by Louise Beech
The last few weeks, since the revelation, Ben had filled Andrew’s mind. He found his mismatched socks in the linen basket, his favourite chocolate bars in the fridge and his spare toothbrush in the bathroom. One of his CDs randomly sprang to life when Andrew powered the machine. Ben’s late-night phone messages punctuated the solitude. Torment cracked his otherwise perfect non-mis-words. Andrew ignored them. He wrote furiously, of Book Ben’s despair when lions ceased their midnight visits.
Now, when Ben asked if he loved him, Andrew turned away. He couldn’t look at him. He wasn’t strong enough.
During their third session, Ben said, ‘I miss your questions. My favourite was when you’d ask what I thought. Why won’t you talk? I’ve no clue what you think but you’ve always asked me. So ask me now! Ask me something – anything.’
We have all the answers now, thought Andrew.
He smelt Ben’s hair gel sometimes, cloying in the windowless room. When they were still together, he had tasted it once during sex. Now it followed Andrew everywhere; it washed over him in bed, where in the dark he almost succumbed to phoning Ben, thinking he couldn’t give him up. Perhaps they could be together, even just as brothers.
No.
How could he go to Ben’s home and see his own father and not be able to say who he was? How could he be around the man he had liked despite his rudeness? This man who had existed all along, nearby. And how could he meet Mike, his other brother? Meet Lola, the niece or sister he had seen born. Ben could never understand what it felt like to finally have a family, and not be able to meet them.
Andrew would have to choose nothing.
In choosing something he would take away Ben’s chance of a normal future. Ben was young enough to move on and find someone else. Much as the thought of him with another man hurt more than any medical test, Andrew knew he must sacrifice what he wanted for Ben’s sake, too.
‘Why did you accept my blood, but you won’t even talk to me?’ asked Ben during their fourth session, his voice loud and angry.
It was a question Andrew had asked himself, one he couldn’t answer. Perhaps it was so he could have some part of him without judgement. Perhaps he was just a coward, afraid to die.
‘Do you know what I’m going through?’ Ben demanded. ‘I’m losing my fucking mind.’
Andrew knew the medication Ben had taken to coax stem cells from the marrow into his bloodstream caused him muscle aches, headaches, and insomnia. He shivered frequently and complained of numb lips.
‘I gave up university for you!’ he cried.
You gave that up for a boyfriend who never asked you to, thought Andrew.
‘Why can’t we overlook it?’ Ben continued. ‘Talk to me! How the fuck can you ignore me like this?’
With great difficulty, thought Andrew.
‘Let’s get the proper DNA test done,’ said Ben, more gently. ‘It might not even be true.’
A test will only confirm what I know, thought Andrew.
A nurse came in then, read some print-out papers, asked if they wanted tea, and left to make a sugary one for Ben, who then seemed to run out of words.
He had more at their fifth session, though.
‘We could run away,’ he said, scratching where the plastic line had pierced his skin.
He wore the jeans Andrew loved, ones that had never been ruined by blood or ink. The ones he had too. The ones they had both worn on their first date. Andrew remembered the last time Ben wore them. They had been drinking lattes in the coffee house near his flat, an autumn day like any, a good day when his blood reading was 7.7, when he was between chemo, when they were still in that place called not knowing.
‘We could go where no one knows us,’ insisted Ben. ‘Away from my dad.’
Our dad, Andrew wanted to say.
Ben’s pause said he had thought of this, too.
‘Come with me to Zimbabwe.’ Ben’s voice broke. ‘You love lions too. You can do all the research you want for your book; I can do what I promised my mum. It’s perfect. We could stay there.’ He paused. ‘No one would know.’
We’d know, thought Andrew for the hundredth time.
And then it was the last session. They left the room together. On the way to their bus stops their footsteps were in perfect unison. Andrew watched their feet. He tried to walk out of sync with Ben.
But it was impossible.
37
Two Phone Calls
Ben decided, after another boring English lesson, that in the future he would write all his own books.
Andrew Fitzgerald, The Lion Tamer Who Lost
When Andrew unlocked the door to his flat an hour later, the phone was ringing. Anticipating Ben, he stood by the machine, hand over his mouth, heart hammering. Instead an unfamiliar voice said she was Tara Smith from Black House Books, a publisher Andrew had heard of.
He picked up the phone.
‘Hello,’ he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Is this Andrew?
‘Um, yes.’
‘How are you today?’
‘Great.’
‘I’m really pleased to tell you that you’ve shortlisted in the Best First Three Chapters section.’
‘In the what, sorry?’
‘The Best First Three Chapters section – for the children’s book category. It’s our annual competition. Congratulations! Only twenty of you went through. You must be thrilled. We had over five thousand entries.’
Andrew wondered if his sugar levels had dropped or if the emotion of leaving Ben was responsible for his confusion. ‘What did you say?’ He sat on the sofa edge like an unruly child waiting to see the headmaster.
‘We invited entries to our annual competition earlier this year. Hang on a moment; I have your letter here.’
While Andrew waited he scanned his desk as though a clue might be there. His latest chapters sat on the growing pile. The photo of his mum faced the wall though he couldn’t remember moving it; he got up and turned it to face the room again.
‘Here,’ said Tara. ‘It says you’ve had two books released with a small publisher … one was used by a primary school … and that The Lion Tamer Who Lost is not yet published and almost complete…’
‘That’s all true,’ said Andrew, ‘but I didn’t send it.’
‘Ah, yes, the letter’s from your agent. I guess he decided to surprise you.’
‘My agent?’ Andrew frowned.
‘Yes, Ben Roberts.’
‘Ben?’
How on earth?
Andrew tried to think back. He frowned. Recalled that there was a time when Ben had asked unusually incisive questions about the book while they played Cheaty Chess. He had thought Ben was distracting him from what had been a bad day, one when Andrew’s hair had come out in the sink. Ben had put his arm around him, joked that he would buy a new rug for him.
He must have pretended to be an agent and submitted the chapters secretly.
Tara interrupted his thoughts. ‘Thank him for us, won’t you? We enjoyed your novel so far.’
‘I…’ Andrew felt like the room got smaller. ‘He’s not my agent anymore.’
‘Oh dear. Well, we can just deal with you from now on; it’s not a problem. So, can you make it to our award ceremony in London in four weeks?’
While Tara explained how the winner would be published and receive a ten-thousand-pound advance, Andrew walked the length of the lounge. He looked at the chair where Ben often sat watching him type and wondered what he was doing.
‘How long have you been writing?’ asked Tara.
How long had it been?
Ever since he had been in the back of his mother’s car on a trip to Ireland, no older than three, and thought the clouds looked like mean ghosts. He had given them names and relationships to one another.
‘At least your agent submitted it before you parted ways,’ said Tara.
Ben had been there for the whole book. He had listened to Andrew read chapters
when he required feedback. He had massaged Andrew’s shoulders, moving hands lower with every word.
Andrew closed his eyes; he couldn’t think of those things now.
‘If you go to our website,’ Tara continued, ‘you’ll see who else shortlisted. I’ll send out your ticket for the ceremony today and if you can attend we’ll book you a night at the hotel where it’s held. It’s November the thirtieth. Can you come?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Andrew’s mind raced; would he be well enough? It was four weeks away.
‘Yes,’ Andrew repeated, more firmly.
‘Great, we’ll see you there,’ said Tara.
Afterwards Andrew sat in silence. Had he really shortlisted out of five thousand others? Had Ben assessed those odds when he sent it? Twenty shortlistees in five thousand was better than the one in twenty thousand odds of their test being a match. Ben had done so much for him; given blood, cared for him, and now this. What had he done in return? He had not even given him the chance to try and be a brother.
The phone rang again. Now it would be Ben. The machine didn’t pick up and it rang and rang. In the end, Andrew answered.
‘I was bloody worried for a minute there!’
It was Leo. The past was chasing him, and he was too tired to run.
‘Thought you might be dead.’
Andrew sighed. ‘You won’t have to fake tears at a funeral.’
‘That’s cold,’ said Leo.
‘You’ve caught me at a bad time,’ Andrew replied.
‘A bad time?’ He laughed. ‘I know you’ve been having chemo, but you must have heard?’
Andrew wandered to the window, touched the brown moth still stuck to the glass. ‘How did you know I’d had chemo?’
‘I called your place about four weeks ago and spoke to – what’s his name? He said you were ill; I should leave you alone. But I had to ring you about this.’
Leo had spoken to Ben. Ben never said.
‘Ring me about what?’ Andrew asked.
‘The competition,’ said Leo.
‘How do you know? I only just found out.’
‘I shortlisted too, you divvy.’
Andrew went into the kitchen for a cereal bar. ‘You?’
‘Sure did. Saw your name at their website too. Not surprised. You’ve had practice. I just scribbled out something about a group of kids who go pirate hunting. Is what’s-his-name going with you?’
‘His name’s Ben.’
‘Is he going with you?’
‘No,’ said Andrew softly.
‘I’ll drive us then,’ said Leo.
‘No, I’ll get the train,’ said Andrew.
‘Stubborn as ever. Why spend the money when I can take us?’
‘I like the train.’ He crunched on the oaty biscuit.
‘For God’s sake, I’m not gonna try anything. Is what’s–his-name possessive? Doesn’t he trust you?’
‘Leo, I’m tired. I’ll see you there.’
Andrew clicked the red button on the receiver and Leo’s voice died.
He returned to the living room. Ben had obviously entered the book in secret. Andrew half anticipated the phone ringing again, expecting Ben to try and reconnect. He didn’t.
He had nothing again. Nothing he knew, understood well, was familiar with.
But nothing is so much harder after you’ve briefly had something.
Andrew got better.
Doctor Amdahl – glancing intermittently at the empty second chair – told him a few weeks later that after evaluating the results of various blood tests, he could confirm that new blood cells were being produced, and the cancer was in remission.
Ben’s blood had healed Andrew. He might be able to live a long life because Ben was his brother. He could finish the book because he was his brother. Andrew would become who he was, who he should be, because Ben was his brother.
But he could not have him.
38
The Lyrical Chambermaid
Ben hated reading aloud in class.
Andrew Fitzgerald, The Lion Tamer Who Lost
The awards schedule flapped next to the hotel reception desk, lifting at the breeze from the revolving doors. Andrew had never attended one before. He thought of school assemblies, of never getting a certificate for being the best swimmer or earning a thousand house points. ‘Too busy daydreaming,’ Mr Wood always said, forgetting that low blood sugar could lead to such distraction.
Andrew read the day’s schedule. At noon writer Lynne Lowell – whose novel, Playing with Fire, had been a bestseller – would talk about getting that first draft shipshape. Children’s writer Paul Stock would sign copies of his book after that. Then the Black House editors would give talks throughout the afternoon. And finally, before the evening meal, the shortlisted writers had to read their work aloud.
Andrew hated public speaking. He had only read in local schools to children, which he hadn’t minded. Kids were so eager, so easily pleased.
A receptionist appeared behind the desk and asked, ‘Can I help you?’ in a haughty voice. ‘Breakfast is down the corridor.’
‘Thanks, I’ve been.’
Andrew lifted the schedule page and read the evening’s highlights: the prize-giving ceremony. There would be ten thousand pounds for the winner and five hundred for two runners-up.
‘It’s only for those with invites,’ said the receptionist.
‘I know.’ Andrew showed his.
The receptionist smiled as though a puppeteer had lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘We’ll see you later then, sir.’
The revolving doors sent in another gust that tugged the schedule pages from Andrew’s hand. Leo pulled a familiar case into the lobby, his shoes clicking on the wood.
‘Andrew.’ He always said his name as though to remind him he existed. ‘Didn’t think you’d be here yet – did you stay last night?’
‘I thought it’d be good to prepare.’
‘I worked until late, slept a few hours, then got up at five and came.’
Leo gave his name to the receptionist. Then said to Andrew, ‘Your hair,’ and raised a hand towards it.
‘It was the chemo. It’ll grow back again.’
‘How come what’s-his-name didn’t come with you, then?’ With Leo’s wanderlust sated, the year-round tan had faded, leaving dry skin about the eyes and a spattering of freckles.
Andrew shrugged. ‘He’s busy.’
‘Too busy for something as big as this?’
‘I’ve got stuff to do. See you later.’
‘Want to get a coffee?’
‘No.’ Andrew felt unkind but wasn’t in the mood.
‘What’s up?’
‘My health’s not the best and I don’t want to push it.’
‘Guess I’ll find something to do.’ Leo dragged his case towards the bar.
Andrew headed for the stairs.
‘Don’t you think,’ called Leo as an afterthought, ‘that maybe something more than our books brought us both here together?’
Andrew was surprised. Leo was never so profound.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Never occurred to me.’
Andrew knew, however, that it was more than his book that had brought him to this London hotel with a room overlooking Covent Garden and five types of tea on the condiment tray. He had Ben to thank for being here.
Andrew thought for the hundredth time of writing him a letter. Of explaining exactly why he had done what he had. Of saying his love had never died. That it was because of the strength of it that he had known he must let him go. Give him a chance to find love that didn’t break such laws. But Andrew knew Ben was probably in Zimbabwe now and he didn’t have the address.
A beautiful voice disturbed his thoughts.
Andrew stopped halfway down the corridor to his room. It must be one of the writers reading somewhere nearby. But only his door was open. Just outside a chambermaid trolley piled with towels and toilet rolls was parked. The words continued. He l
ooked into his room. Inside a woman in a too-big striped smock sat on the bed and read from a magazine. Her red hair was pinned up with a clip. Andrew listened to the lovely voice, not wanting to move in case he startled her.
Eventually she saw him. She flushed as bright as her hair and apologised profusely. ‘Oh, sir, I’m sorry. Please, I’ll get out of your way.’ She was Irish. A lilac name-badge spelt Cora in faded script.
‘No, it’s fine. You read beautifully.’
‘I’ll be in trouble if Sheila catches me slacking again.’ Cora hugged the magazine to her chest. She looked no older than twenty. ‘Please don’t report me. I got caught reading the other week when I should’ve been ironing. Listen to me going on! You’re going to report me, aren’t you?’
Andrew laughed and said he had no intention of doing any such thing. He just wanted to know if Cora had been taught to read like that. ‘You must be an actress,’ he said.
She shook her head, said she had only been able to read at all for two years and now couldn’t stop doing it aloud. Andrew knew he also moved his lips when he read – a curious quirk Ben shared.
‘What time do you finish?’ Andrew asked.
Cora emptied the bin and stared at him like he’d asked her to undress.
Andrew realised she might think it a come on. ‘I wasn’t propositioning you.’ He paused. ‘Can I ask a small favour? … And in return you can be my guest today.’
‘Your guest, sir? I don’t understand.’
Cora unhooked the open door, ready to leave. Andrew explained how he was there for the award ceremony and could take a companion.
Cora let go of the door and it hit her in the head.
‘You’re one of the writers?’ She rubbed her temple. ‘We had JK Rowling stay here once and I was so excited I didn’t sleep!’ She paused. ‘What’s the favour though?’
Andrew thought quickly; if he missed Tara Smith’s three o’clock talk he’d have an hour before he had to read with the others at four. ‘Would you read some of my story to me, so I can figure out how to do it best?’
