The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

Marthe’s hand to explore more deeply. Fingers deliciously poised. And as they lingered, seeming to hesitate, they transported Ellen back to memories of Frank.

“If a white sweating bull of a poet told us our cunts are ugly,” she whispered, “why didn’t we admit we have thought so too?”

“What?”

The sound of shock in that one brief word and the puzzlement in Marthe’s eyes brought Ellen back from her trancelike dream of Frank. With sheepish awkwardness, she tried to explain. And sensed Marthe’s hand inching away.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said and placed a hand on the retreating fingers. “I got carried away by memories of Frank. He’s a bit of a poetry freak and loves quoting those words at me when we’re in bed. They’re by a poet called Denise Levertov. He does it just to tease me. But there’s a certain truth to the words, isn’t there?”

“You surprise me,” Marthe said. “For all the rights you’ve enjoyed as a woman for so much longer than me, I would expect a greater sense of confidence.”

She peered through the strawberry-blonde curls that flowed over Ellen’s eyes, brushed them aside and smiled.

“Why are you laughing?” Ellen asked.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing,” Marthe explained. “I was just reminded of something.”

Ellen’s mood had suddenly taken on an edge of insecurity as she looked into Marthe’s eyes.

“During the time around the vote,” Marthe continued, “women’s groups began to organise some strange events. I remember one led by a very serious woman who was keen that we should understand our bodies. ‘Embrace’ was the word she used I believe.” Marthe’s smile instantly broke into a chuckle. “At one session, she handed a mirror to each of us and instructed us all to examine our vulva and describe it in detail to each other. And how we felt about it.”

Marthe paused again. The smile still lingered over the memory. Then out of the blue she asked: “Why do you think Frank is not ready?”

By now, any arousal had long since been deflated.

“I don’t know. But it has nothing to do with his disappearance. You say it as if I might be to blame for everything – just because I want to have babies.”

“Oh Ellen. I was not meaning it in this way.” Marthe moved closer again and tightened her embrace. But the comfort Ellen had felt earlier was no longer there. What had seemed like boundless rapture just a moment before had now evaporated. Its place taken by an ill-defined disquiet. And Marthe was about to provide some definition.

“But I do wonder whether he was upset by something that happened,” she added “Or something that was said.”

By now, Ellen’s carefree sensuality was completely banished. She sensed that Marthe was attempting to frame a further probing question for her.

“Do you think his mother’s death might have something to do with his disappearance?” she asked. Ellen was at least grateful that Marthe was no longer persisting with the idea that Frank had left her. But the idea that he might have been upset by his mother’s death in such dramatic fashion seemed far-fetched at best.

“I should not really tell you this, Ellen,” Marthe continued. “In fact, I should not even know it myself. Urs has made a great mistake when he told it to me. But he was worried, and I think he needed advice.”

Ellen remained in Marthe’s loose embrace. But said nothing.

“I think you should know that when Frank was first found and admitted to the clinic, he has said something very disturbing. He said that he killed his mother.”

Ellen instantly freed herself from Marthe’s arms and stared at her.

“That’s ridiculous,” she protested. “He was speaking metaphorically.”

Marthe’s words put her in mind of Beth. But her sister was simply being spiteful when she asked the same question. Ellen knew that Marthe was genuinely concerned. Yet the suggestion implicit in those words did nothing to allay her disquiet.

Suddenly a blue light flashed through the window onto the ceiling above them.

“What’s that?” Ellen asked.

“It’s only an ambulance,” Marthe reassured her. She got out of bed and walked over to the window. Ellen watched the silhouette of her breasts as she drew the curtains to and sensed a rekindling of her pleasure at the sight of Marthe’s body. But her enjoyment was interrupted by a sharp squeal of brakes outside.

“What’s going on, Marthe?”

“The ambulance had to stop suddenly for someone crossing the road. He looks as if he’s had too much to drink.” And she got back into bed.

Ellen fell asleep in her arms, thinking about Frank, knowing that – like the drunk crossing the road – he was also out there somewhere.

Chapter 18

The firearm weighed reassuringly heavy in Frank’s coat pocket. Cradling the cold iron of the chamber in his hand as if it held the key to his existence, he took the precaution of walking a circuitous route into town rather than pick up the train further down the line. So it was well past midnight by the time he reached the city centre. The streets were already fast asleep. The Kolping house held no magnetism for his tired aching feet, especially since Lutz now knew he had a room there. And he did not trust Lutz as far as he could throw him. But he was in desperate need of somewhere to sleep.

So, keen to absorb what he could of Patricia’s life, Frank made his way to her flat. The iron in his pocket invested him with the confidence to cope with any trouble, should Lutz’s advice prove to be well-founded.

The street had impressed itself firmly on his memory when he first saw Patricia open the door that led to the privacy of her flat – a privacy which he had envied so deeply for its intimacy with her and which he had wanted so much to be a part of. Now it looked empty and abandoned in the early hours of this cold morning. He had been captivated by the street because it was Patricia’s, but now that he could