If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  You dropped the keys into your pocket before lifting the bottom of your T-shirt to wipe your face. I tried so hard not to look at your stomach.

  It was one o’clock. I’d finished everything, so I knocked on Dr Harris’s door to ask permission to leave.

  I’d interrupted your talk. Harris was sat back in his chair, chubby hands clasped behind his head. You were leaning against the filing cabinet. Molecules of sweat covered every inch of your exposed skin. I imagined zooming in on them like a photographer. Perfect spheres filled with your natural perfume. It wasn’t exactly lemons you exuded that day, but neither was it something I could add to my negative list.

  ‘Yes, yes, you get off, Constance. I didn’t realize the time. And thank you for today. I’m suitably impressed with all you’ve done.’

  I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Pride, perhaps. I didn’t dare look up as my face grew warm. To conceal it, I turned to leave.

  ‘Wait for me, Constance . . . I should get off as well, Bill . . . but yeah, let’s look into that properly next week.’

  You had no idea how happy walking with you made me.

  Good things come to those who wait, Mum would say. Usually when I’d grow impatient at her taking forever to pack the shopping at the till in Morrisons. Or when she’d forget to make the cup of tea she’d offered two hours previously. Situations that never truly fitted the phrase. But as I hobbled side by side with you, it was finally relevant.

  ‘Should I run ahead and get the car? Drive you to the station?’ you asked, looking towards my limping foot.

  ‘No . . . no, I’m fine. It’s doing me good. Just slow down a bit.’ It hurt like crazy, but I didn’t care. My joy overrode the pain.

  It was so easy between us, wasn’t it? How we talked. The seamless flow of conversation. From the fact you were wearing uncomfortable socks, to how men shouldn’t wear Lycra, to you having run a marathon in your late twenties.

  ‘I can’t even run for the bus,’ I said. ‘At school, I once came second to last in the annual cross-country race. Only beating Mathew Sims, who’d broken his foot and did the whole thing on crutches to raise money for Cancer Research.’

  You laughed. ‘You crack me up, Constance.’

  I dug into my bag, pretending to search for something so you couldn’t see the happiness on my face.

  The junction of Church Street had arrived all too quickly and I was forced to stop.

  ‘OK . . . so which way are you? Because I can either cut through the graveyard, which is quicker, or go down Church Street, which is longer but less scary.’ I was pleased at my acting. There wasn’t a hint of my knowing where you lived.

  ‘How’s the foot?’

  ‘It’s fine, actually. I think the walking is helping.’ I smiled to block out the throb.

  ‘OK, that’s good. Why don’t you come the Church Street way with me, then? You can tell me more about your sporting prowess.’

  As we continued, our bodies gravitated towards each other and my hand brushed yours on more than one occasion. I lit up inside when you laughed, head back, free, as I recounted the story of how I had to be rescued from the climbing-frame section of the Sports Day assault course because my arm got tangled in the metal.

  We were approaching your road.

  ‘This one’s me,’ you said.

  ‘Oh right, well this is my route to the station too.’

  ‘Of course . . . You know, I’m glad this has happened. It’s shown me how bloody near I am. I’m definitely going to walk to work from now on.’ Did you notice my joy when you said that? Imagining all the stories we’d share.

  When we turned the corner, two lads in their late teens, wearing grey trackies and interchangeable faces more suited to the estate back home than this leafy idyll of West London, were on bikes, propping themselves up against the wall of the first house. You pretended you hadn’t seen them as we walked past. Talked about how you were desperate for a shower. I replied about being more of a bath person, but we were both conscious of their presence. They laughed, loud, towards our backs. Forced, attention-seeking laughs. Again, we ignored. Talked. Until one shouted, ‘She looks like she’s got a nice tight pussy, mate.’

  You stopped. Then I stopped. You looked at me, not them. I was certain you didn’t want to do anything and were seeking my approval not to.

  I gave you what you wanted. ‘Ignore them,’ I said. ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘OK . . . No, no, you’re right.’ You walked on. I followed your lead. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry for all the sweating.’ You tried to spark another conversation.

  I dryly answered, but neither of us was concentrating and everything became awkward and strange until you slowed to a standstill.

  ‘This is me, but I don’t want to leave you while they’re knocking around.’

  I glanced over at the boys, who were mounting their bikes. ‘I think they’re going now,’ I said under my breath.

  Like your car, the town house that contained your flat was more impressive in the sunlight. The door wasn’t the black I’d taken it for but racing green. I turned towards the canopy of the opposite mansion block I’d sheltered under that night. That too appeared different, swankier. I almost slipped up by saying so, but was thankfully saved by the sound of cycles whizzing past.

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ you said.

  We watched as they wheelied down the road. Waiting until they became nothing but the tiny specks of shit that they were.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Constance.’ You placed your hand on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s not your fault there are idiots in the world.’

  ‘I know, but I should have said something, maybe.’

  ‘No, no, don’t be silly.’ But you should have, Samuel, you really should.

  ‘Why don’t I drive you to the station from here?’

  ‘No, honestly. I’m practically there now. By the time I’d got in the car, I’d be climbing out again.’

  ‘I know, but— Hello!’ You weren’t addressing me anymore but shouting and waving at someone behind me. I turned to see it was an old man, coming up the other side of the road with a bag of shopping, waving back. Your focus returned to me. ‘He lives in the flats opposite. Seems a right character, bless him. Anyway, Constance, what I need is a nice long, hot shower.’

  You looked directly into my eyes. Were you using the words provocatively? I couldn’t sustain the contact and stared down at the pavement.

  ‘Yeah . . . sure . . . Enjoy . . . I’ll see you Monday.’ When I brought my gaze back up, you were already running up the steps to the front door. At the top, you held up the keys and did a thumbs-up. I laughed. Then you were gone.

  After rummaging in my bag for a fag, I lit up, took a long, hard drag and tried to contain my excitement at the return of your friendliness towards me. Exhaling, I watched the old boy trudge up the road and was in a dilemma as to whether I should cross and help him. But as he neared, I could see how sharply dressed he was, with his bright red V-necked jumper and camel trilby, and sensed any offer of assistance could offend. Instead, I nodded and smiled, then headed off towards the station. As I did, I saw them in the distance. The shits. Cycling back up the road.

  My first instinct was to phone you, but there was no response. I tried again. It rang out. I climbed the steps to your door but realized I didn’t know your flat number. Though, thankfully, it all became irrelevant, as they once again shot past and disappeared around the corner.

  Relieved, shaken, I came down the steps, my cigarette wobbling as I returned it to my mouth. But I’d only taken a few strides before I heard the click, click, click of bicycle chains behind me.

  I dropped my head, carried on.

  ‘Did he dump you?’ The words came from my left.

  I could hear the squeak of the wheels adjacent to me, but I didn’t stop, look. Just prayed that would be it. That if I ignored them, they’d get bored, fuck off again. But the noise increased before coming to a halt as they straddled thei
r bikes on the pavement a few feet in front of me. I stopped. Stayed still. Glanced back at the old boy, now approaching the canopied entrance of his flats.

  They separated. They were now aware of him and it was my fault. I looked round in despair to see one of them slowly riding towards him.

  The other closed in on me. Metal between his legs, toes on the ground, he walked the bike my way. Stopped inches from my body. Up close, his skin was dry, pallid.

  ‘Were you crap at blowjobs? You can practise on me if you like.’ His hands gripped the handles like a kid pretending to ride a motorbike.

  I looked straight into his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Hey, I don’t like being ignored,’ he spoke from his cracked lips.

  My heart pumped so hard I felt it in my ears. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve already called the police.’

  He laughed. ‘No, you haven’t. I’ll come quickly, don’t worry.’ Leaning in, he removed the ash-heavy cigarette from my fingers and smoked it.

  I attempted to walk around him, but he blocked me with his bike. ‘Please . . . please leave me alone.’ I looked back towards the canopy. Old Boy was about to climb the steps, unaware that Shit Two had abandoned his bike on the pavement and was behind him. I closed my eyes. Willed you to help. Anyone to help.

  ‘Hey, Granddad. Have you bought me something nice?’ I could hear.

  ‘Tell your friend to leave him alone.’ But I’d barely trembled out my words when Old Boy was pushed over and sprawled against the steps, his hat cascading down towards the pavement along with a waterfall of oranges and a jar, which smashed, then oozed a thick black substance.

  ‘Sorry, Gramps . . . I didn’t see you there.’

  Both shits laughed.

  ‘Is that your granddad?’ Shit One asked.

  An orange rolled into the road.

  I turned back to him. ‘Please leave us alone . . . The police will be here any second.’ Words were difficult to form. I was devoid of saliva and didn’t have control over my mouth. Over any part of my body.

  ‘What you talking about, sexy? He’s helping the aged.’

  I looked over again to Old Boy, wincing as I watched him try to scramble to his feet, crying, a trainered foot pushing against his back, and I could feel a monster forming inside me.

  ‘Samuel,’ I shouted. Loud, desperate. But you didn’t appear.

  ‘He’s dumped you, babe.’

  ‘Dr Stevens.’ Nothing. ‘Please, please . . . just leave us alone.’

  His face moved closer. Too close. I smelt weed on his breath. He threw away the cigarette butt and with his tobacco-scented knuckles wiped the tears now tumbling over my cheeks.

  ‘Please just let me pass,’ I said, barely audible.

  His yellow, sticky fingers slid down my face, down my neck. ‘Your tits are amazing.’ Past my collarbone, under my shirt. I froze. Stood there as his dirty, clammy hand slipped into my bra. ‘So, do you spit or swallow?’

  I closed my eyes. Asked Mum to save me. And remembered. Spying on her and one of her strangers through the banister with the missing post. Laughter, dancing, Bob Dylan, ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’. His hand up her skirt. How she said no. And no. And no.

  Then snap.

  When I recall what happened next, it’s as if I’m describing a film, a violent film, not reality. Telling a story that happened to someone else, not me. Because I don’t remember punching Shit One in his face with such force he fell to the ground, bike on top of him, wheels spinning endlessly. But I did. I know it happened because I watched him down there, clutching his bloodied nose. Even the red drips didn’t affect me, break my fury.

  ‘You hit me . . . I can’t believe you hit me . . . you fucking little whore.’

  And I don’t particularly recall running over to Old Boy either, though I must have done because I was somehow pulling Shit Two away from him by his hood. Kicking him, kicking him. ‘Leave him alone. Leave him alone.’ I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. It seems strange. That I did that. Me.

  They were back on their bikes then. ‘You’re a crazy fucking bitch.’ And even when they were riding away, I was chasing them. No limp, no fear. The only thing stopping me, bringing me back, was the sound of the siren.

  Two officers escorted me and Old Boy, whom I’d now learnt was called Edward, up to his flat. With the adrenaline drained from my body, I was juddering, crying. The policewoman comforted me. My legs, boned and filleted, my foot throbbing, she acted as a support to lean against.

  ‘I was doing national service at their age. Little bastards,’ said Edward.

  My tears stopped when he switched on the light in his hallway. No one was prepared for what it exposed. It was impossible to know where to look first: the huge old metal diving helmet on the sideboard, the sunglasses-wearing stuffed squirrel with a cigarette sticking out of its mouth next to it or the hundreds of bizarre knick-knacks that surrounded them.

  ‘Excuse the mess.’ He led us down the hallway and disappeared into the lounge.

  We all followed him with wide-eyed wonderment, like we were entering Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

  ‘We’ve been through all this, young lady, and I don’t even know your name,’ he said, dropping into a floral beat-up wing-backed chair that produced a plume of dust as he landed.

  ‘Constance,’ I said, scanning the huge wall of books before my eyes came to rest on a one-armed mannequin wearing a black bobbed wig, grass skirt and coconut bra.

  Edward must have noticed me looking, as he said, ‘That’s Ursula. The only woman in my life, and how I like it . . . Now, Officers . . . Constance here is a hero.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t you listen to her – she bloody well is.’

  ‘Mr Seymour, if you feel up to it, we need to go over what happened while we wait for the paramedics.’ The officer’s radio crackled. A muffled voice came through. She excused herself, then talked into it.

  I’ve no idea what she said, because the sounds sent me back home. To Manchester. To that day. The room distorted. Slow motion, I looked down at the line of splattered blood across the white of my shirt. My legs weakened, vision dimmed, and I felt my knees bend beneath me.

  ‘Are you OK, Miss Little?’ The male officer propped me up. ‘I’ve got paramedics coming – don’t worry.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I’m fine. I felt a little dizzy, that’s all. I’m fine. I have to be somewhere, though – will it take long?’

  Edward and I answered their questions succinctly. At least, I told them all that I could remember. They said our accounts matched that of the neighbour who’d called 999.

  ‘Though you shouldn’t have put yourself at risk like that, Miss Little,’ said the male officer.

  The policewoman agreed, then smiled at me, like I was her hero as well as Edward’s, before saying, ‘So, medical backup is on its way, to check you both over.’

  ‘No, they are not, young lady. I’m fine. I’m old, not made of paper. You see, this is why I like Ursula – she doesn’t fuss. Now, you’ve asked your questions, and it’s not like you’ll actually do anything, and there’s a programme about the Berlin Wall starting soon, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

  ‘I really am fine as well,’ I said. ‘I just need to go.’

  ‘No, no, Constance. You must stay and have a cup of tea with me.’

  ‘Bloody useless they are,’ said Edward, once I’d seen them out. ‘It’s not their fault, though, is it? It’s all the bastard cuts.’ He pointed to a leather chair near the window. ‘Sit for a minute, gather yourself.’

  I politely obliged, still jittery, desperate to leave. The seat squeaked beneath me.

  ‘Let me get you a nice sweet cup of tea.’ As he pushed himself up, his breathing rattled. Climaxing in a cough on reaching a standing position.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t get seen by a doctor? My friend lives opposite and I—’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. I gel with doctors even less than I do with the police. Now, milk and sugar?’
>
  ‘No . . . I . . . I really should be getting home, Edward. If you’re OK, that is? Is there anyone I can contact for you? Get to come over?’ I also stood and we lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  He took a silk paisley handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes beneath his glasses. ‘Well, how about another time? Let me thank you properly. I’ll get some biscuits in.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I’d love to,’ I said with no intention of doing so.

  My phone rang from within my bag. It was you.

  ‘Sorry. I need to take this.’ Turning away to answer, I faced the window. And there you were. I could see right into your flat. How your handset was sandwiched between your ear and neck crook, as you were putting your arms through a T-shirt.

  ‘Sorry, Constance. Did you call a bit ago? I was in the shower. Is everything OK?’

  I suppose I should have mentioned that I was watching you, but I didn’t. Only briefed you on events as you towel-dried your hair, stopping as the shocking incident unfolded. Then you said the words ‘Come over to mine.’

  When the call had ended, I tried to contain my excitement. ‘Sorry about that, Edward.’

  ‘Well, I can’t thank you enough, darling girl.’

  ‘Please . . . stop thanking me. I don’t know what happened, where it came from . . . but I’m no hero, I promise you. Here, take my number – for if you need anything.’ I removed an old receipt from my bag and used the pen that rested on the paper that straddled the arm of his chair.

  He thanked me, folded it neatly and placed it in his back pocket as we walked side by side through the hall towards the door.

  ‘I still can’t believe it, you know – how you swung into action like that. I bet you never thought you’d react that way in a million years.’

  His kind eyes creased as he laughed. I laughed too. Though it was fake. Because I should never be shocked by what I’m capable of. Not when I’d already done such a terrible thing.

  You buzzed me in and I stepped over the threshold. Crossed into your world.

  The entrance hall was grander than Edward’s, with its polished black-and-white-checked floor and imposing staircase. Sweeping, curved marble, drawing my eyes upwards towards the opulent chandelier that hung ominously above my head. Such a contrast to the bare low-energy bulb in the hall at Lynton Road.