Fractured Crystal: Sapphires and Submission (2 page)

And so, not long before her twenty-fifth birthday, she had not so much woken from a terrible dream as allowed herself to fall into a waking narcolepsy, sleepwalking through her days that could be endured so long as they were dreamless. Dead-end jobs, dead-end relationships, deadening debts
—
all contributors to the joylessness that had marked her life for the past three years.

This was what she wanted to escape. She realised the futility of a brief sojourn away from herself, the briefest of holidays away from “real life”, yet as she finally arrived at Dalrigh for a moment the clouds broke and the white-washed walls shone with a flash of sunlight that made her wonder if not everything was in vain.

It was too much to call this elation, but certainly her heart felt lighter than it had in a long time as she pushed to the door of her small Toyota (thankful at least that it had not broken down on the journey) and trudged up the stone path towards the bright blue door of the cottage. Dalrigh was by no means large, and yet, with a dozen cottages and small buildings straggling along the road that led to the centre of the village, it would perhaps provide her with some comfort for a couple of weeks.

She was thankful at least when Anne’s key turned in the door, though her heart did sink a little when she pushed her way into the cottage. She realised that, despite herself
—
and all those lessons that real life had taught her
—
she had secretly been indulging the fantasy that this was one of those picture perfect holiday retreats that one read about in glossy magazines while sitting in a doctor’s waiting room or at the dentist. The fusty smell prickled
her nose in a somewhat revolting
manner: Kris was nothing if not pernickety these days about her personal hygiene, and the young woman who would have tolerated pretty much everything in a squat had long gone.

Pushing into the kitchen, she realised that she had brought enough food for a couple of days of emergency rations at least, but had failed to anticipate that she would actually need to clean before she could begin to enjoy Dalrigh. A less fastidious person would have been able to ignore it, at least until they had poured themselves a coffee (or something stronger, perhaps), but Kris could feel her hackles rising and she stared at the grimy surfaces and sniffed the malodorous air. Had something died in here?

Dropping her bomber jacket across the back of a chair, she began to search through the cupboards beneath and alongside the sink (which, with some revulsion, she realised would have to be cleaned thoroughly before she could prepare any food). Anne did not share Kris’s personal delicacy, and so the house appeared to be bereft of anything that would allow the young woman to make herself at home.

Rolling up the thick sleeves of her fleece, Kris returned to the car and paused for a moment. Damn it: from what Anne had told her, the village shop was only a mile away and she should walk instead of driving everywhere. Perhaps a bit of physical exercise would clear up her lethargy. It wasn’t even yet three o’clock, she having stayed overnight in Glasgow before completing the last leg of her journey, and she should be sure to make it to the shop within the next quarter of an hour.

The walk was less refreshing than she had hoped, the air being somewhat humid, but as she came to the centre of the village with its pub and post office-cum-general store she saw a battered old Land Rover parked outside. The vehicle looked as though it had seen better days (like much of the village generally, thought Kris), but she paid it no more attention as she
opened
the door that led into the shop.

The glass front resisted her hand and she came up short just in front of it, catching her reflection in the mirrored surface, hair long over her shoulders, face pale and somewhat drawn, tired from more than travelling. On the other side she realised that something was moving in the murky shadows of the building and understood that another person was
opening
the door towards her. Stepping back, she waited politely and inattentively as the stranger began to make his way through.

As Kris had been daydreaming, drifting in a vaguely bored mental state, it took her a few seconds to realise that the stranger had not moved. She had barely paid him the slightest attention, and when her eyes focussed she realised that she was looking at a man’s chest, broad from what she could determine beneath the checked shirt he wore above his jeans, and with shapely forearms appearing beneath the edges of his sleeves that were rolled up halfway.

Feeling a sudden shock that this large body was in front of her, Kris’s face lifted automatically. She was small, and so it was not unusual for her to have to look up to men (one reason why she preferred high heels to the trainers she had been wearing while driving), but the man in front of her was unusually tall
—
a good deal
over six foot. Without warning, her stomach did a tiny somersault simply from the fact of his presence, and she drew her breath in a little anxiously. Why was he just standing there?

When her eyes came into contact with his, the expression on his face did nothing to lessen that anxiety. Kris was not unattractive, certainly: there had even been some who found her beautiful, but she was usually dismissive of her pale features and blue eyes, and increasingly hid her body beneath somewhat shapeless clothing. Yet this stranger was staring at her with an intensity and focus that was completely disturbing to
her
.

She in turn felt herself compelled to stare back for a few moments. The stranger
was
broad across his shoulders, though his neck was clearly shaped, not like some of those over-built lunks that she sometimes saw on television. He was strong, obviously, but not
an
overwrought body builder. His face...
it wasn’t
exactly handsome. He had a beard for a start
—
not particularly thick, but one that had evidently been there for a couple of weeks at least, and this was not something that Kris ever looked for in a man. There were also several scars, thin but plainly visible, running across his forehead and his cheeks.

And yet, despite these features, for a few seconds Kris could not help but stare. His lips, visible through the dark hair specked with a few grey lines, was a firm bow shape, their pale red curve parted slightly as he watched her, while his nose was a strong line, neither too small and effeminate looking but neither large and gross. The hair on his head was, indeed, thick and dark, curling as though it had not been cut in a few weeks but appealing in a way that Kris had not looked for in any man since her time at art college.

But it was his eyes that made her leap suddenly in shock. At first, she thought it was merely the intensity of his gaze, but then she realised that while they were a beautiful hazel colour, the pupil of one was much larger than the other. She had seen that effect before and wondered where, the disconnect between the more regular eye and the large, dark hole that stared down at her making her feel extremely uncomfortable. At last, she dropped her own gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pushing herself to one side of the stranger and seeking to squeeze past him into the shop. For some reason he did not move, and Kris had to push herself right up against her body to enter: she considered pulling back and seeing if he would move, but she could explain neither her sudden desire to get out of the presence of this man who simply continued to look down at her while she slid her body against his, nor the blushes that furiously lit up in a fire across her face.

There wasn’t much light inside the shop, and for this Kris was glad. She stood in absolute silence for a while, not daring to move until
—
at last
—
she heard the stranger step away from the door. Even then she remained silent and still while the Land Rover outside started and slowly drove away. Then, only then, did she feel safe enough to move.

“Well, well,” she heard a voice speak a few feet ahead of her. Raising her head at last, hoping all the time that her furious blushes were at last fading away, she saw a woman in her fifties with a not unkind face watching her. “You caught his attention, and that’s no mistake. What can I do for you?”

“Erm...” Kris fumbled for words. “I was just... I mean... I would want... I was just looking for a few things. I’m staying at the cottage
—
Dalrigh.”

“Oh, so you’ll be a friend of the woman who owns it then, Anne Yarrow?”

Kris nodded her head. “That’s right. I’m staying for the next couple of weeks, but I need to get a few things to clean up first of all.”

“That’ll be a first, I’m sure,” the woman laughed, her grey-blonde hair catching the light from the window. “Oh, don’t mind me
—
I don’t mean any harm. Not like all around here, and that’s the truth.” Her final words appeared directed at the door behind Kris, but then the woman shook her head and smiled. “I’m Mary. Anything you need, just come to me.”

“Thanks,” Kris replied with a bashful smile. She paused and, once again looking for the right words but this time with a more subtle motive, finally remarked: “He didn’t say much, did he? Is he always that rude?”

“Him? Don’t you bother with him
—
though I think that was almost civil by his usual standards. Daniel Logan don’t say much to anyone whenever he shows up round here.” Mary tutted and turned her attention back to the list of items which Kris placed in front of her.

As the older woman uhmed and ahed over various things on the
list
, Kris returned her own gaze to the door of the shop. Daniel Logan. She couldn’t explain why she wanted to know that name.

When Kris had finally cleaned the cottage more or less to her satisfaction and settled down with a simple meal of pasta and a glass of wine, the sun had already descended across the hills that lay between her and the Atlantic. Though the clouds had never entirely departed from the sky, nonetheless the weather
had been generally clearer and
as she ate her food hurriedly she felt more optimistic though she could not explain why.

Having attended to one physical urge in a fairly cursory manner, Kris decided that the next of her needs
—
the desire to clean herself
—
would be better dealt with in a more leisurely
fashion
. Fortunately, she had received full instructions from Anne on how to work the rather antiquated oil burner that came with Dalrigh, and so when she had cleaned the small bathroom and placed her still half-f wine glass on the side of the bath the steam from the hot water was filling the room pleasantly.

Kris had removed her fleece upon returning to Dalrith, the temperature and weather
—
slightly more humid than she had expected
—
having made her sweat a little. This general unfemininity of her condition had not been improved by the unanticipated hard labour required in cleaning out Dalrigh, and so she removed her somewhat soiled T-shirt with considerable relief, flinging it down onto the floor in triumph.

Her shoulders ached fr
om the driving and her breasts
were a little uncomfortable in her bra. Unclasping herself, Kris let the fabric of her bra fall away onto the floor beside her shirt and, bending, unzipped and pulled down her jeans.

Turning, she caught sight of herself in the mirror that was already becoming half-obscured with steam. She looked pale at the moment,
and her dark hair made her skin look paler than usual
. As an Avelar
, however,
she could still take on a delicious lightly honeyed tan in the sun when she chose to
—
unfortunately, she had not
really
seen the sun in a long time.

Seeing her body, her breasts firm and standing forth from her chest with only the slightest curving fall of flesh below, her belly not rigidly lean but still trim enough, and her hips swelling out in her knickers, Kris once more experienced the same old feeling of anger and frustration. She was tired, yes, and she didn’t have a model’s body, but
goddamit
! She was still attractive! Why did her sexual encounters have to be such failures?

Shrugging and realising that there was no point fretting over this matter now, she slipped out of her panties, the darker,
neatly trimmed line
of her pubes peeking from the base of her abdomen as she opened her legs, placing first one foot then the second into the hot water. As she slid down into the bath, the deliciously warm water flowed over and between her thighs, splashing against her vulva in a pleasant fashion before rolling in waves over her lower belly as she creased herself into position, sitting upright so that she could continue to drink her wine as she soaked herself.

Steam curled and rose about her, forming soothing fronds around her hair, almost caressing her face as she settled into place. Balancing her glass carefully on the chair beside her, she reached across for the soap, lathering it between her nimble fingers and sliding her hands across her arms and chest, soaping up her breasts and enjoying
—
at last
—
the sensation of her hands on her own skin.