mean to tease you,' he said.

He said nothing.

She said, so don't. She took his right hand and put it between her thighs again. Just see it as a little gift to me. No strings. Nobody need know. She had planned her clothes in hope of this. Boots and over the knee socks. A skirt riding up her thighs when she sat in the car. Knickers which he could get his hand inside easily. The squirm was completely genuine. She wanted him. She helped him get her knickers off. So easy to come against his finger technique. Moments of being only there moving against his hand. Fresh new wave for fingers in the vagina and maintaining the clitoral climax. Moaning into it.