The Things We Hide at Home

by Nem Rowan

  Maybe I was just blowing it out of proportion but sometimes living on my own freaked me out, knowing that if anyone broke in, there would be no one there to protect me or to wake me to any sounds. It made me contemplate getting myself a big dog to guard the house, but with the shift pattern I worked, I wasn’t sure it would be fair on the dog to be left alone for such a long time without any company. If I had a boyfriend, that would be more doable, but I couldn’t exactly go to the shop and purchase a guy to live in my house and keep me company. Finding someone to have a romance with wasn’t easy. At least if you got a puppy, it would instantly love you, and unfortunately, humans weren’t like that.

  By the time I arrived at Vanessa’s, I had managed to quell the apprehensive nerves that had reared their heads the moment the stranger had appeared, but I must have still had a look on my face because when Vanessa’s husband answered the door, he appeared concerned.

  Well, I say “husband,” but when William Archer was in full drag, we referred to him as her wife, Rebecca. He was taller than me by a full foot, and wider than me by a full foot, too, and usually accompanied Growler and I to the gym. It was Willy who originally got me into weight training and I had him to thank for the muscular physique I now maintained, as when we had first met, I had been a timid and rather pudgy five-and-a-half-foot-tall female. Underneath the long black wig he was wearing, his greying chestnut hair was short and slightly fuzzy, and his light grey eyes showed his true personality as—despite resembling a burly rugby player—the sweetest and quietest person you could find. Today, Rebecca was wearing her French maid outfit, complete with stockings, heels, and a frilly apron; it was a good thing Vanessa’s house was in a somewhat secluded suburb and had tall hedges and trees blocking the view of the front porch from pedestrians on the street.

  “Hello, Tristen,” Rebecca said in the gentle, dulcet voice she put on. “Are you here to see Vanessa?”

  “Yeah, is she busy?” I asked, my shoulders slouching in defeat.

  “She’s seeing a client right now, but you’re welcome to come in.” She opened the door wider.

  “Thanks.” I smiled as I stepped into the dim hallway.

  The entire floor was decorated to resemble some sort of Victorian brothel; the walls were red patterned with burgundy filigree, candelabra hung from the corniced ceilings, and prints of lounging ladies lined the walls in ornate frames. If you ventured into the basement, though, you’d find that the sumptuous décor turned to concrete, breeze-blocks, and steel bars as Vanessa had had a small Medieval-style dungeon built. Upstairs, the rooms she used as a bedroom, living room, guest room, and study were, well, normal, in that they were decorated in a fresh modern style, but obviously her guests never ventured up there. Only the ground floor and basement of the house was used for her work.

  I half-expected Rebecca to take me up there to wait, but instead, I followed her towards the first room, which resembled a living room but was rarely used for that purpose. I was asked to wait outside the door while Rebecca informed her wife that I was here and to see if it was acceptable for me to be present in front of the client, to which a “yes” was received and I was invited into the room.

  Rebecca stood to one side with her hands clasped against the front of her apron, and allowed me through the doorway, her eyes trained on the toes of her finely polished shoes.

  Vanessa was sitting in the winged armchair near the window, her feet crossed at the ankle as she rested them upon the back of her client, on his hands and knees. Unlike the night before, she was dressed more modestly in a long black dress with bangles on her wrists and twinkling, diamond drop earrings. The heels on her feet laced up to her knee, and across her lap, she clasped a rattan cane.

  “Tenny! What are you doing here? I thought you were going out with Growler?” she questioned as I approached and found a place to sit on the sofa that matched the chair she was occupying.

  “Oh, yeah, I did, earlier; we went to the gym and for coffee.” I nodded, fiddling with my keys. “I just didn’t want to go home to an empty house.”

  “Have you had lunch?” she asked, and when I shook my head, all she did was gesture to Rebecca to send her out of the room to fetch me something. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

  Vanessa’s client grumbled as she adjusted the weight of her feet on his back and she knocked him with the end of her cane to remind him to be quiet.

  “Well, to be honest, something a bit weird happened when I got home,” I replied, at last relieved I was somewhere safe and with company.

  “Like what? You ain’t got a ghost, have you?” She stared at me, and at first, I thought she was joking but she didn’t laugh. When I just stared at her in return, she frowned and her plump mouth curved into a wry grin. “Well, you never know. This house was haunted when we moved in. We had to have a medium come over and clean it or whatever.”

  “It wasn’t a ghost, it was a man,” I explained, deciding not to follow the topic of ghosts and hauntings. I didn’t really believe in them, anyway. “He was hiding behind my hedge, spying on me as I was going into my house. He ran away when I spotted him.”

  “Did you get to see what he looked like?” she inquired. The amusement had vanished from her face, replaced with caution.

  “All I saw was that he wore a red hoodie and jeans. He had his hood up so I didn’t see his face.”

  “It wasn’t that weird David guy, was it?”

  “What? No way. I don’t think so anyway.” I rolled my eyes as I scoffed.

  She observed me, assessing the situation. “Just be careful, Tenny. Keep an eye out, make sure no one’s following you. I got stalked once, and the only thing that made it stop was going to the police. If something happens, call the police, alright?” She raised a pencil-stroke eyebrow at me as she leaned forward to catch my gaze.

  “I’m not being stalked. Don’t be ridiculous.” I dismissively waved a hand at her.

  “Two hours he stood there watching you last night,” she reminded me.

  I shook my head at her in disbelief. “Yeah, and? Lots of people stood there for two hours. The guy was just shy and socially awkward, okay. God, you’re starting to sound like the mother I never had.”

  “That’s because I am the mother you never had, so you’d better bloody listen to me.” She playfully swatted my leg with her cane, so I smacked it away with my hand, chuckling.

  That’s when Rebecca reappeared with a tray in her hands. Vanessa asked me to go sit upstairs and wait for her to finish her session with the client, who had knelt there so patiently without making a sound while we’d chatted. I had grown so accustomed to naked men in her presence that I barely even registered he was there until I had to go, and that was only because I almost tripped over his bare legs.

  I wasn’t sure I would ever want to make money from BDSM; it was a release from the constraints of normality for me, but Vanessa lived it twenty-four-seven, and was much more business-minded than I ever was. I listened to her speaking in a patronising tone to the obedient man as I climbed the stairs behind Rebecca. I could see why someone would want to stalk Vanessa—a rabid fan, an obsessed client perhaps—but she was so tall and so strong, they’d have to be crazy to attack her. I had seen her kick the crap out of a guy outside a club a few years back. Her stalker was lucky she hadn’t done the same to him, too.

  I had lunch with Rebecca keeping me company, and later, when Vanessa was done, she came upstairs for some tea with us and we chatted for a while. Thankfully, she didn’t bring up the topic of stalking again.

  I agreed to stay until after dinner, but only because I had some shopping to do, otherwise I would have hung around much later. She said I could sleep over whenever I wanted, but I didn’t want to be a burden to her and Willy. I didn’t tell her so because I knew she’d try to persuade me, and the feeling of leaning on her too much was mostly from my point of view, not hers. I knew in my heart that if I ever needed anything, both her and Growler would be th
ere for me.

  Chapter 2

  It was getting dark as I drove home, the radio playing a quiet whisper under the rumble of the engine and the rush of cars passing on the opposite side of the road. The streetlights flashed overhead but didn’t distract me from my driving. Thoughts of how I planned to avoid my mother swirled in my head; the stranger outside my house had been nothing but a momentary distraction, when what really lurked in my head was the fear of my mother trapping me in a room and forcing me to confront her. Yes, sometimes I did fear her, especially as a child. I thought that my body looking the way I wanted it to, and living as the man I wanted to be, would help to annul that fear, but no matter what I did, it never went away. I was always worried that I might bump into her. Sure, Bristol was a huge city, but she still lived here, and sometimes she went out of her way to wander into my territory, perhaps in the hopes that she would cross my path, an opportunity for her to stick in a knife or two before I escaped.

  I turned off the roundabout into the supermarket car-park and drove alongside the ugly, block-shaped building where I worked as I looked for a space. It was surprisingly busy here tonight, but that didn’t matter. Having lots of people around made me feel less lonely somehow.

  The chill air brought goosebumps up my back as I locked the car and headed for the zebra crossing towards the entrance. A couple of security guards I knew were having a cigarette break outside and I greeted them as I passed, the two of them nodding and grunting my name in response. It was always strange visiting the store when I wasn’t on shift because the atmosphere changed. Even so, I still had that silly desire to go and do some work now that I was here when I was meant to be shopping. I worked in the café at the left-hand side of the store—had done so for a few years now—which had been tough in the beginning because, although I had been on hormone replacement therapy for five years, I still wasn’t confident in public. Three years had gone by, and whatever had changed on the outside must have changed on the inside, too, because I wasn’t as timid or awkward as I used to be. The team I worked with were great people, and sure, there had been one or two jerks who had made trouble for me, the majority of the folks in my team were great fun and accepting of me.

  I picked up a basket and headed through the store, saying hello to Shauna who was restocking the vegetable aisle as I wandered past the rows of fruit, slowing only to ogle a rather attractive man with a baby carrier as he picked out some bananas. No point pursuing that one when he had a baby in his trolley and a gold ring on his finger. I dumped a couple of packs of strawberries and nectarines in my basket before heading to the dairy aisle, where I browsed for a while amongst the yoghurts and milkshakes, feeling as though nothing edible really excited me anymore. There was only one solution to that problem: chocolate. I put the pot of natural yoghurt back on the shelf, intent on paying a visit to the best aisle in the supermarket. Before I got there, though, I took a detour into the ready-meals section. I know, it wasn’t good for my health, but I kept a few in the freezer for days when I was feeling sorry for myself and couldn’t be bothered to cook something fresh or talk on the phone to order a takeaway. I stopped and surveyed the shelves of small boxes, dinners for one, quick and cheap meals for the single over-thirties. As time went by, I realised I was starting to relate more and more with Bridget Jones.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed I wasn’t the only single loner hanging around the row of fridges with a basket on my arm. For a moment, I scoped him out the corner of my eye and watched him lingering near the gluten free pasta section with his long sleeves tucked down over his hands. He was definitely alone, which would make it much easier for me to approach. I opened the fridge and took out a curry meal, placing it gently in my basket, then headed towards him. My heavy boots could give me away, so I tread as softly as I could, not wanting to frighten him off as I knew he was shy and might do a runner when he saw me coming.

  “David?” I spoke at his shoulder and he visibly flinched. A second or two passed before he peeked at me from around the corner of his raincoat hood, his spectacles flecked with droplets. It must have started raining after I’d come into the store. I couldn’t remember if he had worn glasses at the club, but seeing them now made him look quite cute in a dorky sort of way.

  “H-Hi.”

  “It’s me, Tenny. Remember?” I grinned, judging from the wide-eyed look he was giving me that I had caught him out and now he couldn’t escape.

  “I remember.” He took a step back, bumping into the glass door of the fridge into which he had been looking. “I—I’m sorry about disappearing.”

  “That’s okay. I thought something bad had happened to you; I’m not angry or anything. Why did you disappear?”

  “I had a, umm, panic attack,” he confessed, his eyes glancing this way and that, anywhere but my face. He kept pulling down his sleeves, which must have been difficult with the basket hanging from the crook of his arm.

  “Oh no, that’s awful. Are you okay?” I asked sympathetically.

  He looked down as I placed my hand on his arm, seeming alarmed that I was touching him. “I’m fine now.”

  “Good. I’ve had panic attacks before. They suck,” I told him, in the hopes that he might relax a bit more if he knew I had experienced what he had been through. “Funnily enough, the last panic attack I ever had was at the club. That was years ago, though.”

  “Hmm,” was all he murmured as he nodded.

  In the bright lights of the supermarket, he looked so tired and pale, his hooded eyes dull and his mouth a thin line. He appeared like he hadn’t had a hug for years. Something about him made me want to offer one to him, but I didn’t want to scare him. I had been awkward once, too, terrified of other people, afraid of making a fool of myself, unable to tolerate physical contact from strangers. When I had first met Vanessa and Willy, they had been gentle and habituated me to their presence before they were able to get close to me. It was what I had needed. Throwing David into the deep end wasn’t going to help him and would likely mean I wouldn’t get any closer than I already was.

  “I’ve never seen you in here before. Do you live nearby?” I asked, hoping to squeeze a bit more conversation out of him since he wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Yeah, I do.” He nodded again, a slight smile turning the corners of his mouth.

  “Me, too. I work here, actually,” I admitted before chuckling, considering that revealing that information might not have been such a good idea. “If you come to the café when I’m on shift, I’ll give you a free coffee.”

  “Thanks.” He finally made a real smile, one that reached his eyes.

  I had noticed that as he’d pulled down his sleeve, one hand looked different from the other. He was missing fingers. It had been so fast, though, I hadn’t been able to get a good look without being obvious about it, but I at least had an idea as to why he constantly kept his hands hidden.

  “Do you wanna shop with me? I could use some company,” I inquired, curious as to what kind of answer I would get.

  At first, he was cautious and I could see the thought process happening behind his eyes; he was weighing the pros and cons, checking if he could handle being with me, making sure he was strong enough. I wanted to assure him I’d be kind, that I wouldn’t judge him. I wanted to tell him I thought he seemed sweet and I was interested in him, that I found him mysterious. However, I knew if I stoked the fire too quickly, the flames would get too hot for him and he’d run. I had done the same in the past, fled the moment things looked serious, ran and hid the moment people took an interest in me and wanted to get to know the real me. The fear of being ridiculed or looked upon as a freak, something to sate peoples’ desire for the unknown. People used to do that to me in the past and I knew what it felt like. I told myself to hold back.

  “Okay, sure,” he agreed at last and I let go of the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. “I just need to get some of these first.” He gestured to the adjacent fridge.

  “Sure thing, there’s n
o rush.” I gestured that he should go ahead and get what he needed, stepping back to give him some room.

  He grabbed the handle through his sleeve and opened the door, the cool air clouding out around us, and as he picked out one of the cardboard boxes, his sleeve slipped back and I got a better look at his hand. Like the right hand I had glimpsed a moment ago, his left one was also missing fingers; he had a thumb, but his index and middle fingers were absent, and a portion of what remained of his little finger was fused to his ring finger. The bones of these missing fingers that would have made up the shape of his palm left his hand looking so small and fragile, yet he was able to grasp the box with his thumb and ring finger with relative ease. He quickly deposited the box in his basket and kicked the door shut with his shoe. I noticed a faint blush on his cheeks, embarrassment tingeing his expression of tentativeness as he looked at me, but I didn’t say anything or point it out. Did he think I wouldn’t want to be his friend because his hands weren’t like mine? Was he ashamed of them?

  “Fancy checking out the chocolate aisle?” I suggested as we walked towards the bakery at the end of the row. It was closed at this hour, but the smell of fresh bread still lingered in the air.

  “Yeah.” He managed a breathy chuckle. “Some chocolate would be good.”

  I smiled at him, grateful he was willing to walk with me. We didn’t talk for a minute or two as we wandered along the aisle at the furthest side of the store, his eyes watching the ground and my eyes watching him. Suddenly, I felt myself becoming awkward because my brain couldn’t summon a subject for us to speak about.

  “So, umm, do you reckon you’ll come back to the Oubliette Club soon?” I asked as we approached the confectionery section.

  “Maybe. I didn’t get on too well last time,” he spoke, glancing at me.

  “Because of your panic attack?”