Death of the Extremophile

  *

  The next time Hawkshaw woke up Hope it was with a kiss. She almost had to pry his lips from his face to do it, but at last his eyes opened.

  ‘You smell better,’ she said.

  Hope realised he was in the bath: it was perfectly warm and with a layer of bubbles on top. The room was softly lit by Roman candles, which were ranked beside the sink with an exquisitely serene hue reflecting off the back mirrors. Hope could not recall stepping into the bath and he became fixated on his suds covered feet as though they might hold the key.

  Something the matter?’ said Hawkshaw, leaning over the bath from the side.

  ‘I don’t know how I got here. The last thing I remember was sitting on the sofa.’

  ‘You fell asleep while I was drawing the bath. I carried you here.’

  Hope looked at her sceptically. ‘You carried me?’

  ‘Sure. I had a lot of practice with my husband. When it was time for him to get ready for work, the bath was the only thing that would sober him up.’

  Hope noticed her hair was damp and straggly and all she had on was a loosely wrapped towel. He reached out to her arm. It was so soft and warm.

  ‘You’ve already been in? I thought the water felt good.’

  ‘You were snoozing so happily out on the couch I took my time. And I was hoping for some answers A guy like you probably talks more in his sleep than when he’s awake.’

  ‘And how did that work for you?’

  ‘Snoring is not a language I understand.’ Hawkshaw smiled.

  ‘When you carried me in here you were naked,’ he mused. ‘And I must have got naked at some point too.’

  Hawkshaw shrugged one of her shoulders. ‘Your clothes needed burning. I thought I’d do you a favour and take them off first.’

  ‘Much obliged.’ He splashed some water onto his chest and leaned his head back luxuriously. ‘So, where do we go from here? This bathtub is too small all of a sudden.’

  ‘Not too small to wash behind the ears.’

  ‘Alright. And then?’

  ‘I’m warming the evening’s roast beef and potatoes. I’ll bring that in to you. You must be famished.’

  ‘Yes, I am. That sounds very nice. And once you’ve built up my strength, what then?’

  ‘Then you clean your teeth.’

  ‘Absolutely. And then?’

  Hawkshaw leaned closer, her eyes breathtakingly aglow in the candlelight. ‘Your sheets are still drying. But you can share mine.’

  She smirked and swung out the room. Hope was frozen. He had felt it more than he had her punch.

  28. ‘If you can’t walk, you’re no good to me and I’ll blow your fucking hear off.’

  Neither Hope nor Hawkshaw were deep sleepers. They awoke intermittently during the night, their senses curiously probing the darkness, like insects with their antennae, wanting to feel what was out there, wanting to touch and to be reassured and to take those sensations back with them into their sleep; it was a hard way to sleep alone, but perfect in the company of someone reciprocating, someone offering warmth. And so they slept and made love through the night. The feelings, the energies, the needs that the day had not called upon, could be sated here. Tenderness and passion entwined under the covers.

  Eventually the sun came again, pressing against the curtains and stirring Hope. He nibbled on Hawkshaw’s earlobe and whispered, ‘The difference between being with you and being alone is that I sleep less and wake up feeling better.’

  Hawkshaw kissed his cheek. ‘You were waking in the past with my fist in your face, so better wouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘Still, it’s better.’ He squeezed her tight. ‘Is it my turn to prepare breakfast?’

  ‘It’s Sunday morning and we’ve got business. Forget breakfast, forget the preacher.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Since I first kissed you, there hasn’t been a single new bruise on your face. I’m very proud of the fact and to ensure my positive influence is maintained, I intend to escort you on your daily stroll. There’s a track in the woods I haven’t told you about because I didn’t want you getting lost. But we have to go early before it gets too hot.’

  It had not occurred to Hope that it might be getting hot these days. Weather for him was mostly physical symptoms: when it was too hot he would wring out his shirt and when it was too cold his teeth would chatter and his jaw muscles stiffen. He would react when it happened and that was about his only association with weather. He could have shared these musings with Hawkshaw but doubted he would have come off sounding any the wiser, so he left her to her room and returned to his own. He dressed in a white cotton shirt and navy blue trousers, both purchased at Harrods and they had done as well at descending from gentlemanly status as he felt he himself had done. He added to the outfit his ever reliable lug-soled mountaineering boots and he was ready to go.

  He met Hawkshaw in the living room. She was comfortably attired in a loose fitting blouse and slacks and white deck shoes and she had a radiant look about her.

  ‘I’ll fetch us something to drink and we’ll be off,’ she said, and as she headed for the kitchen she turned back with a delicious wink.