V

Contrition dawns and casts a pallid hue
upon the lovers in their furtive tryst.
Yet retribution shall demand its due
for the cuckold, who has been Judas-kissed,
returning to a house in disarray:
his son unfathered has usurped his bed.
The cards were cut, a Joker dealt in play;
king, queen and jack were trumped and left for dead.
'Ware Launcelot whose bloodied armour hides
aloyal heart Queen Guinevere unbound;
or Brutus, whose deception on the Ides
saw Caesar stabbed and toppled to the ground.
So preach the parables of Galilee:
A house shall fall, if it divided be.

- Ged: Sonnet for "House of Cards"

………………………………………………………………………………..

Morning sunlight filtered slowly through the glass doors, sweeping shadows like dust motes into the furthest corners of the room. Ryan lay propped on one elbow, staring at the woman by his side. He was exhausted, drained in every way, and he recalled wistfully the long dark hours before dawn had heralded an end to his pleasure.

Kirsten wasn't asleep, but her eyes were closed defiantly in an effort to postpone the inevitable. Sighing, he bent and kissed her shoulder. She stirred and batted him away.

'No more,' she mumbled. He chuckled and traced the line of her body with his fingertips.

She opened one eye and muttered, 'What's so funny?'

'I was just thinking it's probably a good thing the new neighbours haven't moved in yet,' he mused.

She blushed and punched him softly. 'Was I that loud?' she asked, shyly.

Ryan's eyes followed his hand, circling and caressing her skin. 'You were perfect.'

Satisfied with his reply she rolled onto her back and stretched. 'What time is it?'

'Time for you to go,' he said softly. She didn't look at him and he hoped that this awkward moment would pass without regret. She gave a loud sigh and he tensed, waiting.

'You know,' she finally said, cocking an eye at him in mock reproach. 'This is the first time I've ever really looked at this ceiling. You should have told me it needed painting.'

He laughed then, a sound so unexpectedly joyous that it was as though the sun had shaken off its shackles and joined them in the room, bestowing the brightest of blessings; for Ryan knew, with absolute certainty, that Kirsten would be alright.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Sandy hated airports. He'd arrived in plenty of time to catch his flight, had strolled the shops and managed to find a gift for Kirsten, had drunk two cups of the worst coffee he'd ever tasted, had even managed to read the Times to which he contemplated, idly, subscribing, and was now perched uncomfortably on a hard plastic chair designed by Machiavellian engineers, staring morosely at the departures board and wondering why, of all the flights listed, his was the only one delayed.

Until five minutes ago, it had been a successful trip. The investors were slick, but Sandy reckoned he'd covered all bases and the deal was sweet. He sighed and shrugged off this new inconvenience with his usual optimism. He'd call Kirsten to let her know he'd be late then begin his hunt; there had to be someone around here who knew how to make a decent coffee.

Pulling his cell out of his pocket, he was poised to punch in the number when it rang.

'Dad?' Seth's voice was tinny, and Sandy clamped his free hand to his ear to block out the hum of terminal noise.

'Seth! How's Portland?'

'Yeah, good. Fine.' There was a pause. 'Luke sends his regards.'

'So, when are you due home? Will you be there for dinner?'

'Um … dunno. Maybe. Actually, that's why I'm calling.' Another pause. 'Have you spoken to Mom?'

'No. I was just about to call her. My flight's delayed.'

'Oh, okay. Well …'

'Speak up, son. I can hardly hear you.'

'It's just that I've been calling the house for ages and there's no answer. I've even tried Ryan's cell, but it's switched off. I dunno, maybe it's nothing, but I thought I might leave earlier, get home … you know, make sure everything's okay … Dad? … Dad?'

'No.' When Sandy finally spoke his voice sounded as remote to his ears as Seth's. 'No need for you to do that. Everything's fine. Stick to the plan and I'll see you at home later. Okay?'

'Yeah, okay.' Seth sounded relieved.

Sandy cut the call and frowned. Picking up his overnight bag, he strode to the check-in and slid his boarding pass across the counter.

'I need you to get me on a flight.' The urgency in his voice brooked no argument. 'Now!'

……………………………………………………………………………….

Kirsten stood, dwarfed in his tank top, uncertain and afraid. There was nothing to be said, no words of comfort that could bandage the hurt. What had been done, couldn't be undone and what lay ahead was a rocky path, overgrown and half-hidden by regret and recrimination.

Most unnerving was Ryan's silence, which had mantled him since they'd left the bed. His brooding had long been the butt of jokes, but she realized now that his moods were not so much a mask worn to shield himself from whatever blows the world saw fit to rain upon him; rather they were his core, an internal structure that supported and held him upright. Whatever Ryan felt, whatever emotion he expressed, whatever words issued reluctantly from his mouth, came from within. It was what separated him from everyone else, why he had never found peace amongst the superficial, never felt at ease in this Utopian mirage. And her understanding brought with it a certainty that, when she left here, she would never see him again.

Sighing, she stooped to retrieve her gown that still lay puddled on the floor. Ryan's hand shot out and gripped her arm. He shook his head.

'No. Leave it.'

She stared at his eyes, hooded with some dark intent, and gasped. 'No Ryan! It will kill-'

'It'll kill me not to, Kirsten,' he said, his voice hard, uncompromising.

Slowly she straightened, and nodded; she would let him do it his way. The time for arguing had long past. He took her hand then and led her to the door, like one might lead a reluctant child to a place filled with unknown and untried experiences. He paused at the threshold and turned her to him.

'Last night was …' he stopped and swallowed hard.

Her tears were falling freely now and as he raised a hand to brush them away, she whispered, 'For me too.'

He smiled sadly at her reply, remembering the last time they had spoken those words, knowing that this time, there could be no return, no forgiveness.

'Where will you go?' she asked. It was a silly pointless question but it disguised the one she really wanted to ask which was do you have to go? And there was no point asking that, because she already knew the answer.

He carefully brushed her concern aside. 'I can take care of myself.'

Yes, she thought suddenly, you can. But who will take care of us? She glanced across at the house and shivered. 'Ryan, I'm scared …'

He nodded. 'I know … and I'm sorry.'

'What should I tell Seth?' she asked.

He looked away then and she knew he was fighting for control. When he glanced back, she could see the sheen of misery in his eyes. 'Tell Seth …' he paused, struggled to find his voice then muttered at last, 'Tell him … I had to jet.'

So this is it, she thought, hugging the tank top to her body. She glanced at his face, but his expression was shuttered now. He had retreated to that place only Ryan knew, where no one else was welcome, a sanctuary that protected him from the world, and from himself.

'Goodbye,' she finally managed. It was pathetic and utterly inadequate, but Ryan, who had never asked anything for himself, who had held no expectations, seemed satisfied. He didn't reply, merely leaning forward and kissing her once. His lips were cold.

She turned and stepped away and as he watched her walk into the house, closing the door behind her he felt, for the first time, truly alone.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Kirsten leant against the shower wall and let the water course over her body, mingling with her salty tears, until it ran cold. As a panacea, it eased her aching muscles, but did nothing for the pain she felt inside. She turned off the water and sank slowly to the floor, her sobs echoing in the small, misty room.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan showered briefly. He stood at the bathroom mirror and dispassionately regarded his reflection. Move on folks, nothing to see here. Nothing but a hollow shell in which he'd once hidden.

His cheek and chest bled, the crusts softened and washed away by the hot water and he dabbed them until they dried. Slowly, mechanically, he dressed, carefully keeping his mind blank. Thinking would only complicate the wait.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Sandy flung open the door and shouted for Kirsten. It was irrational, this fear that had gripped him since Seth's phone call, but he couldn't help it. He'd called her when he'd landed, only twenty minutes earlier than if he'd caught his original flight, and half a dozen times since, telling himself that perhaps there was a problem with the phone, perhaps she'd lost her cell, perhaps Ryan's had broken, perhaps … But no matter how he reasoned, he couldn't shake the cold hand that had gripped his heart and was slowly squeezing.

'Kirsten?' he called, striding swiftly through the house. 'Kirsten?' He reached the bedroom and saw the bathroom door shut. He tried the handle. It was locked and he pounded on the door. 'Kirsten?'

He heard a muffled sound and then her voice sounded shrilly through the door. 'Sandy?' He collapsed against the wood, his relief so great it was tangible.

'Thank God,' he said. 'I've been calling and calling … I was getting worried.'

There was a long pause before she replied. 'Sorry. I'm fine … um, I'll be out in a minute.'

'Okay. Take your time. I'll wait right here.'

There was a clatter and the sound of breaking glass. He tried the handle again. 'Kirsten? Let me in!' There was that hand again, gripping and twisting, making his heart race, slowing it down.

'Sorry,' she called, her voice high and unnatural. 'I dropped a bottle of perfume.' He heard her curse softly. 'Caffeine withdrawal, I guess … haven't had a cup of coffee yet. Could you put on a pot?'

Not a sound came from behind the door; clearly she was waiting for his reply.

'Sure,' he said slowly, backing away. 'Actually, I could do with a cup myself. Join me in the kitchen when you're ready …' But he had left the bedroom before he'd finished his sentence.

……………………………………………………………………………

Kirsten gripped the vanity so hard she thought her hands would break. She stared at her naked body reflected in the glass, wishing she never had to look at it again. The cloying stench of perfume filled her nostrils and she wanted to vomit. He probably thinks I've dropped a bottle of vodka, that I'm drunk. And this thought, that only yesterday she would have considered so unjust, now made her giggle hysterically.

And though her laughter echoed and bounced about the bathroom, she couldn't hear the ugly sound above the clamouring in her brain: He doesn't know … he doesn't know … he doesn't know. Yet.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan listened to each footfall with resignation. He stood by the bed, waiting, his hands curled loosely by his side. This was it, he thought. Whether it had been engineered by himself, or the impish move of some pitiless god, bored upon his cloud, the end game of last night would play out here. Now.

He watched as Sandy slowly entered, his black eyes finding him, taking in the hooded sweatshirt, the leather jacket, the choker. Sandy stared at the scratch on Ryan's cheek, then glanced back to the door where the carry-all lay patiently.

'Going somewhere, kid?' Sandy asked, his eyes flicking back to Ryan's, pinning him.

Ryan nodded curtly.

Sandy took a step forward. Any minute, Ryan thought. Any minute now.

'I thought you and I had agreed to talk about things,' Sandy said.

Ryan shrugged, thanking God that he already had an established reputation for taciturnity; he wouldn't have been able to speak, even if he'd known what to say. Sandy took another step, this time sideways. He let his eyes rest on the bed, the sunken pillows, the messed sheets. Here it comes.

'What happened to your face?' he asked. He moved again, skirting Ryan, around the bed. Any minute now … Fuck! Was the man blind?

But then Ryan heard a hiss, like a punctured tyre leaking air, and he knew that both their questions had been answered, without a word spoken. He watched Sandy stumble and bend; watched him slowly straighten, his hands holding Kirsten's gown, trembling. He groaned, and Ryan winced to hear his pain.

'What have you done?' Sandy muttered. He held the gown up and Ryan watched his eyes flicker from the gown to the scratch on his face and back to the gown again, mottled with dried blood. 'Oh God, what have you done?' he cried, staring at his ward in horror.

'The blood is mine, Sandy,' Ryan replied quietly. It was all he was prepared to say in his defense. It should have been enough, but the older man didn't hear, or didn't want to hear. With a cry of anguish he threw the gown to the floor and moved towards Ryan, menacingly. Ryan wanted to shout, Yeah, I fucked her! But she fucked me too, man. Boy, did she fuck me and it was fucking glorious! And then we did it again and again and again. She screamed for it, Sandy, and if you'd only been around instead of trying to save the fucking world, it wouldn't have happened. But it did, and I'm fucking glad it did, because I now I understand that I want what you have. And I'll have it too one day. But I won't be like you, Sandy. Oh no, once I find it I won't ever let it go! But he couldn't say any of that, he couldn't do that to this man who had taken him in and nurtured him as a son. He couldn't cruelly, senselessly hurt him like that. So, as Sandy raised his fist and Ryan tensed to ride the blow, he simply repeated quietly, 'The blood is mine.'

The blow he'd expected, wished for almost, never came. Sandy dropped his arm and fell to his knees. Ryan's words had registered, he had understood what the boy was telling him, and it had shocked him to his core. He opened his mouth, but no words issued, just a moan filled with unimaginable pain.

A part of Ryan pitied him, a part of him wanted to apologize for bringing down this family, for whom he had strived so hard but ultimately failed, but that other part, the part that yearned for escape, wouldn't let him. The ties that once had bound were severed. He couldn't help Sandy now, just as he couldn't comfort Kirsten before. Just as he would never be able to explain to Seth. They would have to sort themselves out. And he knew they would. The mirage is always there, he thought. It never disappears completely; it just moves further away, just out of reach, something to strive for.

So Ryan left Sandy where he was and, moving away, picked up his carry-all, slinging it over his shoulder. Without a backward glance, he left that room forever, walked slowly through the house, and let himself out.

It was warm outside and under the bright Californian sun, Ryan began his slow descent from the heights. He was going home.

Fin.

R & bloody R!