Lachlan - you can love him or hate him!

(The first Thursday character piece for Port Brokeferry... and no other news at the moment.)

LACHLAN DAVIE REGRETS

Lachlan Davie woke again in Christine’s bed. Twice in the one week and last night he was not drunk and neither was she. He thought that meant something. Then there was her telling him where she kept the key so he could let himself in, which he had. And all the stuff he’d written on her body in black pen that wouldn’t easily wash off. She had stripped and made him read out loud everything he’d written.

‘Fuck, Lachlan. That’s just lovely.’

She was crying before he’d finished. Her hand clasped to her mouth as though she was holding back something, as if there were words she might have blurted out and was thinking she’d later wish she hadn’t. Instead all she said was, ‘Oh Lachlan.’

Christine lay beside him now, still in sleep, her back turned to him so that he could read again what was penned across her shoulders and down the line of her back. His words, but now not like his. Like he was reading a book that someone else had written and so he did not know what words came next.

‘The bones of her back press against the skin, underneath, and running my hand down her is like what I imagine playing a musical instrument could be, only there is no sound except her sighing, and shifting underneath me.’

He did not know he had those words inside him. Did not know how they had arranged themselves into what was written. He stroked his hand lightly down Christine’s back, brushing over his words. She sighed and altered her position in the bed, just a little, without waking.

Something was different between them, between Lachlan and Christine. Lachlan wasn’t sure what it was. Wasn’t sure he wanted it to be different. He felt uneasy. A little giddy, as he did when he was so drunk that the world seemed to move under his feet throwing him off balance. As he did when he was on a high ladder, unsteady and looking down.

At her neck, almost too faint to read now, he’d written ‘Lachlan lies with Christine and does not want to lie anywhere else.’ Of course he was drunk when he’d written it. He could always use that as an excuse. He leaned in close and kissed the words he had written. Not drunk now, he thought, and the words still there.

Lachlan Davie rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he said to himself. He thought of the blond girl at the fair. Her name was Liz or Lynne. He wondered what he would write on her body if he got the chance. Then he decided that words just messed things up. He recalled a girl he’d once met in The Ship. She was a visitor. He’d walked her back to her hotel room. In complete silence. Neither of them said a word. Not the whole night, or the morning after when he’d dressed and left. ‘Perfect,’ he thought.

Lachlan Davie got up. He collected his clothes and crept to the door so as not to wake her. He dressed on the step outside and put Christine's key back under the geranium pot. Then he left.