Dirty Tricks (13 page)

Once this sunk in, my manner changed abruptly. No longer did I bother to appear gracious, sympathetic or understanding. On the contrary, I told Karen that she was quite right. We had no future together. The weekend had been a failure – or rather a success. Having settled our separate bills, we walked out to the car park together. For the first time that weekend the rain had stopped, and although it was still overcast we could make out something of the beauties of the landscape. Suddenly it came home to me with tremendous force that this was my last chance, the very last of all the countless chances I had thrown away just like this, because I had been too lazy or too proud to exploit them properly. If I squandered this one there would be no more. The door to a BMW would never beckon again. I would be on my bike for the rest of my life, stuck on the stopping train to nowhere. This wasn’t just another tiff we were having. We wouldn’t kiss and make up later. There wouldn’t be any later, unless somehow, at the eleventh hour, I freed Karen from her sterile remorse. But how could I achieve in a few minutes what I had failed to accomplish after hours of trying?

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said.

She shrugged listlessly.

‘What for?’

‘I’ve got something to say to you.’

‘You can say it here.’

I felt as though I were seducing her all over again. She wanted to, she really did, but she needed to be made to feel she could, or rather that she couldn’t
not
, that it was out of her hands, that she couldn’t help herself.

‘Come up to the lake with me. It’s not far.’

In view of the significance of the Elan Valley in later developments, it would perhaps be as well to sketch the local topography briefly at this point. Set on the fringes of the Cambrian Mountain chain, the valley was flooded to satisfy the thirst of Victorian Birmingham and incidentally create a picturesque ‘feature’, a series of artificial lakes connected by dramatic waterfalls. A century later, to eyes hardened by exposure to the brutalities of reinforced concrete, the dams and weirs seem part of the landscape from which their stone was taken. Only the water itself, its wildly fluctuating level carving a swathe of devastation along the shore, betrays the deception.

We walked along a path which wound attractively through a pine forest and round a spur of the hillside to a viewpoint overlooking the lower lake, which is spanned by a narrow bridge across which a minor road leads up into the mountains. After we had admired the panorama for some time in silence, I said, ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Mmmm,’ Karen agreed vaguely.

‘Really makes you feel life’s worth living.’

She was silent.

‘Believe me, Karen, I understand how you feel. This is an appalling tragedy which will haunt us for the rest of our lives. We shall never be again as we were. Dennis is gone, and we are the poorer.’

She looked away, biting her lip.

‘But in the midst of death, we are also in life. If it was wrong for us to acknowledge our love while Dennis was alive, it would be even more wrong to deny it now. If we have been indirectly responsible for a death, there is only one way we can make amends.’

She frowned.

‘What do you mean?’

‘First of all, let me ask you something. On the phone the other day you said that if only you and Dennis had had children then something of him would have survived. Now he told me, that night we got so drunk, that it was because of you that it hadn’t happened. Is that true?’

Her head shook minimally.

‘We had tests done. They said it was some illness he had when he was young. Denny never accepted that, though. He always claimed it was me.’

‘Did you consider using a donor?’

‘You mean like they do with cows? Some bloke you never meet jacks off with a copy of
Penthouse
and then they pump his come up you with a syringe? No thanks, I’m not that desperate. It’s not just the baby, you know. It’s
whose
baby.’

‘So what were you going to do?’

‘I tried not to think about it. I suppose I hoped Dennis might, you know, get better. It happens, sometimes. We still had plenty of time, or so I …’

She broke off, wiping her eyes.

‘That was one reason why I tried to stop us, you know, going all the way,’ she went on. ‘You thought I was on the pill, of course, that’s why you never used a sheath or anything. But I wasn’t. There was no need, you see. Not with Dennis. And with you …’

Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

‘That was the worst thing I did. I mean trying, well not trying, but I wasn’t … I mean, if I’d got pregnant he might have thought it was his, that he’d got better somehow. He’d have been ever so proud! And I still would have known the real father, known him and loved him. But it was wrong, terribly wrong. That’s why I’ve been punished through his death. And the worse thing is that now there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too late!’

I put my arm around her in a chaste, consoling embrace.

‘It’s never too late, Karen.’

‘What do you mean?’ she sobbed softly.

‘You can still have that child. With me. If it’s a boy we’ll call him Dennis, and if it’s a girl, Denise. Let us return life for death, Karen, good for evil. We have caused enough harm by our thoughtless, irresponsible, selfish behaviour. Now let’s strive to live for others. This is a turning-point in my life. It may have come too late to save your husband, but I beg of you, Karen, spare the life of our unborn baby!’

This seems to you exaggerated, melodramatic, in poor taste? I quite agree. But it was a question of horses for courses. My speech was directed at Karen Parsons, and whatever reservations you or I may have about it, I can assure you it went down a treat with its target audience.

‘Do you really mean that?’

There were still tears in her eyes, but for the first time that weekend there was colour in her cheeks as well. I’ll spare you my reply. If you found the opening pitch a bit over the top, the follow-up would gross you out completely. But Karen lapped it up and came back for more.

‘I never thought … I mean, it was great in bed and everything, but I thought that was all it was. I thought all I was to you was just a good lay.’

I smiled ruefully.

‘You were certainly that. The best I’ve ever had. But that was never
all
you were, Karen. It wasn’t just the sex. There was always something else as well.’

Overcome by emotion, she turned away, gazing out over the black waters of the reservoir. Then a violent shiver convulsed her. At the time I assumed she was thinking of Dennis, but I now wonder if she had a premonition of her own fate. At all events, it only lasted a moment. Then she looked back at me and smiled a brave, convalescent smile, not yet well, but on the mend, cured in spirit.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

And home we went, in the BMW, my bike tucked away in the capacious boot. While she drove, Karen talked non-stop about her childhood, her parents, her hopes, her dreams, her problems. In turn I told her a little about my own background, as though we were out on a first date.

I didn’t tell her about my vasectomy.

The vasectomy dated from 1980, when a girl I’d been sleeping with told me she was
embarazada
. So was I. The expectant mother was sixteen years old and one of my students at the school in Barcelona where I was five months into my first teaching job. My contract was promptly terminated with extreme prejudice. The girl’s family paid for her to fly to London to get an abortion. I went by train.

After that I was blacked by the quality schools, but I soon landed a job for the rest of the year with a cowboy outfit in Italy who needed a replacement teacher in a hurry. Before going, though, I had it out with my dick. This wasn’t the first time it had got me into trouble, but I intended to make damn sure it was the last. Let’s face it, those who can, have fun. The others, too poor in pocket or spirit, have children. Any parent who says he enjoys it is a liar. You might as well say you enjoy being crippled. Karen saw things very differently, of course. She just couldn’t wait to go through with the whole messy, life-destroying business. The absurd excitement she displayed at the prospect of becoming a mother confirmed my worst opinions of her. Feminism has been wasted on women like that.

The most amusing thing about the period of my engagement to Karen was the degree of role reversal involved. Not only were we going through the timid rituals of conventional courtship after a six-month diet of take-away sex, but I was the one who insisted that it stay that way until we were legally united. It’s incredible what an aphrodisiac the prospect of motherhood can be for some women. Once the magic word ‘baby’ had been spoken, Karen was in a permanent state of arousal. Sex with me was no longer a sin but the way to salvation.
Magna Peccatrix
was about to be beatified as
Mater Gloriosa
. All she needed was a touch from my magic wand. That was all very well, but I had my own position to consider. You know what women are like. They’ll promise you the earth to get you to come across, then treat you like dirt once they’ve satisfied their maternal cravings. I couldn’t afford to risk being left on the shelf once Karen had had her way with me. Her desires were my only hold over her, so despite her frantic pleas I refused to go any further than finger-fucking until she had signed on the dotted line.

When the formalities finally took place, it was a very brief ceremony. Our solicitors had prepared the necessary ‘instruments’, and all Karen and I had to do was ‘execute’ them, but when we emerged into the mild sunshine of Beaumont Street twenty minutes later, my life had been changed out of all recognition. I entered the premises an unemployed teacher living on charity in a rented two-up, two-down off the Cowley Road. Now I was a man of property, the joint owner of a large house in North Oxford, with investments so extensive I had no detailed idea of their scope and access to current and deposit accounts totalling well into six figures. I felt all weepy and emotional as Karen and I drove home together. Happy endings always make me cry.

Two days later I drove the BMW back to Winston Street and cleared my room. Trish and Brian were out at work. I left a cheque for the amount Trish had loaned me, plus a month’s rent in advance and a brief note saying that I was going to stay with an unspecified friend in North Oxford. I didn’t mention my marriage. At my suggestion, Karen didn’t tell any of her friends either. Although we both knew that we were acting from the best possible motives, I argued, other people were always ready to place a malicious interpretation on their neighbours’ doings and it might therefore be better to wait before breaking the news.

Karen welcomed this as further evidence of my tact and seriousness, which she ascribed to a sense of responsibility at the prospect of becoming the pater of a tiny foetus. I was amazed and terrified at the change I had so casually brought about in her. I felt like Frankenstein, quailing before the monster I had created. The Karen I had known a few months earlier, a simple, straightforward creature with healthy appetites, had been metamorphosed by my spells into a raving obsessive who regarded the spawning of offspring not as a lowest-common-denominator activity like excretion but as a moral and creative achievement on a par with, say, painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling. All we had to do was bump our uglies.

No problem, you might think, given our track record in that particular event. And as far as Karen was concerned you’d be right. There were changes of style and technique, of course. Oral sex was definitely not in favour any more. This and all the other alternative orifices fell into disuse. Henceforth all traffic was routed down the main line. Even once we were acceptably coupled, though, the differences were obvious. Before, Karen had made love with hysterical urgency, a compulsive satisfying her greed. Our sex was anarchic, sufficient to itself, without perspectives. But that was in the past. Now the expression on Karen’s face as she lay beneath me, knees pulled up to her chin to facilitate maximum penetration, was of a recent convert taking communion. Rapt, ecstatic, she willed me on to ever-greater feats of ardour. It wasn’t just impregnation she was after, it was
quality
impregnation. She might have been wearing a sign like those you see in car windows: GIVE MY CHILD A CHANCE – DON’T PULL BACK.

In principle I was quite prepared to oblige. I may have my faults, but ungratefulness is not one of them. Karen had done her bit for me and I would have been more than happy to reciprocate. But though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. It wasn’t a question of impotence. I just couldn’t come.

In the old days this would have been all to the good. There was nothing Karen had liked better than being taken on a guided tour of three or four climaxes. But the new Karen had become sickeningly selfless in bed. It was no longer
her
orgasms that excited her, but mine. Her own afforded her nothing but a transient thrill, but mine supplied another dose of semen to chuck at the uterine wall where, sooner or later, she reckoned, some of it must stick. Marathon bonking was therefore frowned upon. What the market demanded was frequent and copious ejaculation. And since the supplied response was lacking, I had to fake it.

The simulated male orgasm has attracted very little attention by comparison with its female equivalent, not because it isn’t as common, but because it’s in no one’s interest to publicize the fact. Both sexes like the idea that women pretend, men because it confirms their suspicion that their partners are basically frigid and devious manipulators, women because it gives them a delicious sense of power to think that the delirium which men fondly ascribe to their virile prowess is no more than a hollow civility, like laughing at Grandpa’s jokes. By contrast, neither party has any desire to suggest that men might do the same thing. We males naturally reject the idea that we’re not at all times ready to cream anything that moves as a monstrous slander on our virility, while women certainly don’t want to think that creatures whose sexual urges are so undiscriminating that they have been known to rape grannies and animals and even
corpses
, for God’s sake, could possibly find them so unattractive that they need to simulate orgasm.