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.He struggles to think of sufficient cause for the return of his childhood haunting, and then for this imagined intruder.The move from Birmingham and all that has befallen him since has been something of a roller coaster, with his spirits rising and falling and finding no middle ground.But has he been unsettled enough to dream of the pipe, and then to see something at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake?There is something especially vivid about each experience, as if they were stronger and clearer than it is natural for nightmares and waking visions to be.And it is the worst place he can think of to have such thoughts, being so close to the rotten cathedral, with generations of old bones hidden under its cracked slabs, and across the road from the castle, with the memorials on its pavements to those burned to death, or hung from windows – a hundred yards from his bed.With heavy eyelids, he went to bed on a high after meeting Beth, having returned home to smoke a quick joint.He should have passed out and not woken until at least eleven the following morning.There is no call for such a disturbance.Lighting a cigarette to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied, Dante wanders through to the kitchen, hastily turning on every light he passes.After switching the kettle on, he finds the novel he was reading before they left for Scotland.He'll sit this one out, like he did as a child, until dawn breaks.And then, and only then, will he allow himself to close his eyes again.CHAPTER FOURTEENWas her mouth stuck in an enticing pout? Was there a becoming cluster of freckles on the bridge of her nose, and a subtle hint of rouge on high cheekbones? He can't be sure, cannot remember, but he does know every part of her face seemed to draw him toward the green of her eyes.Precious eyes, revealing little of the thoughts flitting through the mystery and dark of her pretty head.In the light of midday, after the worst of his shock at the night's disturbances has passed, Dante lies on the couch and tries to recall Beth's face from the night before.But the more he tries to visualise her features the more indistinct they become.It is as if she has mostly escaped from his memory, to leave only an impression – an enchantment for him to obsess over.Eventually, his desperate efforts to remember her begin to spoil the magic, so he settles on the prevailing sense that she is exquisite to look at, and that he'll meet her again, soon.But who is she? A student embroiled in an affair with an old wanderer and academic, attracted by a fierce intellect and its unconventional tastes? He can hardly see her dancing in nightclubs or enjoying the company of a regular circle of girlfriends.Beth is no ordinary girl.There is a wisdom in her.Something older than her years wrapped up in something childlike, like tenderness.A combination of maturity and vulnerability.And wasn't that what he saw and craved in Imogen too? But Beth goes beyond his fixation with Imogen.And Beth sweeps aside the tired attitude he's adopted toward girls since that disappointment.He feels as if, after only a brief introduction, she's reinvigorated something meaningful inside him, made him rediscover an intensity of feeling he's either forgotten or given up on.But is there not the danger of disappointment also? She'll demand the finest clothes and eat special foods; she'll rocket across the sky in first class, and wear sunglasses by rippling turquoise waters, while palm leaves shudder above her.She's the kind of girl he's seen in London, with that cold, focused beauty, who strides across airport marble, indifferent to admirers, or sits alone at a café table, listening to some exclusive whisper from a chic mobile phone.Beth will want an extraordinary man; age will be of no consequence.How can he compete? Maybe she'll experiment with a musician for as long as he proves interesting and his scene stays valid, and then she'll be gone to a painter in Milan, or a terrorist in Paris.She has choices and lovers, her leather cases are full of expensive clutter, her windows are watched by drawn faces, sapped of blood by the rents in once confident hearts.The very thought of her past, her expectations and moods, makes him feel acutely fragile; he can almost taste the beginnings of his own despair.Toward the end of their brief contact, in the shadow of an old church, she seemed distracted too.He remembers the flutter of ecstasy on the child-queen's face the moment she left him
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