by B P Walter
He is here.
I don’t notice him at first. I’m in the midst of getting myself worked up over Jessica’s phone and have closed my eyes, using the wall to steady myself. When I open them, there he is, right in front of me.
‘Er, hi,’ he says, pleasantly.
I pull myself upright. Smile. Then go over to greet him.
Chapter Eighteen
The Boy
My issues surrounding sex never actually stop me from finding it. That bit is easy. It’s the guilt afterwards that’s always difficult. I always go home and cry into my mattress, part of me not sure why I’m upset, the other part of me knowing exactly why.
And it’s always older women. I find them on Tinder or other dating apps. It’s amazing how simple it is – who’d have thought Southend would have so many sex-starved divorced women, eager to drop their knickers for an awkward, disturbed teenage boy. But it is. And they’re happy to. They never use their real names and I don’t use mine. I pick a woman on my phone, usually while on break at school, chat to her for a bit. Then at lunch, I’ll say that I’m free later in the afternoon if she fancies hanging out for a bit. ‘Hanging out.’ We both know what that will mean.
Usually I go home first and change out of my school uniform. I’ve learned from experience that school ties and blazers put some women off – makes them think twice about what it is they’re about to do. Occasionally, though, I find one who wants that. A woman once asked me to come round in my PE kit and even gave me a script. I had to ring the doorbell and ask if ‘Tony fancied a kickabout over on the field’ and she’d say Tony had been grounded and had to stay in and do his schoolwork, but I could come in and have a lemonade. I did as I was told, went into her kitchen and she handed me a glass of lemonade, then nodded at me, encouraging me to go on with the words she’d sent beforehand. I almost forgot them then, but they came back eventually. I had to ask, would she mind if I had a quick shower as our boiler was being fixed back home. She said I could and I walked up the stairs as she directed me, then she set the shower running and told me to undress and get in. Once I was under the warm rush of the power-shower, she stepped in herself, still fully dressed, and said, ‘You must promise not to tell Tony at school tomorrow – I wouldn’t want his mates to think I do this with any boy.’ And then she wanted to do it against the glass shower door, which we did, whilst she kept telling me to ‘do her like a MILF’. I wasn’t sure how you do it with a MILF compared to any other woman, but I did what she wanted.
I saw her a couple of times until one day, when we were at it on the dining room table, my gym clothes scattered over the expensive-looking carpet, the door to the room opened and some lad, about the same age as me or maybe a year older, walked into the room and said, ‘Mum?! Fucking CHRIST!’ And she screamed, ‘Tony, Tony! I’m sorry, let me explain.’ She ran after him and I heard them shouting at each other, with him saying, ‘What about Dad? What the fuck are you doing?’ His voice was posh and by the look of his uniform, he went to a private school outside of Southend. I wasn’t sure what to do and within seconds the boy came back: ‘Hey, chav boy, who the fuck are you?’ I considered saying something smart in response, but he looked muscly and I thought he might hit me. He didn’t give me much time to reply anyway. ‘Get the fuck out!’ he screamed, throwing my boxers at me and lobbing the rest of my clothes out of the dining-room door towards the hallway. ‘What are you, a pervert or something? Do you just shag random middle-aged women? You do realise she’s nearly fifty? Fifty.’ He said ‘fifty’ like he couldn’t imagine anyone living that long. ‘She’s the one who found me,’ I just said, and he shook his head and muttered ‘Prick’ as I walked out the front door.
I’ve deleted my Tinder account now. I’m not looking for anything like that. I’ve tried, but the women who mess around with teenage boys don’t want anything proper. Anything meaningful. And they especially don’t want ones who cry. Who have to leave because their tears overwhelm them. It frightens them. So now I’m not seeing anyone. And don’t plan to any time soon. Unless something crops up out of the blue – and it would have to be a very special something.
Chapter Nineteen
The Mother
May. Three months after the attack.
I’m shocked by how well I’ve managed this. The boy is here. Right here, right now. The old ladies on the sofas are watching closely, some looking wary, as if he might behave inappropriately, disturbing their little safe haven.
It takes me a few seconds to get my words out, but eventually I reply, ‘Hi,’ and we stand and stare at each other for a bit, then he says, ‘So where are we going to do it, then?’
I feel myself turning red, ‘Er… sorry?’
His smile widens, slightly wickedly, as if he knows the effect he can have on women and isn’t a stranger to using it to his advantage. ‘This chat. About my glamorous modelling career.’
I understand and laugh and tell him we’ll go through to the restaurant. They aren’t serving food until 5.30, but we can have a drink and discuss his options. He nods. ‘Sounds good,’ he says, and follows me through in silence round to the restaurant area, situated in a built-on extension to the main hotel, with wide, expansive windows offering a dazzling view of the seafront. From here, we could be in the South of France, not Essex, and if I were in less weird circumstances I’d have wanted to take a photo. But I don’t. I sit down at our reserved table and ask Michael Kelley what he’d like to drink. ‘Do you like wine?’ I ask and he shrugged.
‘Your call. I drink anything.’
I look down the drinks list and tell him I’m thinking of having the house red and try to make a joke about it being early to start drinking, but it comes out wrong. He smiles again and looks around, taking in the expensive décor, the rows of neatly set empty tables. We’re the only people in the restaurant, apart from a family with a small and remarkably silent child, having tea or coffee at the far end away from us.
‘You ever been here before?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘No, never. Never needed to. I live in Southend.’
I laugh too. ‘Of course, sorry, I meant the restaurant.’
He doesn’t elaborate further, just shakes his head. I think then of the run-down mess of a council house he lives in, with the rubbish and discarded sofas and kicked-over wheelie-bins lining the street. What a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t been here.
‘OK, well, when the wine arrives we’ll start getting down to business.’
He raises one eyebrow and gives me that wicked grin again. Is he flirting with me? I’m about to start trying to attract a waiter’s attention, but then he asks a question that takes me by surprise.
‘What’s your accent? You not British?’
‘Er… no,’ I say, slightly disconcerted, ‘I’m not British. I’m Australian. Well, I was actually born in Saudi Arabia and lived there until I was ten, but my parents were Australian and we moved back to Perth so I could go to high school there. We did come to the UK quite a bit, though. I had relatives over here. Not too far from here, in fact. We even came to Southend sometimes, though that would have been before you were born, and quite a while before I settled in England properly. That was some time after. I had to escape Australia and the UK seemed like a good place to escape to.’ I stop myself for a moment, realising I’m sounding like some kind of convict on the run. ‘I mean… when I say escape… I just mean that I didn’t want to live at home anymore.’
His eyes are glazing over and I’m aware that I’m boring him. He’s looking around again, as if looking for something to amuse himself with.
‘I’m impressed you noticed my accent though,’ I said, hoping to get onto more neutral, lighter territory. ‘My daughter always said it faded a bit every year and that by the time I reach fifty I’ll sound like a Kent native.’ Another silence follows this and he just looks at me. ‘I live near Sevenoaks, you see.’ The clarification sounds perfunctory and almost as if I’m boasting. We always used to desperately pretend we wer
en’t posh as a family. Since neither Alec nor I are English, we always maintain it would be impossible for us to be ‘posh’ in the way that our friends Elaine and Jackson are, forever driving between their city home in Kensington and their huge, rambling, great country house in Kent.
‘You don’t sound like a stereotypical Essex boy,’ I say, giving him a wink then instantly regretting it. It’s not entirely the truth either – he does sound like an Essex boy, just not one of the loud, screeching, yobbish kind. More natural, less intense.
He shrugs. ‘Never really thought about it,’ he says.
Of course he hasn’t. I doubt there are many teenage boys who ever really think about their voice or accent, unless they’ve been cursed with a particularly notable high-pitched screech that would make heads turn.
We pause our slightly awkward conversation to order our drinks. I go for the house red I’ve been considering and Michael chooses a beer. ‘I’m afraid I’ll just need to see some identification if you’re ordering alcohol,’ the young female waiter says apologetically, looking at Michael, then at me.
‘Oh, surely he’s allowed a beer?’ I say. ‘We’ll be ordering food. And he’s over 16, aren’t you?’ I nod at the boy and he nods back.
‘I don’t think…’ the young woman starts to say.
‘If you check, I’m sure you’ll find that it’s perfectly legal for someone over 16 to have alcohol with a meal so long as they’re not buying it themselves and are accompanied by an adult. Well, I’ll be paying and I’m an adult. And we’ll be ordering food as soon as you open your kitchens.’
I can feel myself getting riled, but I try to keep my tone calm. The waitress doesn’t know how important a meeting this is, after all.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure, I’ll have to go and get my manager,’ she says, looking embarrassed. Michael shrugs, looking a bit puzzled by the fuss. ‘I’ll just have a Coke.’
The girl disappears off and I feel my deep-seated sense of anxiety starting to bubble to the surface. What now? I’ve got him here, but the very thing I wanted to show him is resting upstairs on my bedside table. Perhaps I won’t need the evidence. After all, he’ll probably either make a scene or walk out as soon as I mention Jessica’s name. Maybe I wouldn’t even get as far as showing him the messages, proving how he was the last person in the whole world who she ever messaged before the bullet that killed her ripped through her body.
‘Are you OK?’ he says, drawing me out of my thoughts. I stare at him for a few seconds, feeling a bit dazed, then smile to try to cover myself.
‘Of course! Sorry, I think it must be the summer heat.’ The comment is ridiculous, since the air conditioning in the hotel’s dining room is more than adequate, and today hasn’t been especially humid. He’s clearly now wondering why we’re not launching into a discussion about the potential modelling career I’ve promised him. He takes his phone out and starts tapping away, apparently messaging someone. The drinks arrive and just as the waitress is walking away and the boy’s Coke is sitting on the table, condensation dripping onto the cream tablecloth, the idea hits me.
‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘why don’t we go upstairs? To my room, I mean. Then I can order room service and you can have a beer – they won’t know who it’s for. And we can chat more informally.’ I add a little laugh onto the end. It sounds lightly flirtatious. I don’t think I mean it that way, not really, but his eyes prick up. He stares at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘OK,’ he says, standing up straight away.
He takes his Coke with him, sipping it in the lift as we journey up to my room on the third floor. A voice inside my head is crying out, screaming at me, What are you doing? but I don’t let it take hold. I’m going to do it. I’m going to destroy him. There’ll be no stage-fright from being in an open public space. It will be just him and me alone in my room.
‘Fuuucckkk,’ he exclaims when he sees the television. I’d forgotten about it and am surprised myself when I see it sitting there, like a big sheet of black ice in the middle of the cool décor and white bedsheets of its surroundings. ‘Does every room come with one of these?’ he asks, sitting on the bed, not waiting for an invitation, and reaching for the control.
‘No, I bought it earlier,’ I say. I watch him try the channels then, realising it isn’t hooked up to get a TV signal – try the Netflix button on the remote. He scrolls through the movies, as if genuinely selecting something for us to watch, pausing to read the two-line plot synopses. I’m not sure what to do, so I journey over to the side of the bed and watch him closely, looking at how his olive-tanned skin seems to continue down under his loose T-shirt. He must sunbathe topless, I think. Or have a natural tan all-year round. Jessica went through a phase of trying to maintain a natural-looking tan, trying moisturisers and sprays, only for it always to turn out looking fake or non-existent. I don’t think it came from a natural vanity, more from a cruel comment from a girl at school about how pale she always looked. I refused to allow her to use tanning beds and she maintained that once she’d become an adult and moved out, she would go to a tanning salon every spring and I couldn’t stop her. But of course, that will never happen, now. Pulling myself back to the present, I try to bat away these thoughts. ‘You can put a movie on if you like, while we wait for the drinks,’ I say, remembering I haven’t even ordered them yet. ‘And what would you like to eat? They should start cooking soon.’
He doesn’t take his eye from the screen. ‘Er… a cheeseburger? And chips?’
I nod. ‘I’m sure they can rustle one of them up.’ I’m about to ring down for room service, when Jessica’s phone catches my eye. I pick it up and touch the home button on the screen. It lights up and her face, along with mine, and Alec’s, arrive in view instantly, glowing and vibrant and alive. And then I hear the zipper.
‘Shall we get started?’ he says.
I turn around and almost drop the phone in shock. The boy is removing his trousers. He’s got them bunched around his knees and, hampered by the skinny cut of the leg, is trying to step out of them. He eventually pulls them off completely and stands there, looking expectantly at me.
‘What… what are you doing?’ I stammer the words out, probably sounding more scared than I feel. I’m more astonished at his boldness. Did he really think this is what was going to happen?
‘What does it look like?’ he says, pulling his top off now. His body is toned. Not protein-shake and chemical-supplements toned – something more subtle and natural. He’s probably one of those teenagers who can eat all day and never put on a pound, going through their youth not realising how incredibly lucky they are. I was one of those teenagers once. I wish someone had told me that by the time I hit my mid-thirties I’d find it difficult to keep the weight off and that a strict regime of low-sugar diets and gym visits would become a necessity.
He’s still staring at me and with a jolt of alarm I see the desire in his eyes. I feel myself going hot. ‘I think there’s been a… misunderstanding.’
He has his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear, ready to pull them down, but pauses and looks puzzled. ‘What? I thought you wanted to?’
I’m still in an awkward position by the side of the bed, clasping onto Jessica’s phone so tight, I feel my nails strain against its metal back.
‘I… well, aren’t I a bit too old for you?’
He laughs. ‘Believe me, I’ve had older.’
I don’t know what to make of this and I’m scared to enquire further.
‘How old are you, anyway?’ he asks.
‘I’m forty,’ I reply, my voice coming out breathy and whisper-like, my heart beating inside me.
He shrugs, ‘Fine by me.’
And he crosses the room in two purposeful strides. Pulls me to him with his large, firm hands, and starts to kiss me. His lips feel strangely cold, and softer than I would have imagined. A few seconds of shock pass and, in the confusion, I feel my mouth open, close to accepting him in. But I don’t. ‘No!’ I try to sh
out the word, but it comes out muffled. I push him away as hard as I can, but my right hand is now caught up in his and with horror I realise he’s trying to drag it down to his groin. ‘I said no!’ I shove him away so violently, he loses balance and falls back against the wall.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says immediately, ‘I’m really sorry. I got carried away.’ He stands there, looking a bit stunned.
‘Get out.’ I say it in a half-whisper, then begin clawing at him, pushing him towards the door. He goes. Doesn’t put up a fight, like I thought he might. He still seems a bit stunned as I usher him through the door and slam it shut, pressing myself up against it, as if he’d try to break it down. He doesn’t. But after a moment or two, a voice sounds just above my left ear on the other side of the wood. ‘Hey, I’m really, really sorry… I just… Can I get my jeans?’
I take a deep breath, then cross the room, scoop up the clothes, open the door, and quickly throw them out, barely catching a glimpse of him standing there, looking confused and slightly forlorn, before I slam the door.
I think he may have mumbled something – perhaps ‘Sorry’ – but I don’t hear it properly. I go back to the bed and lie down in a small ball, clutching at the covers, pulling them closer. For a moment, I think he must have gone, but then I hear something – the sound of a belt buckle tinkling and a zipper being drawn up. Then the slow thud of him walking away, down the corridor. Leaving me alone.
