‘Did you just spoil the ending?’ Francis whispered. ‘You little cunt.’
He drifted his nose across my cheek. I smiled at the memory of the machines I’d dreamed of after my heart stopped – who’d called me a little cunt too and who’d said that everything was a surface. I pulled on Francis’ arm until his body was over mine.
‘Spoilers are for disposable stories,’ I said. ‘If the ending only affects you once, then it’s a weak ending.’
‘Yeah?’ he said ‘I’ll tell you the end of your book – and then we’ll see if you’re still smiling.’
He kissed me and pressed his chest into mine. And with his arms around my neck, I thought of the necklace he’d given me a few days ago – the necklace that I’d thrown away. But this necklace here would last longer than that silver one with its tiny key – since this could be worn in a memory stronger than memory, stronger than flesh, long after he’d left and I was alone and wearing nothing.
‘Ok but – before then, can you do me one tiny favour?’ I asked, withdrawing slightly. ‘You know it’s my birthday today.’
‘Is that true?’ He bit on my lip to pull me back. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Yeah – childhood’s done. I’m a man now. And as my present – can you lie to the police?’
‘No.’
‘Ok but can you pervert the course of justice just a little bit?’
‘No.’
‘What about silence? You’re a model – come on, you’re a professional at having nothing to say. Can you just do silence, please?’
‘Yeah. I can do silence.’
‘No comment.’
‘No comment,’ he agreed.
‘No memories.’
‘Of what?’
I kissed him.
And, now reassured, my muscles lost their gravity. Lightened instead by dopamine, they craved only to be used.
My fingers across his back discovered a scar – and as I stroked it, I wondered how many hours ago he’d gained it, but didn’t ask. His fingers found a matching one along my spine – and these mutual wounds did not seem signs of our vulnerability, but rather of our imperviousness to danger – since here we still were, despite them. Perhaps they allowed us a greater tenderness, even, since they remembered an opposite more extreme.
‘You’re my man now,’ Francis said, folding himself into me. ‘And I know you’re here now, I can trust it. I want here to be your home. That’s love. And that’s what makes me so alright about everything, cos I’ve got you, you know what I mean? I know it sounds like… the words are dead cos they’ve been used too many times, but it’s only cos of you that I’m… that I’m alright. Do you know what I mean? I thought you was going to die.’
‘Not yet. I found a way out.’
‘What’s the way?’ he asked – and kissed me, knowing any answer belonged beyond words.
All sex and storytelling ends beyond words, of course – but finding happiness beyond those words felt like my most audacious act of deviance yet. And so we fucked – and I smiled inwardly, my mind defenceless at last before itself and before his. And we curled into each other, and came, and uncurled out in silent laughter – towards an unshared meaningless dream.
Acknowledgements
Fibromyalgia, Myalgic Encephalomyletis, Lyme Disease, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome – all are interchangeable names for the same hell – where I wrote this book. In doing so I hoped to make more visible an invisible epidemic. Despite the tens of millions of sufferers worldwide, there is no treatment or cure. Quack psychiatrists have done enough damage – we need real science to save us, otherwise hundreds of millions more will get sick.
Our healthcare systems need to realise that what they’re doing isn’t working for chronic disease.
I would like to say thank you to Zoe Ross for her supportive ear, Clio Cornish for her perceptive eye, Lisa Milton for her guiding hand, and Charlie Redmayne for his first bite. And to J most of all – for still listening – and maybe yeah I even still love you.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017
Copyright © Jonathan Lyon 2017
Jonathan Lyon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
EBook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008232597
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