Tonight is a special night. Not just because Sally is going back home tomorrow: no, there is something in the air, and everyone feels it.
Sally feels it. At first she was afraid when she felt the bedclothes pulling away all by themselves, vaguely felt the cold night air, and then the touch, the unfamiliar touch, somewhere that nobody had touched before. But now she knows where that place is, and that the angels are coming to kiss her again. A wonderful joy flares hot and bright in her maiden womb, and she gladly parts her legs to welcome them.
Granny feels it. Ever since Sally came to stay, she's begun to have this recurring dream, very pleasant at the time, but strangely disturbing to think about afterward: she's suddenly alone in the world, completely alone. Sometimes she's in the supermarket, sometimes walking down the high street. It's always somewhere different, but every time, the place is deserted – even the cash-desks are unattended. It gives her a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom: she can go anywhere, do anything. And so she does exactly what she most wants to do. But then, after a while, she sees the angel, and it comes as such a shock that she wakes up. Or perhaps she only dreams that she wakes up.
Grandpa feels it, too. He has had to be extremely slow and patient, but at last his patience is being rewarded, and already he has been able to drink at the virgin shrine. And what an intoxicating elixir, the elixir of youth! Already he feels younger: for the first time in years, he has found his penis becoming hard. And though his heart races, races painfully in his chest, the blood that rushes in his veins is new blood, the blood of youth reviving, strength returning. Tonight will be the consummation.
The first time it happened, Sally had been afraid. It was not nice to feel the cold night air in that region, and she felt exposed and vulnerable. But when she'd woken up, the covers were safely in place, even though her nightie was all rucked-up. She'd tugged it down of course, and then fallen back to sleep, safe again. But the next day, she remembered that feeling of exposure, of the cold air on just that particular private place, and how strange it felt. So strange, that Sally kept thinking about that part of her body again and again, all day. She never had before; so why now?
It had been a car-park, the first time. A multi-storey. And everything utterly silent. The lift wasn't working, and she'd had to clatter down the stairs. Odd, nobody in the booth at the exit. And no traffic on the streets. Then, Granny realized that she was on her own. She could do anything, anything at all, and nobody would see her. But she found herself going from shop to shop, just checking, even though she somehow knew that every one would be deserted. She'd gone into a jeweller's and borrowed a diamond chain – just to see if she could get away with it. And she had! She really could do anything she liked. She could have taken all her clothes off and paraded up and down the high street stark naked if she'd wanted.
She was about to do a striptease, just for fun, when suddenly she had seen him, dressed all in white, holding a sword. Was it a he or a she? Impossible to look at that face, to meet those blazing eyes. Luckily, he had not been looking at her, but somewhere over to her right. Anyway, she'd torn that diamond chain off in a big hurry, almost without thinking, and cast it on the ground.
Because this was an angel.
He'd been oh, so quiet, oh so slow and gradual. And bless her, she hadn't even stirred in her sleep as he lifted off the bedclothes. The first night, he'd merely blown a little puff of air on her little virgin slit. Just planting the first tiny seed of awareness. The next night, he'd touched, just allowed his finger to dwell there a moment, to ensure the seed was buried deep. And the next, he'd stroked, just once, no more, so that the little thrill of pleasure could germinate and grow. And each time, he'd covered her up snug again straight away, and she'd hardly stirred. But he could tell that it was working.
He'd been clever, he'd been patient, and so, so gradual that she still didn't suspect a thing. She still trusted him. It was definitely working: her sensuality was awakening, just as surely as the crocuses timidly greeting the dawn of spring with their first green shoots.
Before long, she would be panting for it, the sexy little bitch.
The first time Grandpa had come into the bathroom, to check that she was quite, quite clean, Sally had been rather anxious. She was old enough to do it by herself, mummy said. And she'd felt strange, when Grandpa had washed her all over with the hand-held shower. It had tickled rather, once or twice, and there was something not quite right about that. But Grandpa had just said “Oh, that's just because you're not used to it. You'll like it when you get more grown-up.” And he was right. Sally was becoming much more grown-up.
The next time she had the dream, Granny found herself on a farm surrounded by empty, empty fields. No one in the cow-shed, nobody to milk the cows. And when she had searched the farmhouse – first the kitchen, and then the sitting-room, and finally each of the bedrooms – she knew that she was alone again, and completely free at last. And this time she had dared to do it, finally, the thing she'd always wanted to do, but had always been afraid in case someone might see. It had been a thrill, lying naked on someone else's bed, and touching herself there at last. And yes, it had been wonderful, just as wonderful as she'd always secretly suspected it would be. She'd been wanting it, needing it, all her life. Now it was hers.
And then she had found herself suddenly outside, naked and gloriously unafraid — until the sudden shock of seeing the angel again clad all in white, standing at the gate of the farm, sword uplifted. Protecting her. Keeping everyone away. Keeping her safe. Perhaps.
Oh yes, she still trusted him. He could tell by her reactions during the nightly bath-time game. This time, she'd even parted her legs, and given a sexy little wriggle of pleasure, when finally he'd played the shower on her little slit. The wanton little hussy!
That night, she'd parted her sexy young legs for him – finally! And he had tasted, just briefly tasted, the first fruits of success. Gently, gently he had progressed from the merest touch to caresses, and now finally to this – just one lick, from the bottom of her crack to the top. And her earthy little gasp of “oh!” – still asleep, bless her! – had sent his heart hammering, hammering. Enough for tonight. Gradually, gradually does it.
Only afterward did he realize that he was hard again, almost painfully hard, just like when he was a boy.
Sally is sure that it is an angel that comes in the night. Some people say that angels aren't real, but mummy says they are. It says so in the Bible. Sally is reminded of the angel when Grandpa showers her in the bath, and the water goes on her private place, the place that only she and the angel know about. Yes, thinks Sally, I must be specially clean there, ready for the angel when she comes. Only a she-angel would be so gentle, so completely gentle, and make her feel so lovely, deep inside. The shower feels a little bit the same. But Grandpa is keeping the shower there for ages and ages, and it's beginning to feel as if something is happening.
Sally looks at him, sees something in his eyes, something that she doesn't quite like. She turns away. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't want Grandpa to do this to her any more.
Granny puzzles over her dreams. She thinks they must mean something, but she doesn't know what. It always comes as a shock when she sees the angel, but it's only a shock of surprise. The angel is a fearsome thing in himself – too fearsome even to look at. Granny doesn't really know why she isn't more afraid. It's rather like seeing an awesome weapon that is pointing at someone else, or some other country. And somehow she has a sense that it is the presence of the angel, and this alone, that makes the whole world safe.
Another odd thing: although there are no other people in the dream-world, she never feels lonely. Rather, it's as if everything was made specially for her pleasure and hers alone. She can do whatever she wants: drive a Rolls-Royce, sleep at the Ritz, or help herself to jewels from any one of thousands of empty jewellers’ shops. It's a wonderful sense of total safety, total freedom, total, joyous liberation. She has always wanted to be able to throw off her clothes without being ashamed or afraid, and in the dream-world, she can.
Granny has plenty of opportunity to let her mind dwell on these things, because her husband is always taking Sally out, giving her treats. But someone has to stay home and cook and clean. And as she goes about her chores, she realizes that she has learned something new about herself.
She thought that she wanted to drive a Rolls-Royce, and to sleep at the Ritz; but she doesn't. She is aware that the angel disapproves of jewellery, that if she were to wear it, it might attract the angel's gaze. Strangely, she senses that the same is true of clothes: it's as if her nakedness hides her from the angel's wrath, and that clothes and jewellery are dirty, dishonest things that don't belong in her dream-world.
There's one joy that belongs in her dream-world, one that is sweet and natural: and that is to touch that place that her husband used to touch, years ago when he loved her – that place she always wished he'd touch for longer, but felt too shy and too ashamed to ask. Now she wonders if she will ever have the courage to touch it, except in dreams.
She locked the bathroom door today. I think she was just teasing me. She's tantalizing me, the little whore! I could hear her laughing and laughing in there. She's a lovely little thing, the most beautiful I have ever seen, and tonight I shall have her.
I've got her trained now. Conditioned. Last night she was already wet when I uncovered her. I bet she was dreaming of what was about to happen. Dirty little minx! This is exactly what I had planned. She let me lick her for ages, up and down, up and down until she was groaning, but still she didn't wake up. I think I got her almost to the brink. I hope so.
I think if I'd entered her then, she would have begged me to fuck her and fuck her. But she has to be absolutely desperate for it first. She's got to ask me for it, and I know she will. Otherwise she might give me away.
All day we've both been in a quiet frenzy – she of unsatisfied lust, and I of such excitement and anticipation that I've been almost unable to conceal it from her. I went hard several times. As for her, I saw how she kept wriggling in her seat, or crossing her lovely legs when standing. Those are the signs. I'm ready, and so is she.
And now, after hours – days – of waiting, it's time. I tiptoe upstairs, light and silent as a young man. I can hear the wife snoring. Finally, all my careful preparation is to receive its just reward. And as I start to ease the doorknob, my heart hammering, hammering, the blood rushing, I can just imagine... Hammering, hammering... Christ! It's actually hurting...
That evening, Sally locked the bathroom door. She didn't want Grandpa looking at her when she had those private feelings. They're a secret between Sally and the angel. Sally had been longing for the angel all day, and in the bathroom, she'd showered herself very carefully. Yes, it felt strange, but after a while she liked it. It felt better than when Grandpa did it. Really nice. Sally decided to make herself extra clean, in readiness for the angel. So she had kept on and on with the shower, until it felt even better than when the angel did it.
Now, Sally is ready for the angel to come: in her dreams, she can almost feel her before she's here.
But suddenly, there's a thud in the passage outside. Sally is wide awake at once. She hears something scraping against her door, and for a moment she is alarmed. But then she hears Grandma calling out softly, and then silence. Probably stupid Grandpa, stumbling around in the dark on one of his frequent visits to the loo.
Unfortunately, stupid Grandpa has frightened the angel away. But that doesn't matter any more. Sally reaches down, gently, gently. She can be gentle, just like the angel. Sally is old enough to do it herself. Mummy said so. Sally can make the angel come. Sally can make the angel come.
Tonight's dream is the strangest yet. Before, she has found herself at the shops, or on the beach, or at a farm – always somewhere new. But now she's lying naked on her own bed, in her own familiar room. And she is alone. Yes, quite alone. There is no one to see. No husband, no Sally, no neighbours.
And tonight, the pleasure is greater even than before; from time to time Granny stops and rests, just basking in the knowledge of the climax to come. Somehow she knows that this time it will be special. But when it finally comes, it's so powerful, so very much more even than she had imagined, that she cries out with the force of it. And then she laughs, because of course there's nobody at all to hear. Nobody but herself. And so she lies, stunned, basking in the wonderful peace that enfolds her body.
And then she sees him: it is the angel. Usually she is shocked, but tonight it is as if she felt his presence before she saw him. He is not standing in the room, but somewhere in the darkness beyond, somewhere away to her right. And from his very stance, she knows that something terrible is about to happen. She is not surprised when she sees the angel raise the sword; but when he begins to stab with it at someone or something, his movement is so fast, so incredibly forceful, so pointedly, determinedly lethal, that she gasps in terror. It is as if he is slaying a particularly loathsome and dangerous monster.
At once she is awake, still quivering and terrified, more by the angel's rage than by his action. Instinctively, she rolls on to her right side, reaching for her husband, seeking to comfort her fears with the warmth of his body. But he is not there. As a matter of fact, he has not been there for her comfort in years and years. He has left her naked and alone; and for a moment she feels a rush of anger.
But her anger is nothing, nothing to the terrible fury of the angel. That vision she will never forget, not in all her days. And she thinks that she might have dared to look in the angel's face, because she fancies that just for a second, she glimpsed upon it a look of the utmost malevolence and revulsion. She cannot get it out of her mind.
In her heart she knows that it was more than just a vision. She knows that something terrible has indeed happened. But mixed with her foreboding, she begins to feel now arising within her a curious joy, a sense of liberation, because she is still alive, and unharmed.
She looks at the clock. It is exactly two in the morning.
Without pausing to slip on her dressing-gown – something tells her that it is no longer relevant – she gets out of bed and opens the door. She sees him at once. He is lying in the passage-way, just outside Sally's door. What on earth can he be doing? For a horrible moment, she wonders if he has been molesting Sally, or is just about to. He has been taking a great deal too much interest in her nightly bath, she remembers. If Sally had shown any sign of distress, she'd have had to tackle him about it. But an impotent old fool like him wouldn't... surely not?
She walks up to him, amazed that he hasn't reacted to her presence. “Harold? What do you think you're doing?” she says; but Harold does not respond. And then she sees that his fly is undone, and his flaccid penis is obscenely hanging out. She prods him with her foot. And she realizes. Well, it had to happen sooner or later. “I hope he's dead,” she thinks. “Him with his disgusting prick hanging out of his dirty old trousers. I just hope Sally's all right.”
She puts her ear to Sally's door. Inside, she can hear slight rustling. Her first instinct is to go in, but perhaps that would be intruding on something that is better not interrupted. Then she hears the bed begin to squeak, the rubbing, and eventually the little cry as Sally communes with her angel. “Good for you,” thinks Granny, smiling and blowing Sally a kiss, “dear litle poppet.”
She turns back to the figure on the floor. “And all this week you've been staying up so that you could spy on her, you dirty, pathetic, sad old man. Well, I'm glad to be free of you.” She wrestles with her rings, and eventually she gets them off, despite the pain. She throws them at him. Safe. No jewellery any more. That's better.
She gives him a soft kick with her bare foot; it is a gesture of contempt, not anger. Perhaps it is a coincidence, but at that moment her husband's muscles finally relax for the last time; and she watches in mounting disgust as her husband's corpse defiles itself before her eyes.