by Anne Brooke
The man takes a second step.
‘Hello, Paul,’ he says.
Without a word, I amble, as if there’s all the time in the world, half-way down the aisle, half-way to where he is. I steady myself against one of the wooden chairs on my right and lower myself into it. There’s a suggestion of movement, a possibility of help offered, but I flinch away.
‘No. I can manage.’
He strolls towards me, hands in pockets and his long, black winter coat floating open. Every inch the modern celebrity judge, as always. He sits across the aisle from where I am, thank God. Any nearer and I don’t think I could deal with it.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he says at last. ‘I wasn’t sure you would. Hell, I wasn’t sure I would.’
‘Ditto. To both.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘No. I gave them up.’
‘Wise move. Do you mind if...?’
‘Go ahead.’
Taking out a packet of Dunhills, he removes one, lights it, and flicks the rest of them back inside his coat. Then he takes a long, slow draw, so long that I can almost taste the spice and scent of it in my own throat, too.
‘Why did you bother then?’ I ask. ‘Waiting for me, I mean?’
‘Your mother can be persuasive.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Jonathan. I get enough of that in my life outside this bloody family. Don’t pretend you don’t do exactly what you like whenever you damn well like it.’
‘I’m not the only one.’
‘Don’t change the bloody subject. Why did you wait for me?’
He takes another drag of his cigarette. ‘I wanted to see you, surprising though you may find that to be.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re my son, Paul, in case you’d forgotten it.’
‘When has that ever meant anything to you? You cut me out of your life when I was nineteen, and, as far as I’m aware, you’ve not changed your mind since. For God’s sake, it’s been eleven years, nine months, and one day since you’ve thought of me as your son, and you don’t have the right to criticise me now. It’s not something I like to think of much, either, you being my father. Haven’t I had to live, ever since Teresa...died, with the knowledge I’ll always be second-best, compared to her? I know, in a place too deep for the uprooting, that if you’d had a choice back then you’d have chosen me to die instead of her. How do you think that feels? And don’t ever tell me that’s a lie, because I won’t believe you.’
By the time I come to the end of what I want to say, I’m amazed I’ve had the words and the balls to say it all so quickly. And that it sounds so little. Still, my voice is raised, and I’m stabbing one accusatory finger in his direction. From outside the door is pushed open, and this acts as a signal for something in me to be unleashed.
‘Get the hell out,’ I yell. ‘Can’t you see this is private?’
The door pulls shut, and we’re alone again.
While I catch my breath, my father finishes his cigarette and stubs the remains out onto the floor tiles. Right at that moment, I’d like to do the same to him.
At last he speaks, ‘I’d forgotten how good you are with time, Paul. It always was a talent you had. I’m glad to see you still have it.’
‘For God’s sake—’
‘No,’ he holds up one hand. ‘Let me finish. I’ve allowed you to have your say; you should do likewise with me. And yes, you’re right. Teresa was, and always will be, my favourite. She made my life happier than anyone else ever has, even your mother. I miss her every day with every part of who I am. I’m not a fool; I know that will always be the case. And yes, as you say, if I’d had a choice back then I would, I believe, have chosen for my daughter to live. You accuse me and I have no defence. Guilty, Paul, guilty. But none of this matters, does it? Because, even though I hate what you do with your whole lifestyle and the thought of seeing you here and not Teresa crucifies me, even in spite of these things, you are my son. Still. And if you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask how your friend’s body was released to the O’Donnells for the funeral so early? Yes, I still have influence. Though I don’t know how any of this can ever be enough or help either of us. In the way your mother would want.’
There’s a long silence then. When I look up, it seems darker, and I realise one of the wall lamps has broken.
‘Thank you for helping the O’Donnells,’ I say. ‘But you’re right, it’s not enough. I think you should go.’
‘All right,’ he says, standing up and buttoning his coat. ‘Your mother thinks we’re too alike, you and I. She’d like us to be friends. If we can’t be anything resembling father and son.’
I let him walk almost to the door before I reply.
‘No matter what you think about me, or I about you, I’m glad you waited,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think we can ever be friends. Not now.’
Between us, the atmosphere is filled with emotion. I watch his back stiffen. I wonder if he’ll turn round, but he doesn’t, and I’m glad of it. He opens the door, and a tide of noise and normality rushes into the chapel.
‘I’m glad too that I waited,’ he says. ‘But, yes, perhaps you’re right.’
And then he, too, is gone.
That night, it takes too long to get to sleep.
During the whole of the time I’m in the hospital, no stranger visits me, and there are no unfamiliar tastes in my food or drink, no floating shadows half-glimpsed. Not that the thought of my own death seems to have the power to keep me awake in the night; on the contrary it’s more like a distant concept that has no relationship with what is real. Still, nothing happens, and I wonder then if, as far as Dominic and Blake are concerned, any threat I might have posed is over. Instead what occupies my mind is the thought of what the women whose lives they’ve ruined have been through. Starlight, Dancer, Bluesky, Aqua. Where are the other three now? What will happen to them?
What I have found out, and what I tried to tell Dominic, is like nothing so much as a deep darkness in a darker night. Since I have known the truth, I have read reports about women, and yes, some men, too, being tricked by the promise of a better life into working in the sex trade. Anywhere in the world where there’s enough wealth, people are sold for sex, beaten, tortured, unable for the most part to escape, and doomed only to keep on pleasing their owners under threat of death. I have read about children murdered and about women who have returned to their prisons just to save those they love. I have swallowed down nausea as I looked at pictures of those who have died, either of disease or by the knife or the gun when their disease makes them unsellable. There is a vast swathe of crime and pain and prolonged, agonising death that is hidden so far beneath the surface of the everyday world that no one pays any attention to it. It has sickened me both because of what it is and because of who, as I know now, is involved in it. And at the heart of it all are real women dying real deaths or living lives without hope. Starlight, Dancer, Bluesky, Aqua.
For their sakes, I resolve to carry on, to do something.
On the Tuesday I leave; it takes longer to check out of the hospital than it ever did to enter it. There are people to see who must give me the all-clear before I can go, whom I’ve never seen before. I decide against taking hold of my civil rights and just walking out; even for a PI, there are times when the ideal of being a free agent has to bow before the rules.
When at last, in the dull grey rain of that October afternoon, I ease myself with care into the waiting taxi, clutching the precious tape I’ve kept with me all this while, my first port of call isn’t home. It’s the police station.
Chapter Eighteen
When I’ve handed over the tape, the police ask a lot of questions, but this time I tell them the truth as far as I know it. All of it, except for the sexual relationship between Dominic and me. Let them find that out from another source, if they can. Let my ex-lover’s family have some chance for survival in all this. Somebody has to be able to walk away, and for now it’s his children who haunt me. Henry
and Judith. I know how it is to have sudden change blow your family apart. Let them salvage something.
Because I have lied before, the police take twice as long, as I knew they would, to put me through the process. Not that I’ve any complaints; it’s no more than I deserve. When they’re not questioning me, they leave me alone, apart from one young PC who looks as if he’s only just joined up straight from school, to listen to the tape. They’re away for a long time, and after my third coffee, I lay my head on the desk and doze off.
When they come back, the PC, under supervision, writes down what I say, and then, at last, I read it through and sign and date each page. All my burns are aching by the time it’s over; the knife wound on my upper arm is worst of all. I want nothing more than to get outside and feel the fresh air on my face. What I’ve given them must be enough as, before I leave to go home, they ask me if I want protection. I laugh it off. It’s not protection I want, but company. That alone, and my own wits, will have to keep me safe tonight. And if not, I’ll just have to take my chances.
By the time I leave, it’s 10.02pm. There’s a cash machine nearby. After checking there’s nobody lurking, I take out as much money as I can. Hailing a taxi, I check the driver’s credentials, get in, and lock the door behind me. I toy with the idea of The Bell and Book, but it’s too soon and doesn’t have what I want. Instead I ask for Soho. Opening the window, I breathe the night chill down into my throat. As deep as it will go.
‘Late shift?’ the driver says.
‘Something like that,’ I reply.
When we reach our destination, I pay with a large tip and slip out into the rain. A swift glance satisfies me there’s no immediate danger. When the taxi departs with an appreciative hoot of its horn, I run as best I can across the street, dodging the crowds, and clatter down the narrow outside stairs of a club I haven’t visited since I was twenty-five years and one week old.
It’s not changed much. Red and orange flashing lights over the door, suspicious bouncers, a dirty bar, and beautiful men. I order the house beer at a ridiculous price — no Waggledance here — take a corner seat and swallow enough pain killers to launch a new Millennium. Then I study what’s available. The stage show won’t be starting for another twenty minutes or so, if they still keep the same hours. Before it starts, I plan to have sex with the first willing, dark-haired young man I can find. I don’t care if I have to pay; I just want to feel alive again.
It takes me two minutes to make eye-contact with a suitable participant. I wonder if either I’m losing my touch, getting too old, or whether the new generation of cock-lovers has a different kind of courtship. From what I can see across the floor of dancing, pirouetting, kissing, and grabbing bodies, he’s young enough and his hair is the right colour. When I catch his eye the second time he smiles and doesn’t look away.
I gesture with my head to where the toilets are, swig down the last of my beer and get up. He says something to whoever he’s with and pushes back his chair. By the time I’ve turned in the direction I want, I know he’ll follow. Just in case, I check my wallet. Yes, there’s enough for what I need tonight.
The Gents’ smells of sweat and semen. There’s only one cubicle free and I can tell I’m not the only one who wants his five minutes of fun before the performance begins. It hasn’t got a lock, but that doesn’t bother me. If someone wants to watch, let them. Just as long as nobody kills me before I’m done.
Without warning I’m pushed from behind into the cubicle. I’m already raising my hand to ward off any attack when I realise there’s no danger; it’s the boy.
‘Hey,’ he ducks, his accent more East End than Soho, ‘Stay cool, mate.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve had a difficult day.’
‘’S okay. I can help you relax, can’t I? You’ll have to pay though.’
‘That’s fine.’ I revel in the idea of no obligation to call, no threat of a relationship hanging over me.
He wedges the door shut with his jumper, which he strips off in one fluid movement. He exposes a tight, tanned belly that hasn’t been created by the sun or from just walking either. Up close, his nose is a little crooked, but that doesn’t matter. His mouth is wide, his fingers strong and practical, and his eyes a deep brown. He’s as far removed from Dominic as I can get.
‘What do you want?’ he asks, and I tell him. At once he names a price, and I nod. That’s fine, too. There’s no time to bargain, and, besides, I’m not in the mood.
Sitting down on the toilet seat, I try not to listen to the sounds of sex from the cubicles on either side of me. I’m only interested in my own. He eases off my trousers and briefs and unfastens the last two buttons of my shirt. At the sight of the burns on my stomach, one of them still covered up, he frowns.
‘What’s this, mate?’
‘Kitchen accident,’ I tell him. ‘I got burnt. Don’t worry, they’re not catching. I was just...stupid, that’s all. They don’t hurt much now, if I’m careful.’
He nods. ‘Poor bastard. Unlucky.’
He’s right about that. Then, conversation over, he kneels between my legs and kisses me softly.
‘Hey, nice prick,’ he whispers.
My cock stiffens in response. With a groan, I arch my back against the cold tiles. His lips nibble at me, and I groan again.
‘You like that, mate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Because I get better.’
Then he sets to work and there’s no more talking. He’s thorough, too. I like to get something I’ll remember for my cash. He keeps me hovering for just the right amount of time between pleasure and fulfilment. His tongue licks me, his mouth travels the whole length of me from base to tip and back, over and over again. His fingers follow suit, sometimes coaxing and, more often, holding me back from the inevitable conclusion, just a little longer and a little longer yet. Then the rising excitement, my heart beating ever faster, the eruption of sweat across my forehead, and suddenly, as if turning a corner into a deepening light, I’m there. I come, right in his mouth, the rhythmic pulse of it driving me into him. My hands bury themselves in his dark, soft hair, and my throat gasps out my own joy to closure.
‘Jesus. That’s good, so good, thank you. Thank you, thank you.’
I hear the rustle of tissue paper and the sound of him spitting out my spunk. When I look down, still shuddering, he pockets the tissue and smiles.
‘Hey, my pleasure, mate.’
While I catch my breath, he tears off another piece of tissue and wipes my legs and cock dry.
‘Thanks.’
‘’S okay. Do you want to pay now, or do you want more?’
I shake my head. ‘No. No more sex. Not this evening. I just wanted to see...if I could still do it.’
‘Been having trouble?’
‘Yeah, a little. You could say that.’
‘Must be the company you keep then, mate,’ he grins. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with your equipment.’
‘Thanks. Maybe you’re right. It must be the company I keep.’ As I say these words, it’s as if a weight is lifted from my shoulders, and I start to laugh.
My companion glances up at me. ‘Hey, did I make a joke?’
‘No,’ I say, still laughing. ‘Not as such. It just feels good to be here, right now. You can’t imagine. That’s all.’
When I’ve finished laughing and dressed myself again, with care, I get out my wallet and pay him. I add a twenty percent tip on top of the money he’s asked for, and his eyes light up.
‘Hey, cool. Thanks, mate.’
‘You’ve earned it.’
As he pulls on his jumper and opens the cubicle door, I wonder if I can chance my luck further.
‘Look,’ I say, and he turns back, his face polite and expectant. ‘Do you think...? I mean I’d appreciate some company tonight, up there in the bar. Could you see your way to being with me this evening, paid of course? Not sex, but kissing — if you do that — dancing maybe.’
‘Sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t do escort work, mate. Like to keep it simple, y’know?’
‘Okay, sure. I understand.’ As I swallow down my disappointment, he reaches out and pats my arm once, awkwardly, before going back on the hunt again.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to worry. Not a looker like you. If you want to make out on the dance floor or during the show, there’ll be plenty of blokes out there willing to let you. Trust me.’
To my surprise, he turns out to be right. When he’s gone, I wash my face and hands in the cleanest looking basin, my flesh still glowing with the warm aftermath. All the time, a steady stream of amorous punters meets at the urinals and cruises in and out of the cubicles. Then I dry myself in the air blower and go out to join the beat and rhythm of the club again, trying to be a part of what I once knew.
The show’s already started and I find myself wolf-whistling at the stripper’s glistening muscles. When the music starts again, I swing around, a thud in my gut as men start to pair up around me. I needn’t have worried. A platinum blond dressed neck to ankle in sleek black leather and silver chains slips from nowhere, grips my arm, and we start to dance. And more. Groin to groin, legs gliding together, hands exploring, no questions asked. Twice he presses me on one of my burns, but the pain killers are working, and it’s easy enough to slide his fingers elsewhere.
‘Accident, sorry,’ I mouth over the wall of sound. ‘Not you.’
He shrugs, grins, and three beats of my heart later his tongue meets mine, lip melding to lip. God, it’s been so long since I’ve done this. I’ve forgotten how good it feels. All that matters is the need of the flesh, with no tomorrows and no guilt. My blood is swooping and wheeling with the roar in my head.
By the time the show starts once more, I’m onto my fourth partner. The trannie on stage is singing. I see my whore from earlier dancing with someone and try to catch his eye again and smile, but he doesn’t notice. Or more likely, chooses not to. I can understand that. I don’t like being interrupted when I’m working either.
