FIC: Kissing in the Dark (1 of 2)

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Kissing In The Dark


Mick had always been a sucker for a damsel in distress, and here was one
damsel who was liable to end up pretty distressed if he didn't move
sharpish. It was barely ten o'clock of a grey and damp November evening
and there was Roxanne weaving her way drunkenly into the path of a
waiting policeman. 

It was not that he was particularly fond of her; truth to tell he could
not remember them exchanging a single word of conversation. She was an
oddity down at "The Five Bells", an achievement in itself considering
the usual clientele, and perhaps it was more the twinges of guilt for
encouraging the rumours, not to mention having created several
completely new ones about the girl, which spurred his heels.

The policeman seemed to be taking it all quite coolly, standing there
stone-faced while the leather clad girl appeared to be attempting to
explain the mysteries of the universe to him, which she kept forgetting.
She was obviously even crazier than Mick had heard; that or seriously
pissed out of her mind. And on a Tuesday too.

Taking a deep breath, Mick stepped up smartly and took Roxanne by the
arm.

"It's okay officer, I'll take care of her," he said, broadcasting an air
of responsibility for all he was worth. "Come on Roxy, time to go
home."

The policeman remained unmoved.

"Well, if it isn't me old chum Mick. Howyadoin' Mick?" she slurred, as
he attempted to steer her away from the likelihood of a night in the
cells.

"She's not usually like this, honest." affirmed the youth as he dragged
her away by main force. "I'll get her home."

"Officer, this is my friend Mick. Oops, seems we have to be going now.
Ta ta." The girl waved vaguely in the direction of the receding figure.

Once out of reach of the long arm of the law, Mick gave a deep sigh and
brushed an arm across his forehead.

"I was just telling that nice policeman that I'd only had a little
drunk..." she giggled.  

"You really are completely out of your brain, aren't you?" Mick said,
not really expecting a coherent reply.

"Shit," he added, with feeling.

Pausing to get his breath back, Mick took off his glasses and wiped them
on his shirt. The air smelled of autumn and impending rain. Roxanne
leaned against the wall. Her purple T-shirt formed the only trace of
colour under a black leather jacket bulked out by a black cut-off; a
studded black leather belt over black jeans tucked into black boots was
held together by held together by a chunky metal buckle shaped into
letters which formed the word "BITCH." Black spikey hair framed a white
face. Roxanne seemed to have a one track mind where colour
co-ordination was concerned.

"I better get you to a cafe. Maybe a burger and some coffee or
something. Hell, Roxy, you're never usually this pissed."

"No burger. No. Can't meta...metabolabolize it." She gazed at him
mournfully, with large sad eyes. "Make me throw up."

"Right. Fine. Okay then, tell me where you live and I'll get you home.
Come on Roxy, where do you live? What's your address?"

She looked around suspiciously before whispering loudly, with an air of
secrecy, "Four Park street."

Super. It was just what he needed. A good mile's walk. Uphill. The
concept of seeing home a girl he hardly knew, who was probably too drunk
to appreciate it, was getting less appealing all the time. Perhaps the
walk would do her good.

She was unsteady on her feet from the first. By the time they reached
her flat, Mick was supporting her bodily. They reached what appeared to
be a junk shop with the door to one side. The two floors above were in
darkness.

Roxanne seemed practically insensible. He propped her up against the
wall but she started to slide down it as soon as he stopped supporting
her. In the end he planted a knee under her crotch. It was anything
but elegant, but it served to stop her from slipping, and it freed his
hands.

He slapped her face gently. "The key, Roxy. I need your front door
key."

She mumbled something. Eyes flickered open, unfocussed, and then shut
again; she was barely conscious now. He took her by the collar of her
leather and shook her a couple of times, but it was no use. He was
sweating, both with the effort of shifting her dead weight, and the
awareness of how they would look to any passer by.

Mick cursed a couple of times. Then, with a mental shrug, he started
going through her pockets. Pack of cigarettes, lighter, book of stamps,
a marble. Eventually his hand closed on a bunch of keys.

There was no way he could unlock the door from his current position.
After a moment's thought he allowed her to slide gently to the pavement
before moving to the door. Upon opening it, he found that the front
door led onto a narrow passage cluttered with cardboard boxes and an
ancient bicycle. Immediately to his left was a glass paneled door into
the shop, but he could not see much further in the dark. Inevitably
there was no light switch.

Throwing a glance at the supine girl, he stumbled forward into the
darkness, tripping over unseen bits of bric-a-brac. He had practically
reached the far end of the corridor before he realised that there was a
second door set into the left hand wall. He groped around for the lock
and eventually succeeded in fitting a key into it. The door opened onto
a tight set of stairs which curved upwards, and thank heavens, a pair of
light switches. One illuminated the hallway, whilst the other lit the
stairs.

Mick started upwards, calling out nervously. At the top a hallway
stretched back towards the front of the building, ending at a door. To
his right was a bathroom, and beyond that a second set of stairs
ascended. There was no answer to his call.

He was never sure afterwards how he managed to get Roxanne up the
stairs, let alone as far as the bathroom, but it seemed as good a place
to stop as any, considering her current state. He sat her on the floor
with her back propped up against the bath while he retraced his steps
once more and locked up. 

He returned to the bathroom to find the girl in much the same position
as he had left her, limp as a rag doll, so he decided to do a quick
check of the rest of the flat, just to be on the safe side. The door at
the end of the hall opened on to a living room. The single tatty
armchair squatting by the gas fire suggested that the room was furnished
with only one person in mind. The only other seating was a swivel
mounted chair that faced a cluttered desk. In one corner a bass guitar,
all black and chrome, leaned against a large combination
amplifier/speaker. It was a Fender Precision, Mick noted with approval;
the small stylized "F" clearly visible across the room.

At the top of the second set of stairs was a small landing with a door
at each end. The left was a kitchen; so the right must be the bedroom.
This could be embarrassing. Half his mind hoped that there would be
someone inside: anybody would do, even if it was an irate boyfriend he
was waking in the middle of the night, it would mean that he had
discharged his self imposed responsibility for the girl. On the other
hand, considering the circumstances; a stranger bringing her home dead
drunk, he began to think of all the advantages of staying home nights.
He knocked on the door.

There was no response. He turned the handle and slowly opened the door.
Nothing moved in the darkness so he snapped on the light. Unaware that
he had been holding his breath until now, he let it all out at once in a
sigh of relief; there was no one home.

Back in the bathroom he paused to study his own personal version of the
Sleeping Beauty. She hadn't moved from where he had sat her on the
floor, although she had crumpled up a bit. Casting about the room he
found a glass. He emptied out toothpaste and brush; one of each, noted
a small part of his mind, confirming his idea that she lived alone. He
filled it with water from the basin and turned to the girl. The first
glass he gave her externally.

The shock of cold water in the face revived Roxanne sufficiently to
allow her to gulp down the second glassful when it was pressed to her
lips. Mick made himself as comfortable as he could, kneeling over her
with a leg either side of her hips, and continued to feed her liquid as
fast as she could take it. He couldn't think of anything else to do,
and anyway, by this time his own head was getting a little fuzzy.

This continued awhile until she spluttered and shook her head to signify
that she'd had enough. Signs of life at last. Mick stood up and set
the glass down on the washing machine behind him. His legs almost gave
way as muscles complained about spending so long in such an untenable
position. He leant against the sink until the agony subsided, and then
turned off the tap.

There were signs of movement coming from Roxanne's direction. Her hand
fumbled with the rim of the bath as she attempted to use it for support
as she struggled to her feet.

"Need the loo," she muttered. The arm gave way and she returned to
earth with a thud.

"Ow." She stated thoughtfully, after a moment.

Mick groaned inwardly. It was truly pathetic, he considered. With a
sigh, he helped her stagger to the toilet, just managing to get the lid
up before she sat down heavily. She started to fumble with the buckle
on her jeans and Mick decided it was time to be elsewhere. He had
reached the door before her voice called him back.

"Mi-ick," she wailed, "Han's won't work. Help?"

"Oh for God's sake Roxy!" he responded; disgusted with her for causing
him such embarrassment, and disgusted with himself for being
embarrassed.

He felt so stupid, attempting to take his mind off reality by
contemplating a suitable Zen koan. This was not an easy task while
unzipping and pulling down her jeans. The whole thing was complicated
by the fact that he had to support her weight enough to allow the cloth
to slide past her bottom. The first couple of times his grip on her
jacket slipped. Eventually he gave up and pulled the jacket off over
her head and took a firm grip. She didn't complain.

By the time he had her jeans round her ankles he was gasping with
exertion. She was like a marionette with the strings cut. There were
limits to what a bloke might do for a complete stranger, even if he did
fancy her; and holding her hand while she had a slash was not one of
them. He propped her shoulder against the sink and left the room to the
sound of a liquid hiss.

Mick sat on the stairs and wondered how he had ever got himself into
this situation. A mumbled expletive cut through his reverie and he
concluded that she was finished. He got to his feet and sighed again;
it was just going to be that sort of night.

Getting her jeans down had been difficult enough in the first place;
getting them up again proved impossible, they were too tight. Although
she was now conscious, barely, Roxanne was now more of a hindrance than
a help in this department. He settled for pulling up her knickers for
the sake of modesty, and tugging the trousers all the way off, after
first removing calf length leather boots. At least she didn't fall over
this time when he dragged her to her feet. He kicked the pile of
discarded clothing out of the way and steered her in the direction of
the door.

"Y'r a gem," she whispered in his ear.

Half way up the stairs she stumbled. Mick grabbed at her wildly to stop
her falling, and nearly dropped her again when he became conscious that
only a thin layer of damp purple T-shirt separated his hand from her
right breast. He shifted his grip to her armpit. Hell, if she was that
offended she could bloody well walk up the stairs by herself.

It seemed like an age before he could let her drop bonelessly on to the
bed. Mick sat down beside her and took a deep breath. Bits of him
complained at all this unaccustomed shifting of heavy furniture but he
paid them no mind. He was just glad to be free of her weight.

He looked at the girl sprawled on the lumpy duvet. Until tonight he had
barely known her, except by a reputation that he didn't really believe.
Now he was sitting next to her on a bed where she lay half naked.
Within the space of two hours, which had seemed more like two days, he
had got to know her more intimately than he had ever imagined. Any
particularly interesting bits of her anatomy that he hadn't viewed, he
had touched. It was enough to blow one's cool completely.

Now that he had a chance to relax he was beginning to notice his own
reactions. She had never been more than a face in the crowd before. He
had never really seen her as a real girl; an available girl. This
seemed to have changed.

In the end it was her total vulnerability which settled his mind. Okay,
he admitted reluctantly, he wanted her. But he was damned if he was
going to take advantage of her in this state.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Thanks Mick, you're a love," she whispered
dreamily, then reached out clumsily and patted his hand. Well, she
would wake up now, wouldn't she. Why couldn't she have surfaced half an
hour ago?

He leaned forward, trying to catch her mumbled words, and before he knew
it she had her arms around him.

"Shit!" he whispered fleetingly, his good intentions crumbling. He
attempted to think about cricket, which he hated. It would be so easy
to let it happen. Caught at the point of indecision, he reacted
instinctively when her mouth reached for his, only to turn away gagging
at the foulness of her breath.

The spell was broken. He pulled away, gently detaching her arms from
around his neck, and pushed her back to the bed. She was asleep by the
time her head hit the pillow. Under the circumstances, her could not
quite bring himself to remove her sodden T-shirt, which had been pretty
well soaked by the time she had finished the water; he was only too
aware of her lack of anything underneath it. So he contented himself
with covering her with the quilt and headed for the door.

He wandered into the kitchen without any real aim in mind other than to
give himself something else to think about, but once there it seemed
that coffee would be a good plan. As far as Mick was concerned, any
time was a good time for coffee. His little sister Julie claimed that
the only time he had been known to refuse a cup was when there was one
already in his hand. He glanced around the room as though searching for
some mystical sign. It was considerably more clean and tidy than he
would expect to find in the home of a lunatic. In fact few people he
knew could boast comparable cleanliness.

Finding the kettle was easy, since it was plugged into the wall next to
a cooker that probably belonged in a museum. He rooted around a
cupboard stacked high with tins and only succeeded in stirring up a lot
of dust which made him sneeze. Coffee he eventually located in a jar
next to the kettle, but at length he was compelled to open a packet of
sugar that had settled into a solid lump. There was no milk in the
fridge. In fact there was nothing in the fridge except a couple of cans
of diet coke; it didn't appear to be working. He gave up and made the
coffee black.

* * *


It was still a couple of hours shy of dawn when she woke up. Mick sat
against the far wall reading an old paperback he had selected from a
heap by the bed, occasionally sipping from a mug and making faces at the
bitter taste.

He looked up at her startled gasp.

"I bet you feel terrible." He smiled.

A little concerned by the look of panic in her eyes he added, "It's me,
Mick. From "The Five Bells," remember? I brought you home."

She didn't move a muscle.

"No, I expect you don't." he sighed. Then, mistaking her apprehension,
he said hurriedly, "It's okay, nothing happened. We didn't... er, do
anything. That is... Do you want a cup of coffee?" He gestured
vaguely with the mug, so there would be no doubt as to his intentions.

"There's no milk I'm afraid."

She relaxed visibly, the tension draining out of her. Then, with a
groan, she buried herself in the quilt.

"My heads hurt." the sound was muffled by layers of duvet.

Mick presented her with the aspirin he carried about for just such an
occasion, and fetched her a glass of water. She sat back in bed while
he recounted their exploits of the night before, glossing over the
embarrassing bits and making it all sound a lot more amusing than it had
been at the time. She seemed genuinely hungry for his company, not at
all the ice maiden he had seen in the pub. Real life seemed suspended
for a time while they chatted, talking of many things, mostly pub
related incidents.

He was about to ask her about the bass guitar downstairs when he idly
tugged at the heavy curtain to see if day had occurred yet, but she
slapped his hand away. Her manner suddenly changed. It was as though
this intrusion of the everyday world had made her suddenly
self-conscious. She was almost in a panic as she pushed him away,
talking about the time and he had to go and she had things to do.
Ignoring his protests she herded him out of the flat, heedless of the
cold or her state of undress, and before he knew it, Mick was standing
outside on the doorstep wondering if it was something he had said. He
looked up at the blank windows for a minute. A streetlight winked out
across the road. Shaking his head, he wearily made his way home.

* * *


During the course of the next week Mick couldn't get the strange girl
out of his mind. Each night he looked for her in the pub, but there was
no sign. He was intrigued by the apparent contradictions in her
personality, and tried to glean information from anyone who would talk
about her.

There were the rumours of course. Stories that she was mad; that she
was routinely picked up by the police for one piece of weird behavior or
another. A number of the wilder tales he recognised as his own
creations made up of whole cloth to wind up some friend or other,
returning now as legitimate rumours strained through the tiny
beer-filled minds in the pub. At least he was in a position to be sure
that she didn't sleep in a coffin. As a matter of fact he didn't come
up with any hard information. She didn't seem to have any friends: the
few blokes who claimed more intimate knowledge - and of these there was
only one he was fairly sure of - had been with her for one night only
and never in her flat. She did not seem to encourage familiarity. Mick
hugged his own knowledge to his chest and said nothing; but all in all,
it was a big fat zero in terms of new, plausible information.

* * *

A fragment of Night
Falls corvidly Earthwards
A star in her eye