Ben

by Cody Young

  “Maybe you were. I forgot to ask him that question when I phoned him up in Edinburgh.”

  “You phoned Dr Barrymore about me?”

  “Yes. Before I asked you out.”

  “Why. Did you need to ask his permission or something?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not the one being ridiculous. You are! What did the old Scottish fart say, anyway?”

  “He said he liked your spirit.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment. “Did he?”

  “Yes. And I said, so do I.” He came towards her and tried to touch her arm. “Give it up to me, Layla, then I’ll know it’s true.”

  She shook her head. “Not like this. I want it to be you, Ben. But not when you’re… You promised me it wouldn’t be like this.”

  He blundered towards her, grabbed her and ripped her top. It shocked him as much as it shocked her. She slapped him, hard and he swore at her. Then she ran away into the bedroom, crying. She grabbed some of her things and tossed them into an old sports bag of his that she’d seen in the back of his wardrobe.

  While she was doing that, he went and got the phone and rang his father. He was shouting into the phone as she went past. She looked stonily at him. Huh! They have their first major row and the only thing he wants to do is phone his parents? Her respect for him plummeted like a suicidal man off a building.

  She ran out of the flat and into the street.

  Ben ranted his pain into the phone. “She’s gone! She’s gone now, Dad. You’ve destroyed it, and you’ve destroyed me.”

  Morrie was agitated and apologetic. “I’ve written you a letter, Benjy. I swear to you it’s on my desk. Almost as soon as you left, I regretted it. Everything I said about Layla. And when I told Sylvia what I’d done she said no wonder you walked straight out of the door. If Layla’s your girl, she’s your girl. It’s not her fault what her people do. She was born into it, but she could leave it behind. Go after her. Talk her round and tell her I’m a suspicious old fool. Beg her forgiveness. On your knees if you have to. And while you’re there beg her for my sake too.”

  Ben grabbed his car keys and went to find her.

  He was halfway down the stairs in the apartment building when he realized he couldn’t go out in the street in his boxer shorts. He had to waste valuable time running back into the flat and dragging a pair of trousers over the shorts, keys jingling in his hand. He grabbed a sweatshirt and hauled it on as he went. Then he ran out into the cold December night to find his car.

  He drove out into the main road looking for her. It was a good thing the roads were deserted because he drove erratically, up and over the edge of the kerb, out into the middle over the centre line, and then back into his lane again, weaving his way along the road until he found her. She was walking along the pavement, heading for the station. She saw him and darted across the grass and under the trees. So he pulled on the handbrake and got out of the car. He chased her across the grass until he caught up with her, pulled her round to face him.

  “My father says he begs for your forgiveness.”

  “It’s not him I'm angry with."

  “No, I know,” Ben said, struggling to stay focused, though the cold night air was helping. It was so cold he could see his breath as he spoke to her. And she, no doubt, could smell the whisky on it. “I’m sorry – and I know I’ve let you down. Look – Layla – I want you to know that it wouldn’t change a damn thing – if you're not a virgin. For goodness sake, I’m not. Why should you be? I just couldn’t bear thinking that you might have lied to me that’s all. But even if you lied about it – I’d know it was because of those men. I’d understand. I’d know that you had to do it, if they told you to…”

  She pushed him away. “I never lied to you.”

  “Then I feel really bad about the whole thing.”

  “Good.”

  “You have every right to be angry with me. But don’t leave me over stupid things I said when I was drunk. Please. Give me a second chance.”

  “I’ve already given you a second chance, remember?”

  “Well, give me a third, then.”

  “I still have to leave you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you couldn’t do it. You couldn't go without a drink for a month. And that means you're hooked.”

  “Please – Layla. I can do it. I just have to start again tomorrow. It was too hard doing it all at once. No cigarettes, no drinks and no sex. You asked a lot of me – don’t you think?”

  She had asked a lot of him. And he had given her so much.

  “You’re as bad as they all are at the Rookeries you know. You’re no different.”

  “I am very different.”

  “You’re not. You ask any one of them - the addicts at the Rookeries - and they’ll tell you they’re giving up, they're cutting down, they're coming off it, and they really mean it - and they'll do it this time, starting tomorrow…But they can’t, you see. Coz once it’s got them – crack and all its ugly little friends – they can’t do without it. They try, for a few hours, a few days. And then they give up and go to their dealer. Because for them – just getting through the day without it is like going through open heart surgery with no anaesthetic.”

  He was silent. He did feel like that sometimes.

  “So… I'm leaving. We’ve given it a go, and now I think I should go home to Bethnal, to my own set of problems.”

  “I can’t lose you,” he said, and caught hold of her arm as if to prevent her running from him again. “At least come home and wait until morning. We could talk about it when my head doesn't hurt so much.”

  “No wonder all your girlfriends left you.”

  “What?” he said, reeling slightly.

  “Catherine – and all the others.”

  “Christ, Layla. What others? There haven’t been that many.”

  “Enough.”

  He was thinking – slowly. “Who told you about Catherine?”

  “A set of salt and pepper grinders. They had a note stuck on the side.”

  “Oh. That. Yeah.” He looked at the grass and for a moment she wondered if he was going to be sick.

  “I bet Catherine didn't like the drinking, either. How many times did she ask you to stop?”

  “She never said anything about it. I don’t think she even noticed. She was always too busy with her career.”

  “Was she a doctor, like you?”

  “Yes. She was planning to specialize. Genetics. She wanted to be a research scientist.”

  Genetics. Hell, why did he have to tell her that?

  “So, she was the right sort of person for you.”

  “No. I don’t think she was.” He was losing patience. “Our families wanted us to be together. It would have been a disaster.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It looked like a match. On paper, it was perfect.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I don’t want to live my life on paper, do I?” he said – in a voice resonating with frustration. “The end was disturbingly amicable. She packed her stuff. She went.”

  She looked away.

  “Layla, Layla. I want to feel it. I need it to be real, you know? That kind of feeling you get when the other person is part of you. When you need the other person so much that it hurts. When you love them so much that the other person holds your soul, and you can see the future in their eyes, and you don’t even care if it’s going to be good or bad as long as you’re with that one person. Always. And you don’t give a damn about anyone else.”

  Well. It was quite a declaration. But Layla stared at the grass and said, “Oh.”

  “Don’t you want that? Don't you want that with me?”

  She could lie to him and say no. Insist that she wanted to go to the station. But he was offering her one hell of a ride. And who wants to be on the circle line to Bethnal Green on a cold December night when they could have what he had to give her?

  “Ye
s, I do.”

  “Then kiss me. Come home with me. I’ll throw away the salt and pepper grinder if you like…”

  He made an attempt to press his lips against hers, but she turned her head. She didn't want to kiss someone who tasted of whisky and French cigarettes.

  "About Catherine. Did you run after her, just like tonight?”

  “No. Fuck Catherine.”

  When he said that, Layla kind of crumpled. Leaned forward like someone had punched her in the stomach, and he thought she was going to cry.

  “I think that’s the trouble," she said. "I can’t bear the thought of you fucking Catherine.”

  He almost laughed. “That’s because you’re jealous, you silly thing. Angel, Layla. Come home and I’ll fuck you.”

  “No!” She almost tried to pull away from him and run again. “No way.”

  But he held her. “Sorry – I shouldn’t have said it like that. But honestly Layla, if this is a night for confessions and facing up to the truth then there’s another thing we should talk about, isn’t there?”

  “What?” she said, feeling a sudden panic.

  “That you’re scared. Scared out of your mind about having sex with me or any other person.”

  “I’m not… I’ll be alright…”

  “You will be alright, Layla. Of course you will. Look – I don’t blame you. The yoke they wanted to put on you – the life they wanted you to lead. No wonder you don’t want it. No wonder you hate the idea.”

  “But… Ben… I do want it…”

  “Admit it. You’re terrified. Last night in bed with me – you were terrified.”

  There was a catch in her breath and he’d struck a nerve. “Oh, God, Ben…”

  He hesitated. Maybe he’d pushed her too far. “I’m sorry…”

  “No, you’re right, I suppose. I’ve spent a long, long time making sure nobody got to me, you know?”

  “And then you met me?”

  She nodded.

  “And even though I’m a fucked up idiot who smokes and drinks and drives you crazy, you thought about having sex with me?”

  She nodded. “But I needed time. And then you paid twenty thousand pounds for me. How could I refuse you?”

  “It’s your right, your body, your choice. If you want to wait, I’ll wait. I told you to forget about the money.”

  She had to wipe away a tear now. “It was too much. I feel so guilty.”

  “So do I. My father gave me the money. I didn’t tell him why I needed it. But he knew. This weekend, while we were there, he told me he knew what I bought with it.”

  “Oh, no, Ben. How will I ever face him again? And your mother - does she know?”

  And he paused, thinking about this, and then he broke into a huge smile. “You’re coming down for Christmas then? Or Hanukkah – it’s sooner.”

  And seconds after that she let him kiss her on the cheek. And his lips brushed close to her ear and he said the words, finally, that he’d never said out loud. “I love you.”

  They drew apart and she just looked at him. Guilt, love, humiliation. It was all there in her big grey eyes. She shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, and said, “It's bloody cold out here.”

  “Is that code for ‘take me home, Ben?’”

  She nodded and they walked towards the car.

  She asked him for the car keys. He looked for them – patted his pockets. He couldn’t find them. “Did I give them to you?”

  “No. But you should. You’re too drunk to drive.”

  “I’m not. I’m just a bit… forgetful…” He kept searching his pockets for the keys.

  She walked towards the car and opened the door. She leaned in and found the keys. Then she turned back to him and waved them at him. “You’re drunk.”

  “Maybe a little bit.”

  “And I’m scared,” she admitted.

  “We can sign up with the therapists in the morning,” he said.

  “Give me the keys,” she said. “I’m driving.”

  “No,” he said and lurched past her and sat down in the driver’s seat. She stood there looking at him, trying to decide what to do. She shook her head. “If you want me to come home with you Ben, you have to cooperate.”

  So he agreed to let her drive. He got out and went round to the passenger side. Got in and tried to fasten his seatbelt. Three attempts and it was in.

  She was nervous starting the unfamiliar car. But it was surprisingly easy to drive. Smooth and responsive – a joy to take along the almost empty London street. She only made one mistake, and that was because the streets were so empty. She changed lanes without looking.

  A horn blared behind them, and Layla gasped. Ben had to pull the wheel down hard to keep them from hitting the car - a four wheel drive that she hadn’t seen. It worked, but it sent them veering into the middle of the road. Another resounding blare on the horn. The driver behind them was very angry that she’d swerved right in front of him. Layla, panicking now because of the near miss, put her foot on the accelerator. Hoping to leave her mistakes behind.

  Then another sound. The familiar chirrup of a police car, lurking in a side road. It pulled away from the kerb, sped up and joined the fray.

  “Oh, no,” Layla murmured. “What do I do?”

  “Pull over,” said Ben.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Pull over,” Ben insisted. “We don’t have a choice.”

  They sat in the car feeling stupid. The policeman leaned in at the window and asked Layla if she’d been drinking.

  Ben leaned across, “No. I was drinking. Not her. That’s why she was driving.”

  The policeman made her do a test anyway. She had to talk into a little device that measured alcohol on her breath. The cop seemed surprised when nothing showed up. “Still need to see your licence, love.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have it. Sorry. I’m not from round here, I left it at my flat in Bethnal.”

  Which was a lie. There was nothing left in the flat in Bethnal.

  “Bethnal Green?” said the policeman.

  Ben scowled. “Is there any other kind of Bethnal in London? Bethnal Blue, perhaps. Or Bethnal Black? She doesn’t live there anymore, anyway. She lives with me. Two streets from here.”

  Bad move. The cop looked at Layla, who was gripping the steering wheel as if she was still driving – staring straight ahead like she was concentrating hard. “How old are you, love?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And what are you doing with him?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Is he?”

  She nodded. And Ben gave her a tipsy but grateful smile.

  “And you’re driving him home because he’s had too many?”

  She nodded.

  “Kind-hearted of you,” said the cop, taking a rather cynical tone. “And stupid. Because you don’t have a licence, do you?”

  “No. Not yet.” She bit her lip.

  And Ben felt bad because he knew she’d been looking forward to passing her test. He sighed. “Look. Please. It was entirely my fault. I’d be driving if she hadn’t offered.”

  “And you’d be losing your licence, sir, I can assure you.”

  Yes, he would, and all three of them knew it. The fumes from Ben’s breath were a total giveaway. Layla looked at him now, and he looked down, unable to meet her gaze. She’d saved him. At the expense of her own reputation.

  “Can you get out of the vehicle, please?” said the policeman.

  Ben sighed again and released the door catch. “This is ridiculous.” But he got out, and Layla did the same.

  “Lock it up,” said the policeman. “You won’t be needing it tonight.”

  “I can’t leave it here,” said Ben. “It’s a clearway from seven a.m.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come and get it at six-forty-five, then, won’t you?” said the cop, unsympathetically. “Or get someone else to come and get it for you. Someone with a valid licence. Someone who hasn’t drun
k their body weight in whisky and coke.”

  Ben felt a surge of irritation, mainly because he didn’t want to face the truth. “Alright. You win, officer. We’ll leave the car.”

  The officer sniffed. “Good decision. By the way, your flies are undone.”

  Ben sighed, and did them up. On the first attempt. The cold air was working.

  Layla locked the car, and the policeman took the keys. Then he looked at her and seemed to feel a sense of pity. “Leave the car and walk home,” he told her. “Take him with you if you want to. Though I’m not sure why you would, coz he seems like a tosser to me.”

  She was confused. She looked up at the cop and said, “Am I still in trouble?”

  “Go home. I didn’t see you.” He gave her back the keys. “Don’t you get back in that car though. Or I’ll come after you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured – she looked so grateful to get a second chance. She pocketed the keys. Then she went and took Ben’s hand – like a rush of generous loyalty had swept over her because someone had been kind to her. “Come on. We can ask Mrs Watts from next door to come and help us get the car. She’s always up early.”

  They walked home through the leafy streets, holding hands, saying almost nothing. The conversation with the cop seemed to have a sobering effect on both of them. He couldn’t gauge what she was feeling, exactly, but she held his hand and that was all that mattered.

  When they got back inside the flat he sat down heavily on the couch and put his head in his hands, while she did what she always did. She tidied away the empties. The glasses, the whisky bottle, the crumpled cigarette packets. She picked them all up and threw them away. Then she came back with a bottle of something that was supposed to smell like wild orchids and sprayed the glass surface where the evidence of his crimes had been.

  And he looked up, suddenly, and said. “I have to give up the booze as well as the cigarettes, don’t I?”

  She nodded. “If you can, Ben. If you can.”

  Cheating

  The next night was different. Layla got ready for bed as usual – wearing one of his shirts, like she always did. She brushed her teeth and put scented moisturiser on her face. When she came back to the bedroom, he was sitting on the bed, waiting for her. He glanced up with that hungry-like-a-wolf look on his face. She looked through to the lounge and saw that he hadn’t even bothered putting his pillow and single duvet out on the couch tonight.