FIC: The Colour of Fire

[ The Colour of Fire ]

AUTHOR: Isabelle Kennedy

WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/retroeighties

CATEGORY: Jackie/Robbie, Jackie POV

SPOILERS: Up to and including ‘An Eye for an Eye’

RATING: R (Language)

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of Glenn Chandler, ITV and SMG Productions. No copyright infringement intended. Title is from Carly Simon and summary is courtesy of Graham Greene. Archive anywhere; just drop me a line first.

SUMMARY: I could not conceive, no one could, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.

A whole lifetime of waiting and dreaming, of wanting and faltering, has finally led to this. The pillar curves away under the flat of my hand and the stone is damp, bleeding into my skin like a thousand knives.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. The words slide off my tongue easily, never forgotten even though I have tried. An apology to the church and an apologia for myself; it has been twenty years since I last went to confession. Longer than that since I thought of myself as Catholic. Yet, I still think in terms of hell and purgatory, of sins as venial and mortal. The guilt is there, too instinctive and ingrained ever to be removed.

It is that guilt which brings me here now, brings me to my knees on the floor of this dusty church. Trying to gain absolution for my sins, even though I’m not sure that I deserve it. Trying to gain forgiveness because you wouldn’t forgive me. I had to tell Burke, I had no choice and you knew that. You should have told him what you knew yourself, but I confessed your mistake for you. I would not put Stuart’s life in danger, not even to spare your feelings. I did the right thing, but for you, it was yet another betrayal.

I tried to make amends that day, but you brushed me aside with a shake of your head, your arm again an impassable barrier between us. Later, I stopped you, my voice low.

“If I took offence at the number of times you’ve ignored my advice, then I’d never talk to you.”

Your voice was bitter, sharp as lemons. “You never do anyway.”

And I realised why you were angry.

“Even Stuart knew about you and Brian before I did.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” I asked you, still quietly.

“Because you never thought about fucking him before you got married.”

I should have been shocked at your words, but I wasn’t.

“That’s got nothing to do with this; my marriage has nothing to do with you, Robbie.”

“It has everything to do with me – you strung me along until you made up your mind.”

You were right, but I would never admit it.

“As I recall, you were quite happy to be strung along.”

“I was never happy, Jackie, I was waiting.”

I turned away. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me, why don’t you talk to me?”

“You don’t want to hear it, not really. You just want to be involved,” I said, looking at you. “You don’t want me to talk to you; you just want to be the first to know.”

Then, I watched you leave.

It wasn’t your forgiveness I was really seeking. I was testing you, making you angry, seeing if you’d still want me like this. Whether you’d still want me if I hurt you. How many times I could hurt you before you wouldn’t want me anymore.

The illumination in the church is poor: hazy circles of gold by the lamps and daylight through the windows. The stained glass diffuses the light into separate colours, which merge again on the floor and reflect the image on the worn tiles. Yet it is still dark in here. I stand between the wooden pews, facing the altar and think about crossing myself. Marking myself in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Others have stood here, years and decades ago and done the same, but I can’t.

I had known then, as I’d watched you walk away, that it would happen. It should have been different. It should have been spontaneous and free, pushing our tentative flirting too far. Instead, it was inevitable and ordained, just another thing with which to fight each other. I thought that sex between us would be regrettable, foolish, maybe even damaging. I never thought that it would destroy us.

When we kissed, the first was nice and the second wet and warm and almost good. When you pulled me close and kissed me hard, I swallowed my doubts and kissed you harder. Just inside your flat, my back pressed against the door, your body was warm and I willed myself to relax. It never occurred to me that your hands would feel so wrong, that your fingers would press into my skin and I would freeze. That the reality of your touch and taste would replace any rising desire with a fierce, overwhelming sense of panic. Your fingers became clumsy with tension, my body refused to respond and the dream of what we would be like was over too quickly, while the act of destroying it took far too long.

When, later, you rose up on your arms and stared down at me, I saw only anxiety and unease in your eyes. Then the lingering taste of bitterness on my tongue forced me from your bed, the running water covering the sound of my retching. I cursed myself as I leaned against the cool porcelain of your bath for not stopping this the moment it felt wrong. I wanted to shower, to be clean of every trace of you on my skin and inside of me. Instead, I forced myself to conceal my terror and crawl back into your bed, knowing that I had made it and now I must lie in it.

I wanted to go home, but I wasn’t sure if I could make myself walk and I knew that I shouldn’t drive. I hadn’t even left your bed and I felt more distant from you than I ever had before. I wondered if we would ever be able to casually touch again or be alone in a room together without tensing in embarrassment. I felt the tears on my cheeks before I even realised they were mine.

Your eyes were red-rimmed from rubbing when I walked into the living room and found you leaning against the window, watching the day break cold and wet. I resented your guilt because it implied that you somehow had the power, that you seduced or took advantage of me. I would have preferred that you hated me than felt you owed me some restitution.

“Jackie,” you started and your voice saying my name was almost too much.

“Don’t,” I rasped out, because I couldn’t accept your apology. “Just don’t, Robbie.”

I had thought that if we did this, then even if the combustible heat consumed us both, at least we would have been together. It never occurred to me that only one of us would get burned or that one of us would freeze.

The atmosphere in the church is oppressive, the air flat and heavy. My chest is constricted, closed tight, breath escaping in sharp bursts. I feel nervous and out of place, my body poised for flight and my hand presses hard into the cold pillar as if it’s the only thing keeping me standing. I don’t belong here. I can’t confess this sin and expect absolution for it. I don’t want absolution for it; I want it to hurt. I may not survive this and we surely won’t. This is irrevocable. I hate you. I love you. I will never be free of you.

I hadn’t allowed myself to consider that there was a reason we had never crossed that line before.

End.