by Voss, Louise
‘Tell me you love me,’ he says, his eyes screwed up in pain. ‘Tell me you want to stay here with me.’
I can’t believe it, but even through the misery in his voice he actually sounds faintly hopeful, as if he thinks I might seriously ponder the question and then say, Yes, on balance, Claudio, I’d absolutely flaming well love to stay here locked in my flat for the rest of my life, with you flattening me on my fetid horrible rumpled bed, breathing your fetid horrible rumpled breath into my face . . . How could I not love such a charmer? You stupid fetid bastard.
‘I do love you, Claudio, I swear, I do, and it will grow and grow and we could move in together and get old together and cultivate roses or keep chickens or whatever you like. I mean it! But you have to see that this is not helping. Like you said, we need a clean slate. Let me help you—you’re ill. We have to be nice to each other. Please let go of my wrist. You’re hurting me. If you want us to go out with each other, you have to back right off now. I mean it.’
As if! He could back off as far as the moon and he’d still never be in with a chance. But Claudio obediently lets go of my still-handcuffed wrist. I don’t think he believes me, though.
I turn back to face him. Up until now, I’ve kind of felt as though I’ve been moving underwater in the twilight of this flat; nothing has seemed real. But now it is brought into sharp focus. I’ve broken the surface and I’m wide awake, teetering on the edge of either disaster or redemption. For the first time, I feel almost in control.
‘Let me get you a cold cloth to put on your forehead. Then you can tell me what you want to tell me.’
Miraculously he lets go, takes out the bunch of keys, and unlocks my handcuffs. I think about grabbing them and whacking him round the head with them, but he locks them onto one of his belt loops. I sit up, rubbing my wrist and wondering what he suddenly needs to tell me, after all these days. I hope it isn’t a confession that there are several other women underneath his floorboards back in his flat.
‘I don’t want you to leave me,’ he says again. ‘Everyone leaves me.’ He has rolled onto his back and is lying with his forearms folded across his forehead, trying to press the pain away. His socked feet are dangerously close to the golf club. They smell as bad as his breath.
‘Clean slate,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, Jo, never, but I can tell you because we have no secrets, do we? I know all yours. And when you know mine, you will be flattered that I confided in you, and then you won’t be able to leave me, ever.’
His voice hardens, even through his evident pain. Scared of what I’m about to learn, I get off the bed and go into the bathroom. Taking a facecloth off the towel rail, I run it under the cold tap, wring it out, and take it back in to him, all the time frantically calculating whether I can make a grab for the golf club now and hit him before he notices. But it’s under the duvet, and even with his headache I’m pretty sure he’ll go for me if I make any sudden moves.
‘You look . . . dirty,’ he mumbles, taking in my grimy sweat-stained Cath Kidston short pyjamas and matted hair.
‘I am. I haven’t had a shower for three days. I stink. It reeks in here.’
He ignores this—since it clearly doesn’t mean anything to him. I’m reminded again, with a despairing lurch, about his lack of sense of smell. All my efforts have been for nothing. Suddenly I am desperate, absolutely desperate for the sensation of clean water on my filthy, sweaty body.
He groans. ‘I need Co-codamol. Is there any left in here?’
‘No. You know there isn’t. You took out all my painkillers. You’d better go out and get some.’
‘You think I’m leaving you alone now, after what you just did? No way. Talk to me, Jo? My mother used to talk to me when I was ill.’ His voice sounds blurred and unsteady and I know this is my best chance. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily mentioned his mum, too, so he must be feeling vulnerable.
‘Richard used to talk to me when I was ill, too. And to get me to sleep at nights. Stories, memories. I do it for my daughter too.’
‘Don’t talk to me about him. I’m sick of hearing about him. Do it for me. Please? What do you remember?’
Slowly I start to feel powerful, finally beginning to gather up a skirt of control. I start thinking about my unfinished diary, what happened next, what has remained unwritten and unspoken for almost twenty-five years. The last entry I read—the last one in the notebook—was my second trip ice-skating with John, and that had finished abruptly, nothing but blank pages following. I had obviously changed my mind about wanting to write it all down. Or I simply hadn’t been able to. I’ve never even talked to Richard about it.
‘I remember the last time I saw John,’ I say, slowly.
He knows immediately what I am talking about. ‘At the ice rink. Yes. I was there too.’
For a moment, I feel as though I’m back on that rink again, sliding out of control. I freeze.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was there that day.’
This throws me so much I almost jump off the bed and run back into the bathroom. I can’t process it. He must have been the nameless friend that John said hi to. I don’t remember him being there.
I need to maintain composure at all costs, though, so I make a colossal effort to keep my voice steady and low, forcing myself back to that day. Even just in my memory, John’s presence soothes and encourages me. I miss him so much.
‘I couldn’t write about it—I didn’t want to, because I knew every time I read it back it would rip my heart open again—but I’m going to try to remember. I remember us getting there, John reversing the Lancia into a tight space in the car park . . . His arm was draped over the back of my seat as he twisted around to steer his way in. I can remember his face, the olive skin and the black eyelashes. He was frowning with concentration . . . I told him I loved him.’
Claudio frowns too, but I’m not going to spare him the details.
‘John said, “I love you too, Sweetlips,” and he kissed me. He always called me Sweetlips—soppy I know, but I loved it. I breathed in the smell of him; half man, half boy, sweet sweat and cheap aftershave. I felt perfect happiness in that moment. It was the summer holidays, I was going ice-skating with my gorgeous boyfriend, exams were over, and Swing Out Sister was playing on the car radio.
‘ “Come on, then,” he said, “Let’s go and tear up that ice rink.” ’
I glance at Claudio and he’s scowling. I can tell he doesn’t like hearing this any more than he likes hearing about Richard but he still thinks he needs to. Hopefully he’s feeling too ill to be able to concentrate. I make my voice stay low and soothing, willing him to relax and let it become white noise, a backdrop to oblivion.
‘That second visit was much easier, technically. I got up enough confidence to really work my body into a rhythm and after only three circuits I let go of John’s hand. I could swing my arms and it widened my strides. When I felt really brave, I moved in towards the faster-flowing inside of the circles of skaters. I was panting and out of breath, beaming and waving at John, who caught up with me, laughing at my enthusiasm. He dodged around an unsteady middle-aged couple in matching sweaters. I remember them because he nudged me and pointed and said, “That’ll be us in a few years.”
‘ “Good,” I said. I reached out to take his hand again. “I can’t wait. In fact, I might even start knitting now. That way, our jumpers might be finished in about twenty years’ time.”
‘We skated for ages—forty minutes or so—but the rink had filled up and we had to go slower. I spotted a few people I recognised—a couple of girls from the Fifth Form, and John waved at a mate of his as he whizzed past us.’
‘That was me,’ Claudio mumbles.
‘It might have been,’ I say, reluctantly. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Go on.’
‘John asked if I’d had enough, be
cause I was skating more and more slowly. My feet were hurting and it felt like someone was clutching my thighs. “Let’s go and have a hot chocolate,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Once more round the block first?”
‘I remember sighing—I’d like to have come off the ice then, that minute, could already see myself clumping back to get my shoes, leaning on John for support, trying to take the weight off my blisters—but one more circuit wouldn’t hurt, not if John wanted to. That’s what I thought. I told him to go on ahead and I’d meet him by the exit. He called me a lightweight and swung me around with both hands round my waist. “See you in a minute,” he said as he skated off, calling back over his shoulder, already picking up speed.
‘Those were the last words he ever said to me. I was so busy trying to keep his red sweatshirt in sight for as long as possible that I almost got swept off my feet by three teenagers who raced past me. I wobbled and lunged for the bar at the side of the rink, and when I looked up again, John was out of sight.’
I grit my teeth with the effort of keeping my voice steady.
‘I waited for him, on the ice, by the exit.’
I force myself to stroke the back of Claudio’s hand, gently, like a lover would. His body is definitely starting to sink very slowly into the mattress. We are suspended in time like insects in amber. I have been inching backwards away from him across the mattress as far as I can without him noticing.
‘I waited for ages. At first I thought he was playing a trick on me. Maybe even that he’d gone without me, or at least pretended to. I was getting cold, and I had cramp in one foot. I stared so hard at all the people skating towards me that my eyes went funny. I was pissed off. He’d said he was only going round one more time. But I still couldn’t see him.’
It’s all coming back to me, as though it happened last month. Turns out I didn’t need to write it in my diary. It’s been saved in a file in my head for all these years.
‘There was some sort of commotion going on at the other end of the rink, but I didn’t notice for quite a while, because I was too busy looking the other way, looking out for John. Then I remember the face of this woman, skating past. She looked white, and shocked. She was saying to her friend, “That poor chap! Hope he’ll be all right. He came down with such a bang, didn’t he?”
‘It was then that I started to get worried. I turned round and saw that an area at the other end of the rink had been cordoned off. I was just in time to see someone being stretchered off the ice and outside the windows I could see the blue flashing lights of an ambulance. “Oh no,” I thought, “what if he’s had an accident? Lucky the hospital’s so nearby.” I didn’t know what to do at first; I was sort of dithering about whether to skate down there, against the tide of everyone coming towards me—it didn’t occur to me to go round anti-clockwise—or to take off my skates and run down the side in my socks. After all, I didn’t even know that it was him. People have accidents on ice rinks all the time. They should issue helmets with the skates, I really think they should. I had visions of me running out after the ambulance, and then seeing John’s face pressed up against the ice rink window from the inside, laughing at me. He was always trying to wind me up. I wouldn’t have put it past him.
‘Eventually I decided I had to get off the ice. I sat down and pulled off my skates, which took ages without John to help me. It was like chipping my feet out of breeze blocks and I just left the skates there, on the bench at the side of the rink—there was far too much of a queue for shoes. I remember thinking, I’ll never get my shoes back, but not caring. I didn’t exactly run, but I sort of hurried in the direction I’d seen the stretcher come off. There was a double door there, which said “Private”, but I pushed it open and went in. It led into a concrete corridor, which was empty, apart from two girls who obviously worked there. They were about my age and they were both crying, which I thought was a bit odd—it’s not unusual to see one girl crying and her friend comforting her, but you don’t often see two, unless they’re at a funeral or something.’
I stop for a moment, to make sure I can maintain my even tone of voice.
Claudio’s eyes are two slits in his grey face under the facecloth on his head, but he’s blinking quite a lot. He looks like a little boy again, struggling to stay awake. He’s a kidnapping murdering psychopath, I remind myself, just in case I start feeling even remotely sorry for him. There’s a welcome draught coming from the open loft hatch and it revives me. I take a deep breath.
‘I asked the two girls if they were OK, and they wiped their faces with the backs of their hands. One of them said, “You shouldn’t be in here,” and I said, “I’ve lost my boyfriend. He told me to wait for him while he went round one more time, but that was ages ago.” The girls looked at each other, and something about their faces made my heart sink. They were so young, probably a bit younger than me—in their first jobs, I expect. One was quite Goth-looking; pink eye shadow, dyed black hair, too much eyeliner. They were both wearing some sort of uniform but the Goth one had pink and black stripy tights and Doc Martens on underneath.
‘ “What did he look like?” said the Goth one, and I thought, No, what does he look like? Does. Not did. Suddenly I was having trouble getting words out, even though I couldn’t believe anything really bad could have happened. They’re just crying because their boyfriends have dumped them, I thought. “He’s tall. Black hair. Really good-looking. Nineteen. His name’s John. He’s wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans.” And then—this was the worst bit—they both just burst out sobbing again.
‘ “You need to come with us,” the Goth one said. Her friend was crying too much to speak. I wasn’t crying, although I can remember my heart was beating really fast and I felt sick. I asked where John was, and if he was the one I’d seen being stretchered off the ice, and she said yes, she thought it might have been him. It was sort of echoey in that corridor, and my feet were getting really cold in my socks, even though they were my thickest woolly ones. I wanted a cup of tea. I wanted John. I wanted my dad.
‘ “Is he concussed, then?” I asked, and then, “Why are you crying?”
‘Her friend spoke, finally. She was sort of little and skinny and her nose was all red. She said, “He was just so gorgeous. It’s terrible. I can’t believe it. Nothing like this has ever happened here before.” I was getting almost annoyed by this stage. I felt like shaking them. “Is he concussed?” I asked again, and they said, “You need to come with us.” I had this image of John sitting somewhere with a big lump on his head, and an icepack pressed against it. He’d have been irritated at how uncool it was, to have to sit holding a big soppy icepack. He wouldn’t have wanted me to see him like that—that’s why I didn’t know where he was. I looked up and down the corridor, at all the closed office doors on either side, thinking that he’d be in one of those, probably, hiding from me. Waiting till the lump went down. Thinking about how much Gareth, and all his other mates—you included, I suppose—would tease him for having a bump on his head . . . .’
I can’t look at Claudio any more as I talk, willing him to fall asleep, or pass out. I hate the thought that he was in any way associated with my beautiful John; hate it, hate it. I can’t bear to look, in case he’s wide awake. I start at his feet, in holey, stinky once-black socks, and work my way up his legs, encased in boringly generic jeans. How can a reasonably attractive man wear such dull jeans? Then again, how can such a reasonably attractive man be enough of a psycho to keep me here when I want to leave?
I feel sick again.
‘This is nice,’ he mumbles, and grabs my hand. So I keep talking. Go to sleep, I urge him silently, the way I used to when Megan was a baby, wide-eyed and restless in the wee small hours, looking over my shoulder as if looking at the rest of the world slumbering. Except that Claudio emphatically was not, nor would he ever be, my baby. I stroke his hand again.
‘So they took me down the corridor to an office behind one
of the closed doors, and I was expecting to see John in there, but there was this awful man inside, with a polyester suit on. It was too big for him, and the sleeves came down to his fingers, like a little boy in a blazer at the beginning of the school year. His hair was greasy, and he was very spotty. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than John, but I just looked at him and thought, I’m so lucky to have John as my boyfriend. At last, something’s gone right for me. Dad might be dead, but Mum’s happy now with Brian, and I don’t feel half as fat and ugly as I used to—how could I, when I have this beautiful boy telling me I’m gorgeous every day? I’m so lucky . . .
‘Perhaps I knew I was deluded, even then, and just couldn’t admit it to myself . . . That spotty ice-rink assistant manager reminded me of the manager of Russell & Bromley, when I’d gone there for an interview for a Saturday job, a year or so earlier. I didn’t get the job, and I was outraged. Even more so when Donna ended up working there later. He’d asked me what the special qualities of a leather shoe were and I had no idea, so I’d said, “It’s waterproof?” and he’d looked at me pityingly, just like this ice-rink guy was doing now, and said, “No—the thing about leather is that it isn’t water resistant,” and I’d said, “Well, what’s the point of making shoes out of leather, then?” I still wonder about that, you know.’
I’m aware that I’m rambling now, but rambling is good, when you’re trying very hard to send someone to sleep. I should’ve used it as a technique on Megan as a baby, instead of singing all those fragments of songs to her: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Wish You Were Here, Under the Moon of Love, even the Creed, indelibly imprinted in my mind from years of childhood churchgoing—anything low and hypnotic and soothing. I don’t quite dare to start singing the Creed now, though.
Just pretend that Claudio is a great big baby. It’s not so hard—and infinitely preferable to thinking of him as a kidnapper, a potential rapist or a killer.
I dare to look into Claudio’s face and sure enough, his eyes are almost completely closed. There’s a movement from his direction, and I realise his head is slumping further down into the pillows. He is clearly fighting either pain or sleep really hard—just as Megan used to—but losing the battle. Sleep, sleep, sleep, I exhort telepathically from across the mattress.
