“I thought it might've been a mistake,” Dushma said in a small voice, her last hope squeezed out of her. “I thought I might be ordinary.”
“I'm glad you're not any different to how you are.”
“Maybe I could go back to the viaduct...” Dushma stood up, blinking rapidly, and stuffed her photograph blindly back into her satchel. “I was going to cut my hair all off, pretend to be somebody else...Maybe they won't recognize me...”
“Don't do that,” said Beltrowser. He stood up and reached out towards her. His long fingertips found Auntie Megan's hairslide and undid it. Then he began to loosen her other clips and pins so that her hair fell down about her face.
“You've got beautiful hair,” he said. “It's like thick smoke.” Picking up a plastic ruler from the workbench, he rubbed it against the sleeve of his woollen sweater until it crackled with static. Then he passed in in an arc over Dushma's head, making her hair billow up in a cloud towards it.
Her throat felt tight and dry. The blood ran hot in her face and roared like a fire in her ears. Before she knew it she had swayed forward and laid her head on Beltrowser's shoulder. His arms came round her and she felt his fingertips run down her spine.
A delicious liquid warmth flowed through her. She felt herself sagging like a melting stick of solder, moulding to his thin but wiry frame. She closed her eyes and rubbed against him, enjoying the luxurious sensation of being able to feel his clothes moving over his skin and his skin sliding over his bones. The sense of panic that had gripped her receded as if sealed off behind a thick glass barrier.
“Come with me. Let's get away from here,” he said. When he spoke the vibrations from his chest hummed in her skull.
— Viaduct Child (Patrick Wood)
