Death Takes a Lover

by Olivier Bosman

  "Is that a bomb shelter?" she asked as Fitz re-entered the house.

  "Yes. I use it as a dispensary." He started opening the bottle with his pocket knife.

  "Surely you can afford a refrigerator!"

  "Not on the allowance you're giving me, Ma."

  He opened the bottle and held it out to his mother. She looked at him, confused.

  "Sorry. No glasses," he said.

  She frowned and pushed the bottle away from her. "You're not going to make me feel guilty, you know, Fritz."

  "I'm not trying to."

  "Your grandfather put money aside for you to study. Not to waste it away on some romantic notion of living like an impoverished writer!"

  "It's not a romantic notion."

  "There is nothing romantic about poverty, Fritz. I know because I made the same mistake when I married your father."

  "Mother, for God's sake, stop calling me Fritz! My name is Fitz now. Fitzgerald O'Sullivan."

  There was a pause. Mrs O'Sullivan looked her son up and down with a concerned frown. She opened her purse and took a small envelope out of it. "I want you to have this," she said, holding out the envelope.

  "What is it?" Fitz took the envelope from her and opened it. It contained a small photograph. When Fitz saw this he immediately handed it back. "I don't want it."

  "You must have a memento of your father. You can't pretend he never existed."

  "I said I don't want it!"

  "You must start facing up to what happened, Fritz. You can't keep running away from it."

  "Mother, please!" He threw the envelope on his desk and turned away from her.

  "Why won't you stay with your grandfather in Florida? You can finish your education there."

  "Stop it!"

  "Things are much different in America. Life isn't so weighed down over there. I know you'll like it."

  "I knew it was going to be like this!" Fitz suddenly headed for the door. "I should never have asked you to come over!" He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  "Fritz, where are you going!" Mrs O'Sullivan cried as she followed him out. "Fritz, come back!"

  *

  Sophie was standing next to the ticket booth outside the Empire Cinema, clenching two tickets in her gloved hand. She was looking out for someone through her small round glasses. A huge poster of Olivia de Havilland and Montgomery Clift locked in a gas-lit embrace hung behind her. The titles read: "William Wyler's ‘The Heiress’. This year's ‘Gone with the Wind’." People had been streaming into the cinema for the last ten minutes. Sophie hated being late for the pictures. Where on earth was he? she thought.

  Finally she saw Fitz walk towards her, casually, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fitz, you're late!" she called. "I've got the tickets, but we must hurry!"

  Fitz frowned but he did not increase his speed. If anything, he was slowing down. "Is this it?" he asked, stopping in front of the poster and looking at it.

  Sophie noticed that he hadn’t greeted her. No hello. No kiss. He was clearly in a bad mood. "Yes," she answered.

  "It looks like a soppy melodrama."

  "It's an adaptation of Henry James' Washington Square. Now, come on!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the cinema.

  A Donald Duck cartoon was playing as they entered the crowded hall.

  "My parents have gone to Cornwall for a week," Sophie whispered, still holding on to Fitz's hand and pulling him down the aisle towards their seats. "And they've asked if we could join them this weekend."

  Fitz frowned. "Why?"

  "What do you mean why? They want to meet you, that's why."

  They arrived at their row and started shuffling towards their seats.

  "So what do you think?" Sophie continued. "Will you come with me on Saturday?"

  "I was planning on doing some writing this weekend."

  "Oh, I didn't know you had started something new."

  "I haven't. But I'm planning to. I want to write a novel."

  They sat down.

  "What's it about?" Sophie asked.

  "What?"

  "Your novel?"

  "Don't know yet. Something serious."

  "I wish you'd write something personal. Why don't you write about your childhood in Ireland?"

  Fitz frowned again. "I don't know anything about Ireland. I went to boarding school in England when I was eleven."

  "But you lived in Ireland until then, didn't you?"

  "I don't think anybody would be interested in that."

  "I would. I hardly know anything about your life before I met you."

  "There's nothing to know."

  "It must've been beautiful growing up in Ireland."

  "It wasn't."

  "I saw some pictures of Cork in a book. It looked quite stunning. And so green."

  "I'm telling you that it wasn't! Now please, will you be quiet!"

  "What for?"

  "I'm trying to watch the film."

  "It's only Donald Duck. You hate cartoons."

  "Well, it's still more interesting than the conversation we're having!"

  The cartoon ended just at that moment.

  "I'm sorry," Sophie said, mockingly. "I've ruined your picture."

  The lights started to dim, signalling that the main feature was about to begin. Sophie locked her arm around Fitz's and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's starting," she said.

  Fitz sat up, shrugged Sophie's head off him and pulled his arm away from her. "Thank God for that," he said. "You'll finally shut up now."

  *

  Fitz was sitting at a table in his local pub. He had a pint of ale in front of him, a pencil in his hand and an empty notebook spread out on the table. But he wasn't writing. Instead he was looking around him, waiting for inspiration. It was the middle of the day and the pub was only half full. There were a couple of other people sitting at tables, reading newspapers or chatting to each other in hushed tones. There were also a few lone drinkers sitting at the bar. One of them caught Fitz's eye. He was younger than the other punters. Mid to late twenties, perhaps. He had dark blond hair with a short wave at the front, pale skin and beautiful azure blue eyes. He had a friendly face, but at the same time there was something rough about him. Fitz couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. He was definitely working class. There was no doubt about that. It wasn't just his clothes which betrayed his class - the absence of a neck tie, the old dusty jacket with the frayed elbows, the trouser legs which were just a little too short - he could tell by the man's face that he was working class. What is it about his face, Fitz wondered. He seemed to be of Irish or Scottish heritage. Was it the Celtic gene perhaps, which betrayed his lowliness? Fitz suddenly frowned with disgust at his own thoughts. Eugenics! Why was he suddenly contemplating eugenics? He turned his gaze back to his notebook and fidgeted with his pencil for a while, but something about that young man made him raise his head and look at him again. Suddenly the young man looked back. Fitz became embarrassed and quickly lowered his head. When he looked up again a few seconds later, the young man was still staring at him. He winked and smiled, which made Fitz blush and return to his notebook without reciprocating the greeting. He resumed fidgeting with his pencil and tried desperately not to look up again, when suddenly the young man appeared at his table with a pint of ale in his hand.

  "Roy Parker," the man said, holding out his hand.

  Fitz was taken aback and shook the man's hand reluctantly without speaking.

  "So, what's it about then?" the man asked.

  Fitz looked confused.

  The man pointed at the notebook. "Writing a book, are you?"

  "Oh. Yes, well I'm trying to."

  "What's it about?"

  "I haven't decided yet."

  "You should write an adventure story. About the war."

  "Uh... no, I'd rather stay away from writing about the war."

  "What's your name?"

  "Fritz," he said, then frowned and cursed himself inwardly. "I mea
n Fitz! Fitz! My name is Fitzgerald. Fitz for short."

  I've been watching you," the man said suddenly.

  Fitz was taken aback. "Watching me?"

  "You've been coming here every day this week, with that notebook in your hands. And you ain't written a single word yet. Seems to me you don't know what to write."

  "Oh, well that's because I still haven't decided what genre to opt for."

  "Well, why don't you write about me," the man said, pulling up a chair and joining Fitz at the table.

  "About you?"

  "I saved the lives of two Jewish girls during the war."

  "Did you?"

  "Agnes Braitman and her maid. I helped them escape from Germany on a fishing boat."

  Fitz suddenly realized what was happening. The man had spotted him in the pub with a notepad and pencil and concluded that he was a writer. When people know you're a writer, they all want you to write their life story. Fitz was not interested in this distraction, no matter how good-looking the man was.

  "I see," he said. "Well, I'm not really interested in writing about the war, as I said, so..." He turned back towards his notebook in the hope that the man would get the hint and go away.

  "I wanted to do my bit, see?" the man continued, undeterred. "As they wouldn't have me in the army, so I stole a fishing boat and sailed all the way to Berlin."

  Fitz rolled his eyes. Stolen fishing boat, indeed! "Berlin isn't by the sea," he said.

  "I picked them up and smuggled them into England," the man continued, ignoring the retort. "Do you want to know why I wasn't conscripted?"

  "Not really." Fitz was still looking at his notepad, hoping to dissuade the man from continuing with his story.

  "The recruiting sergeant major was scared of me."

  "Was he?"

  "Because he was a pansy."

  Fitz suddenly became self-conscious. How he detested the word 'pansy'.

  "We were all standing in line, stark naked, waiting to be weighed and measured. The recruiting sergeant major was having a field day eyeing up the naked recruits and patting them on their bare arses when they climbed onto the scales. But I wasn't having any of that. I wouldn't let no pansy grab my arse. So when it was my turn to get on the scales I just walked up to the sergeant, stark naked, and grabbed him in the crotch. Like this."

  Suddenly the man thrust his hand under the table and grabbed Fitz by the crotch.

  "What are you doing?" Fitz asked, shocked, looking around him in near panic to see whether any of the other customers had witnessed this.

  The man moved his head closer to Fitz's and started speaking in a low voice. "I didn't hurt him," he said. "I just held him. Like this. And I warned him not to try any funny stuff. And I could feel him swell. I could feel with my hand that he was getting aroused."

  The man was still holding Fitz by the crotch. Fitz was still looking around him in panic and trying to prize the man's hand away.

  "The sergeant major's face had gone all red," the man continued, "and sweat beads started appearing on his forehead. The other recruits were looking at us and laughing. I held him like that for a full minute. Not hurting him, but making him feel uneasy. Then I let him go."

  He finally let go of Fitz. Fitz cleared his throat and started readjusting his trousers. He had gone bright red.

  The man watched Fitz look away awkwardly and smiled. "That's why I was rejected, see?" he said. "Because the sergeant major was scared of me. Because there's nothing more unsettling than being scared and aroused at the same time. Don't you think?"

  "Do you always grab strange men like that?" Fitz asked angrily as he took a sip of his ale.

  "I didn't hurt you, did I? I just wanted to demonstrate how I held the sergeant major. I have a great story to tell."

  "Have you indeed?"

  The man grabbed the pencil from Fitz's hand and slid the notebook towards him. "Let me give you my address," he said. "In case you change your mind."

  "I won't change my mind!" Fitz said, still angry.

  "Don't be so stubborn. You ain't got anything else to write, have you? And I ain't asking you to do it for nothing. I'll pay you for it. 'Ere." The man grabbed some bank notes from his trouser pocket and stuck them in Fitz's shirt pocket.

  "What's this?" Fitz asked, confused.

  "An advance. That's what they call it, don't they? I'm paying you an advance."

  "I don't want this." Fitz took the bank notes out of his shirt pocket and attempted to give them back, but the man refused to take them.

  "I'll leave you now," the man said, getting up from the chair. "I don't want to distract you from your work," he added mockingly. He walked over to the hat stand and grabbed his hat and coat. "Why don't you sleep on it a little," he called as he put on his coat. "If you continue to be uninspired, just pop by my address. And if you don't want to take me up on my offer, pop by anyway and return my money." He put on his hat, winked at Fitz and exited the pub, leaving Fitz alone at the table, staring confusedly at the money in his hands and the man's address on the notebook.

  Meanwhile, unbeknown to either Fitz or Roy, another rough and unshaven-looking man, sitting at a table in the corner and wearing a red, knitted scarf, had been following their conversation with great interest.