Indelible Acts

by A. L. Kennedy

  “Sssh.”

  And then nothing more. Howie stumbled back, slipped into a queasy turn, suddenly and coldly freed. Salter was already reaching for the door and leaving and not speaking and not making an effort to signal, to communicate in even the smallest sense: no turn of the head, no self-consciousness in the shoulders, no especial grace or tenderness in the curl and turn of his hand; no goodbye, no clue.

  Howie still cradled himself, now facing the doorway and knowing a thick lift of want was taking his weight from his fingers. He was yowling with solidity, pressing his thought up and forward into one or two beads of clarified despair. Before lack and embarrassment and, almost undoubtedly, fear slammed at him and started to wither his hopes.

  If I’d done something back.

  To either side, reflections snagged his attention with mirrored angles on a man who blinked, who had bewildered hair, who was shrivelling, retreating in his hand and licking his lips and licking his lips.

  If I’d done something back.

  The interview room was silent and probably calmer although he was in no state to tell. He noticed, as he walked in, what must be a line of piss, staining a stripe across his shoe.

  “Is there anything?” His voice sounded no different, his clothing was not in disarray, but how long had he been away for? Anxiety crept across his palms. “Was I … ? I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

  Two pairs of identically grey-blue eyes blinked at him neutrally. The mother shook her head.

  “Well, there were no … messages. So. Since you’ve had a while to think. Are there any other points you’d like to make?” He tried to meet the daughter’s eyes and didn’t manage. Really, he should get behind the desk and hide his shoe. But he’d have to show them out soon—better stay where he was. Once the leather dried it would be fine, most likely. “Questions? No? Good.”

  He tried an unwieldy smile and allowed his arms to initiate vaguely ushering movements. Mother and daughter took his hint rather more keenly than was complimentary. Anxious to leave the room. Anxious to leave him. Not surprising, really—he must look remarkably like a man whose hands were now slithering with confusion, whose shirt was sopped and plastered between his arms and the shoulders of his jacket, and down against the small of his back, and who wanted to fuck, just to fuck, just to fuck.

  No, to come. No, to fuck—the one you can’t do on your own.

  “Take care, then. Both. And I’ll call tomorrow. Would tomorrow be good? We have the new number. You’ll be …” He didn’t have to offer them affection, they didn’t want affection, they wanted appropriately professional behaviour and sound advice. But if they didn’t go now he would scream. Then he would run and beat his head through the window and scream very much louder for a long time. “Bye, then. Bye.”

  Howie turned from them in the corridor and began the walk to his office, stupidly afraid of what it might hold. Afraid, to be more precise, of finding his office utterly undisturbed: without a note, a change of his usual good order, somebody in there and waiting for him.

  The girl and her mother—should have called them a cab. It’ll still be sleeting. You should have thought. You should have taken care.

  Almost at his office door, he caught again the feel of a brush at his cheek and recalled that Salter didn’t always shave quite thoroughly. There would often be those few hairs overhung by the broadest part of lower lip. The effect was not untidy but it drew the eye.

  You’ll have to go out yourself soon, get home for the evening. A cab might be the best idea, this weather. No need to decide now, though. It could pass, these things sometimes do.

  His office was just as he’d left it, not touched.

  I almost wore a pullover, this morning. I wish I had. It would have been soft for him. It would have kept his smell. Jesus.

  He could have been joking. He must have been joking. Except I know he was serious.

  I hate my room, it is too small for me—too small, even for me.

  I don’t look gay. I don’t act gay. I don’t ever say that I am gay.

  There are gay people with the firm, people who are openly orientated in that direction. Barnaby is gay and, I think, Curtis. They are not mocked or humiliated, they are only themselves and accepted and relatively efficient—no more or less appreciated than any of the rest of us. I could be gay here in safety, like them, I do know that. I don’t hate the idea, the actions, the thought. Being gay as a concept, that’s probably something I love. I do, very probably, love that I am gay. I only hate me.

  But Salter, I was sure he wasn’t, hadn’t—I thought he had another type of life. I thought I remembered hearing—something I now can’t recall. I don’t listen enough. Keep oneself to oneself, then there’s no need to lie, confess, confide, that stuff people do when they don’t mind finding, being found out. I don’t want to be out.

  I didn’t want to be out. I didn’t want to be found. I didn’t want to find no one was looking.

  I should not, do not, should not wish to find out about Salter. I do not wish to be told this is impossible.

  But this couldn’t be more impossible than it is now.

  And this couldn’t be more wonderful. Really.

  At the far end of the building, a Hoover muttered and worried to life. Howie should go. All he’d done since he left Mrs. Simpson was fumble blankly through his files and almost trash a phone call. He’d pleaded flu to excuse himself and then settled back to staring at his hands. His fingers were tapered, not stumpy, which he seemed to remember was a sign of sensitivity.

  Ha, ha, ha, ha.

  He should get his coat. There was no point waiting.

  He really should go home.

  Where it was just exactly warm and light enough and he’d done the paper and paintwork himself so each room was absolutely the way he wanted and ideal for being comfortable in when alone. Alone being the standard state: what the firm’s computers would recognise as his default.

  Bath. Relax. And then the good dressing gown, the long one and no slippers because they were a sign of decay and shuffling and the wholly pathetic type of domesticity.

  Howie came to rest in his living room, hot and washed, but still coated with recollections that watched and pried. His movements were hobbled and muffled with self-consciousness, as if the attention his mind was giving another body was being consistently equalled by that other body’s mind, as if his substance was being pondered, fingered, in thoughts beyond his reach. He found himself folding his arms, shifting, shielding his face from the glare of nothing and no one.

  When he went to bed early, it was only for some kind of privacy, only for that.

  What does he mean?

  Howie’s ankles had started to tingle.

  From a look—you can’t tell from a look. But a look like that, it couldn’t be an accident.

  His whole feet were hot now, wet, even the soles, which was ludicrous—as if he’d stepped into a basin when all he’d done was answer a smile with a smile. A pleasant insanity was flaring and hopping up from rib to rib, lifting him, lifting him entire.

  Dear God. I’ll touch him. How can I not.

  They were tucked in together in the tea room, slipping and straining to dodge the hot metal of the urn, the unstable clutter in the sink, the thrum of space closing and yawning between unavoidable, small contacts. Salter had good hands, no one could deny it: those tapering fingers allegedly so indicative of a sensitive man, the beginnings of dark hair turning close round the curve of the wrist, nipping in under the shirt cuff.

  A man’s hands. The things to hold, the size to hold, to move under. These hands, like my hands, like part of a better me.

  “Not much room in here, eh, Howie?”

  Cheeky smile, naughty smile, bad, bad, bad boy’s smile. God, let me not be imagining this.

  “No. No, it’s …” Facing each other and overly near. Howie thought they were overly near. “I suppose it’s …” Although, of course, not near enough. The need to reach forward was slapping an
d twisting in Howie like a flag. “Difficult.”

  “Mm. Difficult.”

  Salter lifted his mug and drank, slowly, perhaps tenderly, perhaps only being cautious of the heat. He swallowed and a liquid motion eased down the length of his throat. The thumb of his free hand rose to dab at his lips, to press, to pause.

  Please.

  Howie began to understand the turning of the world, the slewing of continents and oceans, the problem of ever, at any time, keeping one’s feet.

  Please.

  Then he let himself have his way and pushed his hand out through the thick, unpredictable air until he could reach the side of Salter’s face. Leaning forward, he tried to hold steady against the broad mayhem of information roaring in from that one moving touch: the warm of flesh, above and below the shaving line: the upward twitch of a blink: a small resistance of bristle and then an ear’s gape, its soft lobe and cool rim: the fabulous close nap of his hair set trim at the start of his skull and the final, searing, glorious skin, whole and smooth and taut on Salter’s neck.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Salter shut his eyes, rocked his head back and to the side, pressed Howie’s palm.

  He’ll stop me. He’ll move away. He’ll stop me. I won’t. He will.

  “Stop.” Salter’s voice was low in his throat, gentle and, somehow, amused. “Oh, do stop.” An approving murmur, while Salter slipped a glance over Howie, something about it suggestive of ownership. The overhead strip light glared down between them, showed the bright grains of steam leaping up from their mugs, swirling like flame. “But I mean it now. Please. Stop.”

  Howie brought his hand away. Hope bobbed absurdly in his throat when Salter stepped nearer, then picked up the milk. “Need a little drop more of this stuff, I think. You?”

  “Mm?” Common sense dodging round his kidneys, out of sight, out of mind “I?”

  “Do you need any more?” And a kiss so fast and light against Howie’s cheek that it might not have happened, but it did, it indisputably did. Salter gave him the milk and walked away.

  Howie blundered back to his office, slopping his mug and smiling—he hoped—in only a minor way.

  I’m too hard. I can’t be like this and not do something about it. If I sit, if I sit down and look out of the window and think of work, it’ll maybe go.

  Like fuck.

  I HAVE AN ERECTION I DIDN’T MAKE. I am not responsible. This belongs to Brian Salter. I want to give this to Brian Salter. I want him to have this. Me.

  One of the secretaries passed him with a nod, looking studiously overworked.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Carstairs, blessings upon both you and the State Mental Hospital bearing your name. I have, in case you wondered, a massive fucking hard-on, caused by my immediate superior, dark horse and senior partner of this parish, Mr. Brian Salter. YES.”

  Howie became a collector. In a handful of attentive days he snatched up nods in the hallway, a hand brushed in the midst of other company while the morning shrugged under him, dizzy. He also kept an inventory of pauses where explanations might have been shown, or even one more kiss, perhaps a little longer, fuller, more likely to offer a taste. It took very little to dash him, but he couldn’t complain—it took so very, very little to make him shine.

  Christmas bore down on the city and even on the firm, which allowed its interview rooms and its offices and the secretaries’ open-plan pen to sport a familiar ration of weary foil and tinsel. No mistletoe.

  By half past four the city sky would smudge out to a coffee-coloured blank and the knowledge of night closing round them all would fill Howie up with risky possibilities. He’d taken to working late, even after the cleaners had gone, busying himself in his office, alone, available, ulterior motivation quietly harrying. Everyone knew he was here, that this was now his habit. He made sure that everyone knew.

  And each evening, he would sit with his door a quarter-inch ajar and listen to the building as it came to rest. The silence never broke, although his heart would jolt in him, now and then, at some distant disturbance. He would beat missives towards conclusion and tease couples’ lives apart, then make himself a fresh coffee, drink it as his mind lowered into heat.

  I know how to do it. I never have, but I’ve heard the talk. In the cubicle, it would be easy, I’m sure. A bit of conversation, then we’d walk past the stalls and lock ourselves in together. Hope no one else turns up outside. But if they do, we wait until they’ve gone. It’s not a problem, that’s the whole point about doing it this way. We would be safe—effectively safe—at any time. I’ll have to get a bag.

  The bag is important. I need a good one, the type they put nice clothes in, one of the kind made of something like almost thin card, instead of plastic. Paper would be no good. We’d need something rigid. Definitely. Stiff.

  We close the door and I fold out the bag and step in it. No. I’d be taking him, so that wouldn’t work. I ask him to step in the bag and then I put the lid down on the bog and sit. Sit in front of him, head at the height of his waist. Anyone looks there’s one pair of feet where they should be, a little spot of shopping in evidence and the right number of feet. But I’m inside, feet either side of the bag and lifting my eyes to his face and he wouldn’t have to do anything, not if he didn’t want to, I’d do it all. Take down his fly. Calm, definite moves—too light is annoying and too rough is too rough. As if it was me. Touch him as if he was me, strip down to the final layer and lift him out, probably let him out, really, the pressure of blood already there and doing its bit to make him spring. To watch him spring, just to watch him.

  But then I’d want his prick on my forehead, the silk roll of that, heavy and tight and a fat weight in it. Not for too long, though—kissing his balls, it would be while I did that, I’d press him and rest him so the tip of him touched my hair. Maybe more than the tip, I’m not receding. I’ve got more hair than when I was twenty. The same amount, anyway.

  He could stroke my hair. Put his hands down on my head. Move me. Steer me. If he wanted.

  I don’t know how he’d smell. A bit pissy maybe—cloth, or talc, or soap, or nothing but him, straining. Private skin and sweat—private and only for us.

  I do still remember that. Breathing round the rush of a prick, licking down everything it wants and rolling, nodding for it, bowing to it. I don’t see how a woman could do that. I don’t see they could know how.

  “And?”

  “Mrs.”

  Howie’s mind scrambled over itself to get off and away, stumbling, kicking over his clutter of hopes.

  “Mr. and Mrs.” Mrs. Carstairs repeated herself, frowning gently, as if he’d become inconveniently stupid. Which of course he had. Recently, he’d become more stupid than he could believe.

  He nodded and found it strangely hard to stop. “Mr. and Mrs. Salter. Fine. Any little Salters?”

  You don’t want that answer. You don’t want to know. Leave it, for fuck’s sake.

  “Any?”

  “You know. Family. What a thought, eh. With those genes …” he mugged badly, something cold and liquid rising in his skull. “Just a joke.”

  Ha, ha, ha, ha.

  “I can’t think why I’ve never sent out cards before. Then I would have known all this. I just don’t really … like Christmas.”

  “Well, I’m never sure if I do, I suppose. The idea’s always better than the reality, isn’t it.”

  “Always. Yes.”

  “Actually, I think he has a little boy—Mr. Salter.”

  Hold firm on her face, keep looking in her eyes, smile. This is not important, this is not any of your business. But you had to fucking ask, didn’t you? Fucker.

  “Oh? Nice.” Still smiling, get a grip. “And is that everyone?”

  “There’s the usual big card for the cleaners. Unless you want to do something for them yourself.”

  “No.”

  “Then, no, I didn’t think so.”

  “Don’t want to overdo it. You can have too much Christmas spirit.” Smile.


  “Yes.” She was giving him a kind look and he could only assume this was because he seemed such a sad, old bastard—all of a sudden wanting to join in, pass out office Christmas cards, have his share in the festivities.

  “Yeah. No need to overdo it. No indeed. Thanks for the help, Mrs. Carstairs.”

  “No trouble.”

  Which she said with a dab of affection that he couldn’t acknowledge, being already in motion and heading for the Gents. Guaranteed privacy.

  Ha, ha, ha, ha.

  Bolt the door and lose it. Sob. The effort vacuum-pumping at your own lungs—no noise happening, just a heaving rock—until the next stage bangs in, and your voice is back, ridiculous and tiny with pain. You want no one to come in and hear you, but you don’t want to be alone.

  Ha, ha, ha, ha.

  He tried to believe this would break from him and be over, get all the nonsense out of the way. There was the toilet roll to clean his face with when he’d stopped. It wouldn’t be so bad, only a necessary release.

  Except he didn’t stop. Howie yanked breath in between his teeth, wincing at the hiss, and cried and folded his arms around his head and cried and punched his fist against the door and cried. He sat on the toilet with the lid down, the way he would for Salter, if Salter had been there, and he cried.

  He might come in. Not now. In a bit. I’ll get myself back together. Then he might be there when I come out and I might not have to say anything, because things would be clear in my face. He could take me in his arms and I could take him in mine. Take him. What I need. Fuck.

  Shut the fuck up.

  The way no one’s ever done it.

  Shut the fuck up.

  A conference saved him, temporarily. He stood in for a lastminute drop-out, volunteered as he never had before, and let himself be cornered in a bland mediation centre for three puerile days.

  Once there, Howie was not a co-operative group member. He made no effort to share his experiences with his allocated partner, took no notes in the lectures, but dawdled his pen across the paper in an openly surly scrawl. In the breaks for meals or biscuits, he would keep to himself, appear to be reading: he no longer had an appetite. His sleep had left him, his attention span diminishing, the most mundane tasks defeated by bouts of excessive weariness. And there was nothing he could do to prevent this: his body’s outrage at himself, his foolishness. He could even—shamefully, softly—feel himself enjoy his weight loss, his merciful inability to think, the others’ attempts at concern when they thought he was ill. There was nothing wrong with him, of course: he was simply discovering things he could still do, the changes he did have the power to make, his signs of love.