by Sarah Bourne
When Jeff had been diagnosed, Ray had stepped in to help. He made dinners, bought wine, walked the dogs. He needn’t have done any of it, they were wealthy and had a housekeeper for that sort of thing but he wanted to be useful, wanted to show his gratitude for their hospitality, for having him there for Christmases when he didn’t want to see his own relatives. Jeff’s whole family seemed to take a deep breath in when they heard the diagnosis and didn’t let it out again until he was dead six months later. They even moved differently, like they were gliding about underwater, and they avoided being in a room together, as if they wanted to give each other more space. God forbid they might actually touch and provide physical solace. And in those six months they were so polite to each other, as if saying anything more than ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘would you’ and ‘could I’ might open the floodgates to a torrent of feelings that hadn’t just been buried for years, but embalmed and set in concrete. Ray had never realised such a repressed group of people existed outside his own family. But when Jeff had died, Russell had let out a long-held breath and relaxed, talked to Ray about his fears. They weren’t yet lovers although Lucy had disappeared during Jeff’s illness. Ray was the shoulder waiting to be cried on, the supportive friend.
Ray let his head rest against the back of the seat and felt his lips lift into a smile as he remembered the moment when their relationship moved from friends to something more. The way Russell looked at him as if really seeing him for the first time. It was such a cliché, but exactly described how it had felt – that he, Ray – was suddenly being seen. And not just seen. Appreciated.
And not long after, That Night. Russell had looked at him over the table, the muscles at the corners of his eyes tightening slightly. Ray held his breath, felt the heat rise in his chest and hoped he wasn’t blushing like a thirteen-year-old virgin. He’d swallowed and forced himself to return Russell’s gaze. Thank God they were having dinner at Ray’s flat because suddenly Russell almost flew across the table and grabbed him, finding his mouth and kissing him deeply. Ray smiled at Russell’s hardness and his own and felt, for a moment, a profound gratitude. Then he was taken over by pure lust.
He opened his eyes, looked around guiltily and placed his newspaper over his lap to hide the bulge in his trousers, hoping no gasps of pleasure had escaped his lips as he remembered undressing Russell and seeing his beautiful body for the first time. And the sex that came after. Oh, the sex.
He was relieved to observe that everyone was behaving as usual – reading papers, checking phones, dozing, heads back, mouths open. He dabbed his forehead again and looked out the window.
If they didn’t get going soon he’d definitely be late for his appointment with the urologist. And after that he had to see his accountant. Barry had been doing his tax forever, since way before he’d moved out of London but Ray hadn’t seen him for quite a time and was rather behind in his accounts. He sighed and wished he’d kept his eyes shut and allowed himself to drift around in his memories longer, but now they were gone and he was once again taken over by anxiety, a sense of doom and dread.
He needed to move. He’d love to get off the train and walk through the dew-soaked grass, smell the sweet cow dung and feel the weak sun on his skin. Instead, he rose and stretched his arms over his head, tucked his shirt in again and started down the train, careful not to knock into the various arms, legs and bags spilling into the aisle.
A couple of seats along a hand touched his sleeve as he walked past. ‘Excuse me – are you going to find out when we might get going?’
Ray spun round to see who had spoken. A Chinese woman was looking at him.
‘Er, I hadn’t thought about it. Just stretching my legs.’ He looked at his watch. They’d been there for over forty-five minutes. Surely it couldn’t be much longer. Not that he really knew; he’d never been in this situation before. Once, when he was still living in London, he’d been waiting for a train at the Tube and there’d been an accident at the next station. He remembered the platform getting more and more crowded and wondering why the staff didn’t stop people coming down the escalator – he was worried people would be pushed onto the tracks. He’d shuffled and pushed his way to the back of the platform and stood there, overheating in his winter coat until eventually a train came, and another and another. He’d finally managed to squeeze onto the fourth train only to feel so claustrophobic he had to get out at the next stop and take a bus the rest of the way to work.
‘I don’t suppose there’s a buffet car on this train, is there?’ asked the old lady next to the Chinese woman. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
Ray nodded towards the front of the train. ‘Yes, I think there is – a food shop they call it these days.’
‘I expect you’re right. They don’t call things the same as they used to, do they?’
‘Do you want me to get you a tea, Iris?’ asked the Chinese woman.
‘Would you mind, Mei-Ling? Only I’m a bit shaky on my legs.’
Mei-Ling smiled. ‘Of course. And I’d love a British Rail pork pie right about now! I bet they don’t make them anymore. Heart attack in every bite!’
Ray laughed. ‘Surely you’re joking. Those things could have been used as cannonballs in the Napoleonic Wars. In fact, they probably were.’
The ladies laughed. Ray excused himself and moved on. He wasn’t a regular commuter these days but he was struck by the fact that people were talking to each other. It wasn’t the norm. In his experience people were very good at maintaining their privacy in the tightest of crowds. They were champions at looking past the shoulder of the person they were crammed against, or of sitting next to someone on a train without ever being seen to take any interest in them. People who sat in the same seat every day for years and didn’t know even the tiniest detail of their neighbour’s life but who noticed them missing the minute they weren’t there. The mood on the train this morning wasn’t festive by any means, but people were talking to each other, pulling together in adversity. Perhaps this day, this suicide, would change things. Maybe the people here today would feel a greater sense of connection to each other from now on. Connectedness had become very important to him in his own life recently.
He entered the next carriage and looked around. A woman was snorting into a hanky, watched by a man who looked like he’d been knocked back into his seat by the force of the woman’s breath. A blonde woman and her daughter were chatting, as were a few others in the carriage. He shrugged. No, they’d probably all ignore each other again tomorrow. Not that he’d know, he wouldn’t be there. Tomorrow he’d go to work on his bike as normal. But would it be normal, or would today change everything for him? His heart thudded against his ribcage.
The doctor peeled off his rubber gloves and threw them into the special bin. Ray went behind the screen to dress and heard Dr Moncrieff flicking through the reports and images he’d given him. As he perched on the patient’s chair again in front of the imposing desk, the specialist sat back in his chair.
‘Well, there’s no doubt it’s cancer but I agree with Dr Adams’ approach to treatment. I can’t in good faith recommend anything different.’
Ray sat on the other side of the broad desk, concentrating on his breath. This was good news, the doctor told him. Congratulated him, in fact, as if Ray had achieved this surprising result through some specific action he’d taken. So why did he still feel panic rising? When he’d made the appointment he had thought of questions to ask but they’d all fled, leaving him with nothing to do but nod.
The doctor stood and offered his hand. The consultation was over. Ray walked out mechanically, told the sympathetic receptionist he didn’t need to make another appointment, and walked out into Harley Street and the blaring of a car horn as the driver shook her fist at the person who had pipped her to the post for a parking spot. He looked at his watch but barely registered the time. A thought nudged him. He had to get to his accountant. He’d planned his day in London to kill two birds with one stone – cancer
and tax. It had seemed a good idea when he made the appointments but now all he wanted to do was lie down and pretend none of this was happening. Or go somewhere and get very drunk.
His feet seemed to decide on a course, however, while his mind was elsewhere. He started walking towards Marylebone Road. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. He needed to sit down, but he was afraid that if he did, he’d start thinking. So he kept walking along streets he didn’t know, passing strangers whose faces offered no consolation. He fantasised about Russell coming to get him, taking him in his arms and comforting him.
‘Get a grip,’ he urged himself, clenching his fists.
It was no use. Tears wet his cheeks and on he walked.
Somehow he found himself outside his accountant’s office. He almost smiled at the realisation he’d got himself there. Somewhere in the back of his mind the rational Ray still functioned.
He stood for a few moments trying to gather his thoughts. There were still none to be had. His mind was a blank, a wall standing between his conscious self and the panic he suspected was behind it.
Then, wiping his face and taking a deep breath, he entered the offices of Worthington and Jones, Tax Accountants.
The reception couldn’t have been any more different to Dr Moncrieff’s. Where the doctor’s office had soft tones and comfy sofas, this one had hard orange chairs and a nylon carpet which caused little electric shocks when you touched any metal.
The receptionist nodded to him, told him to grab a seat and got back to her phone. From the jarring bleeps and dings being emitted, he suspected she was playing a game.
He stood with his hands behind his back, looking at a poster on the wall. It was an Escher, the perspective all wrong so the staircase looked like it was going both ways at the same time, as did the people on it. It was confusing and annoying, but also fascinating, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was somewhere for his thoughts to sit.
‘Ray, long time no see,’ said a voice, and he turned to see Barry Worthington, his accountant, striding towards him.
‘Barry.’ He shook the offered hand.
‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked my new man to oversee your accounts. Normally, as you know, I’d give them my attention but with – what is it – three years’ worth? Four? I need a bit of help!’
At that moment Ray couldn’t have cared less who did his tax. If Barry had said his pet duck was going to have a look at his accounts he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.
‘I’ll check it all when he’s finished, of course,’ Barry continued, obviously taking Ray’s silence for displeasure.
‘Fine. No Problem.’
Ten minutes later, he was sitting opposite a youngish man with black-rimmed glasses and a severe parting. He had smooth, clear skin and amber eyes, and Ray wished he could touch his face, trace a finger along the contours of his cheekbones. He looked vaguely familiar too, but realised he could have sat opposite him all the way from Milton Keynes and still wouldn’t recognise him.
‘Did you bring all the papers?’
Ray snapped out of his fantasy and opened his briefcase, pulling out a manila folder. ‘It’s all there.’ He slid it across the desk.
The accountant turned to his computer and tapped away, accessing Ray’s past returns. He checked he still lived at the same address, asked a few questions, typing the answers in quickly, without looking at the keyboard. Ray had always wondered how people managed that. What if you started off with your fingers on the wrong keys? – you’d create a page of jibberish, with every letter replaced by the one on its left. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the random thoughts that had replaced reason.
When the accountant had run out of things to ask he looked at the manila folder as if desperate to delve into its secrets. It was another thing Ray had never understood – how someone could get excited about numbers and finances.
‘Well, if you don’t need anything else–’ He stood, held out a hand. ‘I look forward to hearing from you when you’ve gone through it all. Thanks.’
In the foyer the receptionist mumbled a bored farewell and Ray sidled out the door with a ‘Cheerio.’
He looked up and down the road. A bus came into view with Euston written on the front and he decided he might as well catch it.
London rushed by, people walking the streets, entering and leaving shops and offices, holding hands to their eyes against the unexpected glare. How many of them have cancer and don’t know it yet, he wondered, thinking back to the days not so long ago, before his diagnosis. Days that now felt carefree and happy merely because they were unclouded by the knowledge of tumours and procedures and doctor’s offices. Even when he had gone to his GP he hadn’t expected to be referred to a specialist. He’d thought he had a urinary tract infection or kidney stones perhaps. Not prostate cancer.
He shifted in his seat and gripped the handle of his briefcase in both hands to stop from falling into the well of fear the words opened before him. Taking deep breaths, he forced his attention once more to the buildings he was passing, to the people in the streets, living their lives.
At Euston, he entered the station concourse. His stomach rumbled and he decided to have something to eat before getting on the train, preferring the idea of café food rather than the overpriced offerings on-board.
Half of London must have had the same idea. The cafés were crowded with lunchtime trade and once he had his sausage roll and drink, he had to ask permission to share a cramped table with a young man who was sitting with a coffee.
As the other man turned, Ray realised it was the ticket collector from the train that morning.
Afterwards, when he was well away from the station and the young man, Ray wondered what had possessed him. He’d broken down and told him – Tim, he’d said his name was – he had cancer. And not only that, but that it was inoperable. He felt ashamed, could feel the warmth of his blush at the memory of it. Poor young man, as if he hadn’t had enough to cope with already today with the suicide and everything. Ray’s heart was racing and he was breathing as if he’d been sprinting. The embarrassment. And the reality was, he had lied. Dr Moncrieff hadn’t told him the cancer was inoperable. He’d told him he wasn’t going to operate. At this stage, he agreed with the other urologist Ray had seen, that they should wait and see. There was no good reason to cut anything out.
Ray had been disappointed. He wanted rid of this thing, this tumour didn’t belong in his body. He didn’t want it there a moment longer. But as he was telling Tim about it his fear spoke for him, saying what he believed the doctors really meant; they weren’t willing to operate because it was too far gone and they didn’t want to tell him that it was useless. That he only had months to live. He was angry with himself; he should have insisted on surgery.
He walked, trying to outpace his fear and an hour later he found himself on Hampstead Heath, puffing from the exertion of the uphill climb but feeling calmer. He turned and looked at London below him, cranes marking the sites of new skyscrapers, sunlight glinting off the glass buildings in the city. The Gherkin standing like a black missile, a bold, aggressive building. And the Shard, soaring towards the heavens, so full of hope and light and space. He inhaled deeply and felt, for a moment, hope and light and space fill him too. And then he remembered the little nugget growing in his body and the fear returned.
He turned his back on the view and started walking again. Although it was a weekday, there were quite a few people about. Two teenage boys were trying to fly a kite with little success – even up here there was little wind. A couple was enjoying a romantic picnic, paté and cheeses set out on plates, the crackers in an open packet. Champagne sparkled in plastic flutes. The couple kissed as if no one was watching, their hands in each other’s hair. Ray had to look away as a lump rose in his throat – he wanted what they had. He wanted to embrace his lover without a care in the world. He was angry and disappointed that Russell couldn’t face what was happening, couldn’t support him
in his hour of need. He turned and walked quickly away.
At the ponds, he stopped. As a teenager, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, he used to come here with Steven to swim, to hang out with friends and get away from the censorious gazes of all the straight people in London. To have a break from his parents who didn’t understand – didn’t want to understand – his sexuality. They’d thrown him out not long after that summer, when he wouldn’t be bent back into the shape they wanted him to be, wouldn’t lead the life they’d mapped out for him. Wife, children, steady job.
He watched. Men lay on the grass enjoying the sun, jumped, whooping, into the water, swam and bobbed around. He wondered how Steven was. They’d parted about the same time Ray’s parents had chucked him out, occasionally bumping into each other in the intervening years at gallery openings or friends’ parties. All that had stopped when Ray moved out of London. He’d heard Steven was HIV positive – he always had been more of a risk-taker than Ray, and more promiscuous as it turned out. Ray didn’t know if he was even still alive although he presumed he was, the drugs being what they were these days. He knew plenty of men who were living quite healthily with HIV.
‘Hello there. Are you coming in?’
Ray spun round to see a man, shorter than him with blond hair and startlingly blue eyes, looking at him. Daniel Craig eyes.
‘Don’t hang around out here, the action’s all in there,’ the man said. ‘I’m Aidan by the way.’
‘Ray. I was just out walking.’
‘Well, you walked and you got here. Come on, you look like you could do with a sit-down.’
Ray did want to sit down. He wanted to sit with Aidan and relax and forget about everything else, just for a few minutes.
‘I don’t have my trunks. I wasn’t expecting to be here.’
‘Trunks aren’t necessary,’ said Aidan. His eyes twinkled when he smiled. He held out a hand to Ray, who took it and allowed himself to be led to the grassy area beside the water. Aidan spread a towel out and they sat.
