SLEEP NOW
By Gareth L Powell

It begins on a sad and lonely September evening, as the sound of a piano draws me to the back room of a small pub on the edge of the park, by the river. Stepping inside, I slide over to a table and order a drink. The pianist sits in the darkness behind his instrument, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his fingers stroking the keys, his eyes screwed tight.

On his third number, a singer joins him. She has long, raven hair and a voice that holds the room breathless. She sings with her eyes closed, her long fingers holding the mike stand. Every now and then, to add emphasis to a note, she shifts her weight from one hip to the other, making the light flash off the sequins in her dress.

I watch her for an hour, until she bows and steps back into the shadows, leaving the pianist alone on the small stage.

I catch sight of her again as she approaches my table. Without a word, she takes my hand and pulls me toward the door.

Outside, in the heat of the night, she slips her arm through mine and we walk.

‘I’ve waited a long time for you,’ she says. She squeezes me, her forehead touching my chest. Then she breaks away and runs off into the park. When I catch up, I find her resting her cheek against a carved stone lion.

‘Who are you?’ I say. She closes her eyes and whirls across the grass, her skirt spinning out around her.

She sings: ‘I could be a mother to scold you, a lover to hold you, a wife to leave you, a widow to grieve you.’

She dances away, toward the fountains, and I follow. When she reaches them, she kneels.

‘I could be a daughter to despise you, a priestess to baptise you!’ And with that, she scoops a handful of water at me. Then laughing, she grabs me roughly by the lapels. Her lips mash into mine, hot and feverish. Beneath the dress, her muscles are hard and tense.

She covers my eyes with her hand.

‘Sleep now,’ she says.