Undulate: Chapter 23

John Murray is as thoroughly decent a human being as they come. While Rafe, Cal and I honed our friendship on the muddy rugby pitches of St Ignatius of Loyola College, John and I formed ours in the school library. We were in the same A Level Theology class, and his friendship fed my introverted, thoughtful side.

Our chats were heavy on teenage angst and existentialism, and he took that existentialism a step further when he signed up for the priesthood after reading Theology at Durham. Claire and I made a point of having him over for Sunday lunch regularly enough, both because he seemed to enjoy spending time with our family and because I couldn’t think of a finer role model to have in our daughters’ lives. I’ve seen him far less frequently since she passed, but whenever I show up at his door he’s always welcoming and never judgemental.

Once I’ve bought our pints, and we’ve taken our seats in the quietest corner of a dusty old-man’s pub opposite the church, he cuts to the chase.

‘How are the girls holding up?’

I shrug. ‘Well, I think. I mean, as well as can be expected. They’re little stars. We have bad days, and we have mixed days, but overall they get on with it most of the time. It’s hard to know how much trauma’s buried under the surface, though. You know?’

‘Are they seeing anyone about that?’

‘Yeah, we have a bereavement counsellor. We see her together once a fortnight and she has short individual chats with the girls, too. It helps.’

He nods, and we’re silent for a moment. I’m reminded of how much I appreciate John’s ability to hold a comfortable silence, a skill he’s had since long before he joined the priesthood.

‘But none of that is what’s bothering you today.’ It’s not a question.

‘Nope.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘There’s no one less appropriate than you to talk to about this.’

‘And there’s no one less likely than you to bring me something inappropriate,’ he counters. ‘Not like Rafe.’

We both grin. The day Rafe atones for his carnal sins will be a long time coming, and John knows it.

‘Oh, he’s a reformed man,’ I say. ‘He’s sickeningly in love.’

He nods, impressed. ‘I’m happy to hear it. He’s a good guy. But you’re deflecting.’

I purse my lips. Consider how to frame this. ‘There’s a girl at work,’ I admit. ‘I mean, she’s a woman, but she’s young. Twenty-three. She’s best friends with Rafe’s girlfriend.’

He’s silent. He hasn’t smirked like most of our mates would at that opener. His gaze is soft. Encouraging.

‘I have feelings for her that are very’—I wave my hand around awkwardly—‘physical. She’s extremely attractive—stunning, actually—and she’s also very liberated. There’s a strong attraction between us, and we’ve acted on it a few times now.’ It’s a sanguine-as-fuck summary of the ‘unspeakable’ things Maddy proposed I do to her.

Things I did far too gladly.

‘Got it.’ He looks away, taking a slug of his lager. ‘And are you here because you’d like me to help you as a priest or a friend?’

‘A friend,’ I say quickly. ‘Definitely not a priest. I know you can’t sit there and tell me what I’ve done with Maddy isn’t a sin.’

‘Let’s just leave the subject of sin aside for a sec,’ he says. ‘This isn’t your first rodeo—you don’t need me to read the catechism to you. What’s bothering you?’

‘Ugh, I don’t know,’ I say, rubbing my eye with the heel of my hand. I feel emotional. Fragile. Even more strung-out than usual, which I suspect is not the way I should be feeling after last night. I should be feeling dehydrated from all that cum I produced, sure, but not on the verge of tears.

I choose the most accessible emotion. ‘I feel guilty, like I’ve cheated on Claire. Um, let’s see. I feel like I’ve betrayed the girls when we’re supposed to be united in our grief. Like I’ve failed to hold it together and I’ve gone after the easiest, lowest form of gratification, and I’ve done something unholy instead of trying to seek the highest path.

‘That sounds religious—I don’t mean it in a religious way. I just mean I’m trying to be very circumspect in my choices, in the way I deal with this burden, and instead all I did last night was fuck my brains out until I couldn’t think anymore. Whew.’

I let out a slow exhale. When I look up at him, his eyebrows are raised.

‘You had sex with her? That’s what’s bothering you?’

‘I mean, yeah. In the club, so it wasn’t just vanilla—’

He holds up a hand. ‘Got it. No need to go on.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise either. So you two were… intimate, and now you feel ashamed?’

‘Basically, yeah.’ I neck a good inch of my pint. ‘I feel grubby.’

‘Because of her?’

‘God, no. She’s amazing. I just—it was pretty kinky stuff, you know? And I’m just wondering where that came from—I don’t like where it came from.’

‘Is everyone okay?’ he asks. ‘I mean, no one was harmed? She’s well?’

‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘Everyone’s fine. It was… great. She’s great.’ Scorching hot, and depraved, and utterly irresistible, and equally shameless. She’s great.

‘So,’ he says carefully. ‘Forgive me because I’m very far out of my depth here, but I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. Everyone was happy at the time, and you don’t feel either of you were wronged, and you think she’s a wonderful person? Or you’re blaming her influence.’

‘No, she’s a wonderful person. I’m not blaming her at all. She’s incredible—she’s full of light, completely irresistible in every way.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ he says. ‘It’s not for me as your friend to judge the morality of how you use your body, mate, but if being with this young woman makes you happy, then I don’t see the problem. Unless’—he leans forward, holding his pint on his knee—‘you don’t believe you deserve to be happy. Then that’s a very big problem. It’s a natural expression of our humanity to seek companionship.’

I snort. ‘I don’t think what went down last night could be called companionship.’

‘What, then?’ he asks. ‘Keeping it, you know, vague.’

‘Oblivion,’ I answer grimly.

He nods like a therapist whose patient has had a breakthrough, which I suppose is not a bad analogy for this dynamic.

‘I’ve always kept myself distant from the club,’ I say now. ‘I can be a bit of a pompous arsehole, as you know.’

He smirks and graciously says nothing.

‘I applaud it, but I’ve never gone for it. But this past week, it’s like I’ve found the basest, most addictive way to forget all my problems and I’ve gone for it like a wild animal, and I don’t know that oblivion is what I should be searching for. It doesn’t feel healthy.’

‘It doesn’t,’ he muses, ‘although the relentless search for oblivion has been a human condition through the ages. But you’re implying last night was transcendent?’

I consider. ‘It was how I imagine taking crack to be. It was total fucking ecstasy, but in the darkest, unhealthiest possible way.’

He’s frowning again. I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. ‘And this woman—Maddy—was the one who helped you to feel that way? So the act was too dark, but you described her as light-filled?’

‘Yeah, I mean, no one can resist her.’ Her or her perkiness, or her positivity, or her relentless vitality. ‘It’s one of the reasons I’m attracted to her—she’s so full of life. I don’t think it’d take Freud to work out why that’s my catnip.’

John sighs. ‘My friend, maybe you need to get out of your own way. You’re telling me you’re in the early stages of a relationship with a woman who is a delightful human being and where there’s great physical attraction.’

‘No, no,’ I insist. ‘Not a relationship. God no.’

He blinks at me. ‘And why not?’

‘Because… because it’s too early! Claire’s been dead, like, eighteen months. It’s so disrespectful to her memory if I even entertain the idea of letting someone else into my heart. The girls deserve everything I have to give. There isn’t any more of me to go around.’

‘With all due respect, mate,’ he says, ‘the girls deserve a father who’s happy and fulfilled and loved. Not someone crippled by grief. No one, and I mean no one, would deny your right to happiness.’ He drains his pint. ‘I’ve got to be getting back, I’m afraid. But, and I say this with love, maybe it’s time to get out of your own way, you pompous arsehole.’

I walk John back across the road and sit on a damp wooden bench in the churchyard. There was no need for him to mention the word love just now. No reason at all. Nobody was talking about that.

And I’m still not convinced that the kind of irreverent chemical highs I scaled last night inside Maddy’s body are the most wholesome kinds of happiness. But they’re sure as hell effective. It’s fair to say the only times I’ve found true peace these past couple of weeks have been when I’ve had my hands on her.

The girls bring me happiness every day, of course. But it’s a bittersweet happiness, tainted by the relentless pain of knowing they can never be perfectly happy without their mother and of wishing she was here to enjoy them with me.

I got to live.

To stay.

She didn’t.

And that’s the crux of the matter. So when I’m lost in my numbers, or showering my daughters with love and support, or raising money for cancer research, then I can live with myself.

When my donations buy me several hours of the darkest, basest kind of pleasure, I can live with myself a lot less well.

That said, John was right. Maybe I’m being a pompous arse about all this. He tends to have a more wholesome, hopeful outlook than the rest of us. He doesn’t need to know that my ‘unspeakable things’ pact with Maddy is purely based on our physical compatibility and not on anyone’s aspirations for a long-term, meaningful relationship.

Still. Last night alleviated a truck-load of stress. It was a fucking miracle. If I got out of my own way and allowed myself to enjoy Maddy’s beautiful body and infectious company without letting guilt eat me up, then maybe I’ll be an all-round better colleague and father and less of a pain in the arse.

And even if the rest of it isn’t true, I can’t deny last night was explosive, electrifying, in a way I’ve never, ever allowed myself to experience.

She’s electrifying. And she seemed to enjoy herself. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction as I play a montage of Maddy’s orgasms in my mind. Plus, none of this is her fault. She’s just after a good time—she doesn’t want her fuck-buddy going all existential on her.

And I want to do it again.

That’s the essence. No matter how loud the cacophony of guilt and shame and self-recrimination is, and no matter how much I hate to admit it, the desire is greater.

I want to do it all with her again.

I pick up my phone and type before I can talk myself out of it.

I think for a moment, then add:

She comes right back.

I chuckle. She knows me well.

She and John make a solid, if improbable, tag team when it comes to arresting my shame spirals. Her reminder that she’s fine, and unharmed by last night’s unconventional antics, galvanises me.

Isn’t that the truth?

I lick my lips. Challenge accepted.

I wait.

I grin wolfishly.

My heart is beating faster. If she’s a drug, then I’m definitely addicted. And I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing. I hesitate, then type.

I shut my eyes and will myself not to get a hard-on, suddenly aware of how profoundly inappropriate it is to be having this conversation in a churchyard. That Maddy seems fond of my dick makes me happier than any sort of external validation should make a grown man. ‘Sorry, God,’ I mutter.

I tense.

I’m not sure I want to examine the reason my chest constricts at that. At the trust she has for me (not that anyone would suspect me of harbouring STDs given my monk-like behaviour until now). And at the idea that she wants this.

I keep my reply short, safe and devoid of emotion.

As usual, Maddy has the last word.

Oh, sweet Jesus.