The Jack And Danny Chronicles

5: Day of Rest


“Come on, lazy bones.” Jack, freshly showered and dressed, whipped back the duvet and playfully patted my naked rump. “You can’t lie there all day.”

“Why not?” I stretched luxuriously. Making love twice in one morning had left me pleasantly relaxed. “It’s Sunday. I’m obeying the Sabbath sex law: and after ye Shaggath ye shall rest.”

“Never mind Sabbath law. Obey mine and get your pretty little backside out of that bed. You’ve got things to do.”

“What things?” I sat up, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Apologising to Mrs Greenfield for a start. I won’t have you fingering the neighbours willy-nilly.”

“Aw, Jack. She’s old. She’s probably senile. She won’t even remember that I fingered her willy-nilly. Hell, even I don’t remember fingering it.” I threw myself out of bed just in time to avoid the downward flight of Jack’s hand. It whacked the mattress instead. “Anyway,” I dodged past him to get to the bathroom, “you apologised for me.”

“It’s a matter of respect,” he called after me. “Towards yourself as well as her. It’s about owning your actions, facing up to your misdeeds.”

Oh God, I turned the shower on. He was still in philosophical mode.

“Are you listening to me, Daniel?”

I ignored him, climbing under the stream of water.

“DANIEL!”

“Yes, oh Master Jedi,” I shouted facetiously. “I hear you. Our mind bond is strong. That and you’ve got a voice like a foghorn.” I reached for the shampoo, and then screamed as the water turned suddenly icy. Bastard! He’d turned the hot tap on downstairs. I stood no chance against bloody Edwardian plumbing and sadistic lovers.

“Jack?” After my shower I wandered into the kitchen, where the object of my desires was sitting at the kitchen table fighting a silent, but deadly battle with the cat for possession of the Sunday Times. From the smug look on Mistoffelees’ face as he sprawled lazily across the paper, it was easy to see who was winning. He knew instinctively what part of the paper Jack was attempting to read, placing his paw, or tail, strategically over the print in question. I lost my original train of thought, quoting, “well I never, was there ever, a cat so clever as magical...”

“Very literary I’m sure,” Jack cut me off mid-quotation. “What were you going to say before T.S. Eliot took possession of you?” He crossly conceded defeat to the cat and looked at me, his expression softening, “come here,” he took the towel from my hands and pulled me down on to his lap, briskly drying my hair. “Comb,” he held out his hand.

I handed it over and allowed him to comb my damp hair. The task done to his satisfaction, I lay back against his chest as he wrapped his arms securely around my waist.

“Jack, what do you think is wrong with Alison?”

“Heck Danny,” he broke off from gently nuzzling my ear lobe. “It would take a whole army of psychiatrists to determine that. She’s your sister, doesn’t that say it all? She’s temperamental, irresponsible, impetuous and just as crazy as you are. I sometimes find it hard to believe that she’s ten years older than you. You’re more like twins.”

“You do like her though, don’t you?”

“Course I do, she infuriates me at times, but I’m fond of her.” He kissed my cheek, “she’s got an air of vulnerability, just like you. I’m a pushover for things that need looking after.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that, she’ll take your kneecaps off.”