Douglas’s Mouth

This is an updated an elongated version of this story (the original is at the bottom). You can also find the same story written in a different point of view here. Would love to know which version your prefer. I will update the audio soon. 

16^th March 1974

Douglas has such a pretty mouth, the way the top lip curves like an archer’s bow, the plumper lower lip, the crystal white teeth. It’s a mouth to die for, but I am not ready to die yet. Since I met Douglas I have been bewitched by that mouth, both for its aesthetic and intellectual properties. It’s filled my fantasies and my realities.

Douglas doesn’t say much, but when he does talk, you listen, and not just because of the beautiful mouth but because of the beautiful sincerity of the words he utters. I’ve watched it move as he talks in that quiet, serious tone, his words drawing me into him, his mouth sending shivers down my spine. I’ve met people who are cleverer than Douglas and those who are more eloquent, but what Douglas does, is put my thoughts into words. He says what I am thinking, only he does it in a much more sophisticated way than I ever could. The mouth has teased me, pleased me, stimulated me and satisfied me; physically, spiritually and intellectually. But now that mouth scares me, now that mouth is a harbinger of doom, a curse, a cradle of fear. Douglas doesn’t say much, but when he does talk, you listen, and the question is who exactly is listening to Douglas right now?

17^th March 1974

I hardly slept a wink last night, my mind filled with excitement and fear. It’s been confirmed, Douglas is with them. Operation Wildcat is in action. This time tomorrow I could be anywhere. But there is a chance that my dream will come true and I will be on my way to Old Mother Russia.  What a thrill, finally leaving this unjust and unfair country behind and moving to a place where the political system works for the people not against it. This country has steadily dragged me down ever since Douglas pointed out the truth about how undemocratic the UK is and about where the true power lays. Everywhere I look I see greed, inequality, intolerance and hate. Every man is out for his own good. I want to live in a place where everyone works together for the good of the country.

My dream was to bring communism to Britain but what’s the old saying about Mohammed and the mountain? Maybe when I am there I will be able to continue my work, send back dispatches, help bring the true vision of communism to the British people. The British press report horror stories from behind the Iron Curtain but we all know this is propaganda. They want us to believe that a communist state is unworkable because they are scared of it. I will be able to report on the true situation.

I was terrified last night. I lay awake examining every sound. Every slam of a car door I was certain was MI5 coming to get me. Every creak of the floorboards made me think my time had come. But I was just being paranoid. I am sure that whatever they do to poor old Douglas he won’t betray me. Surely our bond is deeper than that. So as planned, I’ve packed a bag, essential items except for one luxury item and of course my bible; just like Desert Island Discs. As I write I am waiting for the taxi to take me to the bus station. From there I go across country to Harwich and hope to get a night sailing to the Hook of Holland. I’m heading to Berlin. Once I get there, nothing can stop me.  My eyes wander across my bookshelves, by mantelpiece, my memories, I’m leaving them all behind. The car’s outside, it’s time to go.

18^th March 1974

Victoria coach station is absolutely ghastly at midnight on St Patrick’s Day, full of drunkards and louts, full of noise and smoke. The Indian chap selling tickets could barely speak English; I had to shout to make myself understood.

I don’t like sleeping on public transport, it’s terribly uncouth, but I was tired and I found myself drifting off regularly. Only to be woken by dreams of Douglas’s mouth; sometimes beautiful and pleasing, other times distorted, yelling in pain. Oh what will they do with old Douglas? What will he give them? With old Philby the rumours were that they just wanted a confession in return for immunity but times have changed, lessons learnt. I wonder how old Philby is; I’m excited that I might get to meet him. (TBC)

16th March 1974

Douglas has such a pretty mouth. The way the top lip curves like an archer’s bow, the plumper lower lip, the crystal white teeth -it’s a mouth to die for. For all my time here I have been bewitched by that mouth, both for its aesthetic and intellectual properties. It’s filled my fantasies and my realities. Douglas doesn’t say much, but when he does talk, you listen, and not just because of the beautiful mouth but because of the beautiful sincerity of the words he utters. I’ve watched it move as he talks in that quiet, serious tone. His words draw me into him. His mouth sending shivers down my spine. I’ve met people who are cleverer than Douglas and those who are more eloquent but what Douglas does is put my thoughts into words. He says what I am thinking, only he does it in a much more sophisticated way than I ever could. The mouth has teased me, pleased me, stimulated me and satisfied me; physically, spiritually and intellectually. But now that mouth scares me. Now that mouth is a harbinger of doom; a curse, a cradle of fear. Douglas doesn’t say much, but when he does talk, you listen, and the question is who exactly is listening to Douglas right now?