Passing Tides Ch. 05.5-09.5

The whole concept seems absolutely preposterous to me.

Finally the taxi rolls to a stop outside of my home, the headlights shine upon my front door and after some fumbling with the locks I am inside the darkness of my hallway.

Like a troublesome teenage that has stayed out too late I attempt to silently remove my shoes and creep up the stairs, each creaking step shatters the silence. I reach the top step and look into the open doorway to my room, I cannot make out any of the rooms features; it resides in absolute darkness.

The thought of laying alone and having memories of tonight swirling around in my head seems too much to handle.

I look to the right, there at the opposite end of the hall sits Peyton's room. I gently lower the doors handle and step inside.

Aside from a thin slither of light from a streetlamp outside it is impossible to make my way around the floor space, as I step towards his bed I feel clothes under my feet. This is the bedroom of a typical male, I think to myself.

With absolutely no grace or finesse I creep over the top of his mattress, clambering over Plisskin's sleeping body and throw myself under his covers. For many minutes I lay there in the darkness looking up at the ceiling, I try hard to distract my mind from this evenings events, my thoughts constantly find themselves lured back to that small corner table.

Isla's undressing for all the room to see, the look in her eyes as she winked at me and Peyton's defiance.

It is quite clear that tonight, despite my exhaustion I shall be getting very little sleep.

Isla's wink.

My mind keeps bringing me back to that wink, if Isla was suffering humiliation she was hiding it very convincingly; I'm certain that Dannii's authority merely backfired and in turn excited that warped young woman.

Isla's wink.

My chest begins to rise and fall as breathing escalates. To see her so compromised before me, I can't help but wonder if that's how I looked the night I was a birthday gift, vulnerable but eager, I can almost see the appeal and my mind begins to swirl in a fog of heat and conflict.

Isla's wink.

In the still of the room and the silence of night my heart beats like a drum crafted for war, I try hard to stretch upwards to release some energy but it only makes the swelling pressure worse. Now I can hear my own breathing and there is nothing I can do to hide it.

I look over to Plisskin, he is flat on his back, his dreaming closed eyes fixed at the ceiling. I am thinking the unthinkable, I feel like a person possessed by some sinister force; not of the world.

I do my best to look away by my eyes won't let me.

I am on fire, it's such a blaze that if I were to leave it alone it could burn this building down to the foundations. Although I stayed mentally strong for as long as possible, my thoughts succumb to the madness of my second visit to The White Hart, I trace a line up and down my torso with my hand, it kindles my flame; I soon feel the dampness beneath the sheet.

My heavy breathing turns to panting and sighing.

I think of Isla's wink once more, the hands of a perfect stranger massaging her pale breasts in defeat as she wears a collar of shame; and she winks at me.

It pierces me on impact.

I replay it again and again; I soon find my own hands massaging my chest in motion to the movie in my mind.

I let out an involuntary humming as the cracks in my self-control begin to show.

"Plisskin?" I whisper.

No response, I grab my breast so hard that it gives a dull ache and drive two fingers into me, slick, no resistance; I turn my head a bite into my right arm to mask the noises I need to make.

"Plisskin?" I whisper a little louder.

A brief mumble is heard followed by a faint "Josie, go to sleep."

"Plisskin," I pause to catch my breath "We're friends aren't we? You can keep a secret, yes?"

"I'm tired out Josie."

Frustration in my body and mind awakens something that cannot so easily calmed back into slumber. I sit upright, remove my top and throw it across his room, then with some vigorous shaking I manage to lower my skirt; this too lands in a heap on the floor.

"Plisskin, I need you to forget something, almost immediately" No response.

I roll onto my side, deliberately pressing a bare erect nipple against his forearm.

What the fuck am I doing? What and why I am doing these things are beyond my understanding, I am lost to the world; it feels as though I am simply watching a movie.

"Plisskin, forget this immediately, do you hear me?"

"Forget what?" he mutters, clearly torn between the dream world and reality.

I roll over and mount his left leg, I squeeze it tightly between both of my thighs and begin to gyrate my sensitivity against his skin. I call out like a wounded animal.

"Plisskin, tell me this is ok? Promise to forget?" my rocking back and forth intensifies.

"Josie..."

He looks me in the eyes through the fog of night time. My rocking doesn't slow down.

"What about your girl in the photograph?" he rubs his eyes to clear his vision.

I can't answer him anymore, I cannot think logically anymore, I am past the point of no return; my humanity and compassion is not limitless.

"Fuck the girl in the photograph!" I yell out "Take me!"

I draw close to climax and pounce him.

He is torn to pieces that evening; there would be marks.

-Chapter 8-

If a person were to search high and low, near and far, for a great definition of what it means to be a 'good friend' then I am certain it would be a wasted venture. To try to categorise the properties of that it means to be 'good' as a stand-alone project is simply too much of a moral grey area, what good to one individual is not good for another; the ethos of one culture may very well completely contradict the ethos of another.

As I lay in bed, listening to Plisskin's gentle breathing, these are the thoughts that occupy my mind.

To be cliché and say that a good friend is somebody that stands by your side, through thick and thin, could be mistaken for selfishness. Why should a human being, or any other living creature for that matter commit such loyalty when it is detrimental to their own wellbeing; especially should the companion defending the guilty be acting in the role of the innocent.

No, a good friend shouldn't have to go through such trials.

I lay awake in bed for what may have been over an hour, too dark in these quarters to read the hands of the clock; the street lamp outside had turned off so morning must fast be approaching.

Perhaps, I continue to ponder, real friendship is far too complex to simply solve within a few hours of thinking to yourself. An animal survival trait developed over huge quantities of time, a system of threats and bribery designed to improve the quality and longevity of two creature's lives; cleverly disguised as a mutual passion of one another's happiness.

Perhaps, I ponder some more, I am merely overthinking it and friendship needs to be taken at its face value, to keep good friends is to spend time with other souls that make you happy; what is true happiness? Perhaps a thought forum for another time.

I roll myself over silently on the mattress and face last night's victim.

He lives.

An uncontrollable grin begins to spread across my face, a grin built on the foundation of embarrassment and gluttony; I think back on my actions and continue to smile.

More time passes, it is hard to gauge exactly how much but the room is now an amber glow.

Eventually there is movement next to my side; I lay very still and attempt to play dead.

Plisskin arises from bed and casts his legs over the side, he remains sat there for quite some time, I peek a view at his bare back; my nails have marked him quite severely.

He tilts his head from one side to another then stands up and leaves the room, there in the empty room I stay still for what feels like a very long time, I dare not leave the bed to gather my clothes for fear he may walk in on me; I also know that to lay here forever in the hopes that the world rights itself is pointless.

My saviour comes in the form of clashing sounds from the kitchen, knowing that Plisskin is the only person home I can assume he is making breakfast; with this I make a dash around his room. I scoop up bundles of my clothes and do my best to tiptoe silently across to my own room.

There the light seems brighter, the room is cleaner and altogether fresher; the aroma of sex doesn't linger in the air.

The urge to fall into my own bed and attempt a second serving of sleep is very great. However, before this dream can be achieved my phone begins to ring.

An unknown number; I ignore.

Again the phone rattles upon my writing desk and the same unknown caller displays, ignored.

I pull a chair up to the desk, sit down and remove a round wooden hairbrush from the top draw; I begin to comb away yesterday's history.

Yet again my mobile begins to call, I surrender out of frustration and rest the answered mobile between my right ear and shoulder.

"I see you at your window!" a woman's voice speaks out in cheerful tone "Let me in, it is fucking cold out here, Church Girl!"

The call abruptly ends without the grace of a 'good bye'.

Swiftly realising who had spotted me at my window and whom it was that wanted entrance, I rise up quickly from my chair sending it tilting backwards to the floor with a thud.

I wrap yesterday's attire around my midriff for modesty and edge towards my window for a view of the front garden. There in a white shirt and matching light grey, pinstriped waistcoat and trousers stood Isla, looking directly up at me and waving a hand high over her head.

"What the fuck?" the words fall from my mouth as naturally as breathing or blinking.

I dart from wardrobe to dresser and back, several times, before I'm haphazardly clothed and ready for the morning. Unfortunately, during the course of my frantic performance the phone had rung, several times, and now there was a rhythmic knocking at the front door.

I open my bedroom door with such a force that it bangs against the wall; making me flinch.

"I'll answer it!" I bellow downstairs.

During my travels from the top of our staircase to the bottom I manage to equip two socks, a navy t-shirt, jeans and fix an elasticated hairband, if onlookers were to observe this I'd be receiving a round of applause for certain.

As I reach the door the knocking had stopped, I cautiously unlock the door and open it with care.

Walking away from me is an Isla, dressed exceptionally formal for such an early time of the mornings. Perhaps hearing the door open, she turns on the spot in the manner of a soldier, heels together, and begins to walk swiftly towards me.

She claps her hands closely together three times in excitement.

"Thought I'd have breakfast with you, Church Girl."

A silence interrupts the flow of our conversation.

"Pardon?"

"Breakfast, here or at your lovely café, either is perfect!"

I am not prepared to interact with somebody of such a cheerful disposition.

"You have to stop calling me Church Girl." I manage to speak out whilst yawning.

"Toast," She replies "Tea and toast, yes... that will do fine."

Isla begins to rock back and forth, impatient for the answer to a statement she'd only just spoken.

"Fuck off!" she suddenly shouts, deafening me at point blank range.

I die inside a little as I start to think what our neighbours would be thinking at the outburst, neighbours old enough to be grandparents.

Isla places a hand on my shoulder on my shoulder and pushes a little, moving me slightly to one side as she tip toes to try and see further into my home.

I look behind me and there at the base of the stairs stands Plisskin, wearing just a grey t-shirt, a pair of black briefs and holding a cup of tea.

His startled expression made worse by the near beetroot colour on his face.

"You live with that?!" Isla continues with equal volume "Gorgeous!" she declares.

A mortified Plisskin points at himself, placing an index finger where his heart resides.

"Yes, you!"

With this Isla's predatory smile slowly spreads across her face revealing many bright white teeth, from ear to ear. I know this grin all too well.

"Milk, one sugar and don't let it sit too long."

She releases my shoulder and straightens her frame to meet me, although she is short in stature she still manages to present herself with a degree of authority and power.

"Thank you," she whispers closely "I've been meaning to say that for a long long time."

With this she invites herself inside, I step back and close the door behind us, sealing the deal; breakfast with Isla.

I lead us though the hallway, though it would perhaps be more accurate to say that Isla took the lead as she drifted around the house, investigating the various rooms.

"Cosy." she says as she sticks her head into each room.

I translated this to mean 'Small' or perhaps 'Josie, this room belongs in a bygone era'.

Finally, we reach the kitchen and the two of us stand shoulder to shoulder in silence; Plisskin moves from shelf to shelf frantically preparing drinks.

Isla leans towards me.

"He is cute, for a skeleton."

Her breath is warm and smells of spirit.

"You are well dressed, for a drunk." I whisper back.

Isla clasps both hands over her mouth, leans forwards and begins to snigger; loudly.

Plisskin turns around to investigate for a moment, the redness in his cheeks still exposing his embarrassment.

With the ceremonial clinking sound of metal spoon upon china cups, he turns to face us with a drink in each hand.

I feel the pain of his humiliation, though his skin tight top it is clear to see his is a very thin man and his tight t-shirt and underwear leaves little to the imagination.

With this my mind is swiftly cast back a few hours, I cannot look him directly in the eye as I recall the sexually intoxicated state I had placed myself in during the night.

He outstretches his arms and I take them from him.

"Enjoy." he announces, directly to the floor.

With this he leaves the room, his footsteps inform me and Isla of his swift retreat upstairs. The heavy thudding similar to that of a shamed teenager. Isla leaves the kitchen quickly and tries to catch a glance of him darting upstairs, she returns with a sigh and takes the cup from my hand.

Unsure exactly where I am supposed to guide this situation and so I extend the palm of my hand, gesturing that we should place ourselves in another room and I soon find myself sat in my living room; making idle conversation and unable to shake the sensation of sleep from my mind.

We talk about the local area, the advantages and disadvantages.

We discuss the joys and woes of living away from family.

We chat about my good friend Plisskin and finally we talk about Dannii.

"There is nothing I can tell you that you don't already know, I'm sure of this." I answer Isla.

She had begun to ask about what it was like to live in her company.

"I met her through Plisskin, he brought her in."

"Brought her in?!" she reacted.

"Yes, he spoke of this friend in need," I try hard to think back to the exact facts "Said that he needed to help her and promised she'd be no trouble to us."

I continued to tell how Plisskin had kept to his word and that Dannii mostly kept to herself, paying her share of rent on time and often being more respectful with her personal respect than Plisskin.

While I was half way through telling my story there was a quiet knock on the closed door and the man in question walked though; fully clothed in his usual works uniform.

Isla rose to the occasion as if I higher ranking officer had interrupted a couple of cadet's gossip.

"Hello again, handsome."

He sits himself on a single chair opposite me and Isla returns to hers.

"There's no need for that, you can call me Edward."

"Edward?" Isla looks at me and then back to him.

"Is Plisskin a pet name?"

"No it's not" he laughs "It is an old force of habit."

"Well, my name is Isla..." She begins to tell him.

"I know who you are, I've seen you before."

Plisskin's voice is somewhat stern and he leans forward in his seat as he talks; like a man that is confident of a victory. There is a familiar knot in my stomach as he withdraws a piece of torn paper from his top pocket and hands it over to Isla.

The room is silent other than the sound of the greenery outside blowing through the open window; Isla examines the half photo carefully.

"It's a good photo," she replies "A shame about the damage to it, really."

Isla begins to unbutton her little, fitted, waistcoat.

A fine fall of rain begins to gently tap against the window; it is one of the few sounds that can be heard.

When Isla is down to the last few buttons she reaches a hand inside and pulls out another photograph; presumably from an inside pocket. Once removed she withdraws a black marker from her trousers and begins scribbling on the picture.

She passes it towards me with a wink; then jerks her head as if to forward it onwards to Plisskin.

I take the photograph, it is second nature to glace at it before passing it onwards and I suspect that it was also Isla's intention that I would do so.

A self-shot colour photograph of Isla wearing a grey jumper, her red glasses and scruffy haircut. Her piercing eyes meet the viewer, her tongue licks wet lips and in her left hand she holds an exposed breast.

I know that a week ago this photograph would have shocked me, it would have been alien to me and be viewed as somewhat offensive.

No longer the case, this feels normal.

At the bottom of the picture, scribbled in chaotic handwriting reads a phone number and a signature which is hardly legible; the lettering tails off into a heart shape.

I pass it to Plisskin to, he takes it without casting his gaze away from Isla, then places the picture into his pocket without paying it any attention.

"I'm really sorry, handsome," Isla utters "I do have really important business with the Church Girl, so we girls need talk work... privately."

The rain outside is heavier now, the tapping against the glass dominates the room and the dark clouds outside supress the suns light.

"Really, I insist that calling me Edward is absolutely fine."

Isla rises once more as though she were in the company of royalty.

"Don't be sad Edward, perhaps we can be business partners very soon," she begins to undo the last of the waistcoats buttons "I don't have too many qualifications but I am very, very experienced. I think you could find me to be quite invaluable."

"I will consider it, certainly."

Plisskin rotates and tilts his head, a few hollow crunches resonate from his neck and with this he leaves the room; gently closing the door behind him.

Immediately I am aware that my only support and witness has left my side, it is too late however as Isla immediately walks across the room and sits on my lap, pinning me in my place upon the heavy set armchair, she spins herself so that she is side on and her legs hang over one side of the chair. Although her clothing is by some standards masculine in its formality, her light frame within and perfumed aroma counteracts this.

As I sit in the room, with its warm atmosphere and darkened lighting I still feel drowsy with sleep. This wouldn't be the case for very long.

Isla begins to shuffle her weight as she reaches into her trouser pocket and take out a little, white, plastic box with two fine electrical cables trailing away from it. I feel her firm behind gyrate against my leg as she maneuverers herself.