A Dangerous Man

A Dangerous Man by Anne Brooke Bristlecone Pine Press * Portland, ME

Copyright

Bristlecone Pine Press, an imprint of Maine Desk LLC 10A Beach Street Suite 2 Portland, ME 04101 First Bristlecone Pine Press Printing, October, 2010 Copyright 2010 © Anne Brooke Brooke, Anne A Dangerous Man: a novel/Anne Brooke ISBN: 978-1-60722-025-1 Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) with the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the above publisher of this book. PUBLISHER‟S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Published in the United States of America Edited by Leslie H. Nicoll Cover Art by Scot D. Ryersson eBook formatting and design by Jim and Zetta, www.jimandzetta.com Please visit Bristlecone Pine Press at www.bcpinepress.com The print version of this book is published by: Cheyenne Publishing PO Box 872412 Vancouver, WA 98687-2415 [email protected] www.cheyennepublishing.com ISBN: 978-0-9828267-4-4

Contents Copyright ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 3 A message from the publisher… -------------------------------------------- 5 Chapter One -------------------------------------------------------------------- 6 Chapter Two------------------------------------------------------------------ 14 Chapter Three ---------------------------------------------------------------- 25 Chapter Four ----------------------------------------------------------------- 38 Chapter Five ------------------------------------------------------------------ 55 Chapter Six ------------------------------------------------------------------- 62 Chapter Seven ---------------------------------------------------------------- 71 Chapter Eight----------------------------------------------------------------- 83 Chapter Nine ----------------------------------------------------------------- 90 Chapter Ten ----------------------------------------------------------------- 103 Chapter Eleven -------------------------------------------------------------- 117 Chapter Twelve ------------------------------------------------------------- 135 Chapter Thirteen ------------------------------------------------------------ 147 Chapter Fourteen ----------------------------------------------------------- 160 Chapter Fifteen ------------------------------------------------------------- 171 Chapter Sixteen ------------------------------------------------------------- 178 Chapter Seventeen ---------------------------------------------------------- 193 Chapter Eighteen ----------------------------------------------------------- 210 Chapter Nineteen ----------------------------------------------------------- 224 Chapter Twenty ------------------------------------------------------------- 237 About the Author ----------------------------------------------------------- 239 About the Cover Artist----------------------------------------------------- 240 Quality Homoerotic Fiction from Bristlecone Pine Press ------------ 241

Chapter One February Late as usual, I clattered along the magnolia hallway of our overcrowded flat, finding Paul still in the kitchen. He gave me a dirty grin from next to the dishwasher, which wasn‟t surprising since I‟d spent a couple of hours the previous night giving him a good time. I‟d then spent fifteen minutes that morning trying to shower the smell of it off my skin. Not one of my best decisions ever, but it kept the rent low. Joe, our landlord and Paul‟s lover, wasn‟t there, of course. He was out wheeling and dealing with a load of arty types in Italy, lucky bastard, but if he knew what went on he‟d... he‟d... well, I didn‟t know what he‟d do but it wouldn‟t be good. “Hey there, Mikey. How‟s tricks?” Paul stood up, his gut swelling the belt of his chinos, and his round face lined with sweat in spite of the cold. Looking at him made me glad for my own slim build and narrow features, not to mention my full head of dark hair compared to his receding hairline. “Okay.” He gazed at me for a moment as if expecting something else, but I‟d never been much of a one for chatting to men I‟d slept with. Besides, I hated being called Mikey. It reminded me of home, but I wouldn‟t tell him that. It might give him too much power. “Enjoy last night then?” he said at last, pulling at his ear-lobe. I shrugged, “Sure. It was fine.” “More than fine, don‟t you think? That‟s understating it, isn‟t it? It was bloody marvellous and you know it.” It was far too early in the day to cope with enthusiasm and, in any case, it hadn‟t set my blood on fire. Paul‟s repertoire of sexual moves were less than the colours in the rainbow and like the rainbow they were always in the same order. “Yeah,” he went on as the sound of kids yelling burst in from the street outside. “The thing about you is you‟re so bloody good at it. God knows where you learn that stuff from. Do you know what?” 6

Anne Brooke With his last question, he faced me, his grin turning sly. “What?” I said, though I wasn‟t interested in the answer. “You‟ve done this before, haven‟t you?” I laughed. What had he thought? That I‟d never done it at all? That one glimpse of the solid flesh and wispy black hair of my fellow lodger had swept me over the edge into sexual activity? “Sure, yeah, I was Mr. Catholic Priest when I turned up here.” “No, not like that, Mikey,” he folded his arms and pursed his lips. “I mean for money. You‟ve done this before for money, haven‟t you?” “Don‟t be stupid. I don‟t do it for money with you.” “You call paying less rent to Joe because I‟m paying the extra, not doing it for cash?” No, I didn‟t as a matter of fact. Paul may have thought he was making me into a real-life rent boy in downtown Hackney, if you could call a twenty-four year old a boy, but it didn‟t count until you held the notes in your fist. Everyone knew that. But still, there were streets where I lived, and beyond, the East End for one, maybe Soho on a good day, which knew the shape of my stride and the colour of my flesh. “Mikey?” Paul prompted. “Just leave it.” “Getting too close, am I?” This was stupid so I turned to go, but with a sudden shift in mood, which I should have been used to, he grabbed my arm so hard I almost cried out. “Cut the crap,” he whispered dangerously close to my ear so that the air around us crackled. “I know what you‟ve been up to, I hear rumours...” “What? In those bars you go to?” He twisted my arm again. “Shut up. I think you should be more careful, you know. Joe wouldn‟t like knowing how you make your money when you can‟t sell that bloody art of yours—if art‟s what you call it. Scribbling‟s more the word, isn‟t it? Anyway, you‟d be out of here faster than you could say „Picasso‟. Maybe you should be even nicer to me just to make sure you don‟t end up on the streets, Mikey. For real.” And with a final twist of my arm which made it feel as if it might burn forever, he shoved me away, set the dishwasher to start and swaggered out of the kitchen.

7

A Dangerous Man I sat down. My blood was drumming in my head and I had to take several deep breaths to stifle the feeling of sickness, all the while listening to the sound of the shower and Paul‟s tuneless singing. I‟d only been here six months and already all the signs said it was time to go. But where? I knew nobody and each time I did a flit, somehow the next flat-share was always worse than the last. At least Joe‟s place was clean, though the company he kept did nothing for me. The thought of being “nicer” to Paul didn‟t fill me with any great enthusiasm and anyway what he‟d accused me of was unfair. Sometimes I needed cash, and sex was the best way to get it. It didn‟t make me a hooker. Simply someone wanting to survive. Maybe I‟d have to be more careful next time, I thought. When at last Paul thudded down the stairs and out to his treadmill job, arse-licking would-be clients for an insurance company, I leant back in the kitchen chair and groaned. What a start to the day. I needed to take my mind off it. Alone, I tidied up my cupboard-sized bedroom, resisting thoughts of what had happened that morning and the night before. It wasn‟t hard; putting things away where I didn‟t have to think of them again was something I was good at. Anyway, the important thing was the drawing. It kept me sane and always had done. With a bit of luck, it could be my last chance for a way out of the life I was living, and Jesus, let it work soon, I thought. Best get down to it though. So, when I‟d pushed open the window to let the London air wipe out the salt smell of Paul‟s spunk, I lit my first smoke of the day and flicked through the pictures in my most recent folio, trying to see a way through to some theme in what I was doing. It wasn‟t obvious. All I had at the moment was an impression of Paul and Joe together, a drawing of London rooftops, and several scenes of the Thames, most of them viewed from the South Bank complex. Something about the mix of river and concrete spoke to me in a way I couldn‟t entirely understand. It must have been how the lines converged; the smooth seduction of the flowing water and the solid weight of the buildings. A sweet contrast and a melding. Those were, without doubt, the best in my current series. But I needed more if I was going to make it big, if I was going to get the exhibition I‟d promised myself a long time back. Sitting down, I found myself desperate once more for somewhere I could really call my own. What I wouldn‟t give for a large sunlit studio where I could spread out, scatter ideas like dreams across the space and 8

Anne Brooke simply draw. Not that it would happen for a long time, not unless my luck changed. Some hope. Here, there was hardly enough room to stand up. When I‟d first arrived last summer, even the sun had been forced to fight its way into the bare room to reveal the bed, thin carpet and one almost empty bookshelf. But I knew that one day, it would all be different. It had to be. With future plans firing through my head, I turned the chair to get as much sunlight as I could, and began to draw, trying not to think too much. I always worked better that way. Again, what came out through my fingers were snapshots of the city; a street, scrubland, willowy figures with something in the curve of them that I couldn‟t yet interpret. I was improving, even I could see it. Surely someone somewhere would take them. And maybe it might even be Joe in that new gallery of his. I‟d thought it was the best day of my life when three months after I‟d moved in, Joe put the deposit down on the Moonlight Gallery, ten minutes‟ walk away in Jade Street. Maybe this time he‟d take my work, even though the art in his place was more traditional than mine would ever be. But he knew me, he thought I was good or rather had the potential to be good and I might get lucky. Or more likely not. He always went for the commercial touch and I didn‟t think that would ever be me, no matter what I did. However, over the months I‟d realised that you never know what might be counted commercial and what won‟t. Anyway, it was time to launch into the next drawing. The one I was looking at was finished, time to start the next. But before I could sit back, close my eyes and plummet into the depths of myself for inspiration of any kind, the phone started to ring. In the hallway, I picked it up, hoping it wasn‟t Paul. “Hello?” “Paul? Is that you?” came the reply. At once I recognised the voice and felt a shiver of guilt. “Oh hi, Joe. How was Florence?” “Not bad, thanks, considering the time of year I had to bloody well get over there. Didn’t get as many new leads as I’d have liked though. Everything okay in Hackney? Paul not giving you any grief?” “No, he‟s fine,” I lied. “Great. Are you busy?” “No. Not really. Anything I can do?” 9

A Dangerous Man “As it happens, yes. Could you come to the gallery, say 4pm?” This sounded good and my senses quickened. “Sure. Where are you?” “Just on my way out of the airport. I’ve called Lee-Anne and something’s come up. I’d like to talk it over with you. I’ve got stuff to sort out, but apart from that the sooner the better.” “Okay. No problem.” “Good. See you there then.” He cut the call and I stood in the hallway, unable to stop the grin spreading over my face. Maybe this was it, after all this time. Maybe this was the biggie. After that, I couldn‟t settle. Wasn‟t it always the way? The day drifted by in a haze of TV, smoking and half-finished ideas, but 3:30 pm found me locking the front door, with my portfolio under my arm, and setting out along the dirty streets and neglected gardens which made up this down-on-its-luck part of London. The area had aged like an old hooker, no longer the prize she once was. The roads and pavements were wide enough to belong to somewhere like Chelsea or that breath-taking part of the city around Tate Britain. But the people who walked them wore no designer clothes and their faces were sour. Old milk and old dreams. The air was full of the smell of them, and God knew why Joe and Paul still lived somewhere like this. The only reason I could think of was its closeness to the gallery, which itself was in a part of Hackney that still kept some of its faded glory. By the time I arrived it was beginning to drizzle, giving a shimmer to the tarmac, and for protection I turned up the collar of my jacket. Inside, the clear light and sense of space made me smile. So different from the room I lived in. If only, I thought again, if only I could have somewhere like this, then inspiration wouldn‟t abandon me like it so often did. Surroundings mattered. For me, they always would. Walking through, I saw there were one or two new pictures I wanted to have a closer look at later, if Joe gave me the chance. Sometimes he could be so off-hand, no matter how nice I was. As the door clicked shut behind me, I heard the faint echo of a bell in what I knew to be the office and a second later a tall woman walked into view wearing a long green silk dress and with her auburn hair piled up on her head like a Roman goddess. She brought with her the rich scent of roses. 10

Anne Brooke “Michael,” she smiled, her eyes lighting up as if she hadn‟t seen me only a couple of days ago. And a hundred times before that within the last month. Was I really that desperate to sell my stuff? Yes was the easy answer. From now on I‟d have to try to play it cool. “Lee-Anne.” I smiled back, thinking once again how beautiful she was. If she was a bloke, I‟d be begging for it. Not that she‟d look at me, not someone like her. “Joe asked me to come.” “Yes, of course. He‟s in the office.” She gestured me through and sat down at Reception as I pushed open the carved wooden door, not bothering to knock. He‟d called me here after all. Inside, the décor was traditional but with a bright edge, in keeping with the way the gallery owner saw himself. Chrome and silver gleaming against ash and ebony, with here and there some stunning originals from the artists he supported. I wished one of them was me. The man seated behind the curved desk was leaning back, phone wedged under his chin and one hand pulling at his faded ginger beard. He gestured me in, the sunlight catching his hair as he did so. Taking a seat and pulling it to one side, I sat down and waited. “Yes. No. I don‟t want that. Just listen, will you?” Joe‟s soft northern accent thickened as his tempo increased. Like it always did if he was angry or drunk. “It‟s not the sort of picture I want here. Not my style. I know what I said before, but that was only because I thought you‟d come through for us. You didn‟t. And that‟s the end of it, as far as I‟m concerned.” He paused and held the phone away from his ear whilst at the same time pushing towards me a half-empty packet of cigarettes. I shook my head. They were herbal and it wasn‟t my thing. Tasted like horse piss, for starters. If I wanted to hold something in my fingers, then it would have to be stronger than that, something to knock me out, ravish me. In every sense. Joe shrugged and turned away in his chair, though I could still hear the stream of meaningless words humming from the receiver. I almost felt sorry for whoever was getting the cold treatment on the other end. “That‟s enough,” Joe‟s tone cut through what I imagined to be a flow of desperate abuse. “You‟ve had your say and I respect you for that. Aye, I do. But you‟re not signed up with me, and after this that fact isn‟t likely to change. Good afternoon to you.”

11

A Dangerous Man He ended the call and stood up, his lanky figure a thin shadow against the window. “God, these so-called artists have no idea. Couldn‟t tell one end of a brush from another.” “Or what type it was.” “Too true,” he laughed and lit one of his smokes. The smell made me think of autumn hedges and ploughed fields, though I‟d never got close enough to either to know for sure. “But it‟s good to see you, Michael. What can I do for you?” “You asked me to come.” “Did I?” “Yes. I hoped you might be wanting to see some of my latest drawings,” I opened my case and began laying out my offerings over his desk. “See, I think there‟s a harder edge to some of this stuff, you remember you mentioned that before? And now I...” As I went on talking and talking for no purpose, Joe began to look through my work, turning over the paper with his long fingers, his sharp gaze taking in every space, every line. I didn‟t have to be inside his head to understand that. I simply knew it. When he‟d finished and I at last had found the strength to shut up, a short silence followed. “Hmm,” he said. I sprang to my feet. Suppressing the urge to gag and without looking at Joe, I shuffled together my drawings and placed them back into the portfolio. And all the while thinking, God, how could I have been so stupid? He‟d be laughing at me now, he and Paul together after they‟d gone to bed tonight. Bloody hell. A knife in the gut might have been better. “Look, sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn‟t mean to take up your time. I just thought...” “Hey, don‟t go,” he said. “You‟ve got the wrong idea. I was trying to think something through, which was what I asked you here for in the first place. You see, Michael, even though what you do isn‟t what I could show here in the Moonlight, right now I could use your skills.” “How?” I asked, trying not to look as if I would take anything he could throw my way at any time and in any place.

12

Anne Brooke He smiled. “I‟ve had a request none of my artists could fulfil, but which you might be interested in, and I‟ve done a bit of smooching on your behalf. No, don‟t thank me. Want to hear it?” I nodded. “Go ahead.” He told me. It was good. Apparently he‟d hooked up with an old art college friend during the conference in Florence who‟d let him know that some big-shot firm up in the City had money to spend and were hunting around for some stylish modern drawings they could use in their new offices. Something to impress the clients and to show them how on the ball and go-getting they were. Joe had pitched for it but it hadn‟t taken long for him to realise that none of his artists could work to the remit; spontaneous, free, modern. Then he‟d thought of me. “I‟ll want my cut of course, Michael, if you land this,” he said. “Nothing comes for nothing, you know that. And I‟m sorry but I can‟t be with you at the first meeting. Something‟s come up here which is more important. I‟ve rung and apologised, let them know you‟ll be on your own, but it‟s okay. I don‟t think they‟ll realise it‟s unusual. So. Will you do it?” Sure I would. I‟d be crazy not to. I would have preferred him to be there but, hell, I‟d have to cope. “Yes, I‟ll do it. Who wouldn‟t? And, Joe?” “Yes?” “Thanks. I...” “No time,” he swept my words away with a wave of his hand. “You have to be there in forty-five minutes. If you get it, try to make sure you free up your drawings even more. It‟ll do you good. Now, go.”

13

Chapter Two February I went. It was vital experience, not to mention money in the pocket if I landed the deal, as Joe put it. That might keep me off the streets for a while and away from Paul‟s grasp, so I was doubly grateful. I left Joe‟s gallery with the memory of Lee-Anne‟s perfume and smile clinging to my shirt. The quickest way to the City from Hackney was by bus, though given a choice I would have preferred to walk. It always cleared my head. But I had no time for doing what I wanted so I jumped onto the first bus that came along, finding a seat by myself and staring hard at anyone who looked as if they might want to join me. While the London pavements and people flowed past the window, scaled down through the streaks of dirt on glass to impressions from the side of my eye, I went through in my memory what was in my portfolio—it was way too big to open up on the bus—and tried to think what might work best. It mattered so much. Drawing was the one thing I‟d been able to do all my life. It had got me through some bad times, and some not so bad times, and I wasn‟t intending to let go of what I spent long nights and longer days dreaming of. Not ever. So I considered in my mind the pictures I‟d done, one by one. First, a street in Hackney, near where I lived. I‟d drawn it as if I was on fire, I remembered, hand ranging over paper as I sat in the tiny box garden at the front, the breeze making me shiver, and brought into the tips of my fingers the road I walked so often. Wild pencil strokes showing the untamed boundaries of tarmac, litter shifting in the acrid spin of traffic fumes, here and there a hunched figure shuffling towards an unknown destination, and always and everywhere the cars. So many cars, sometimes I felt as if they‟d never stop. You could always hear them, even at that point in the night between today and tomorrow. Other London scenes followed as I continued to track my portfolio, such as it was; the South Bank, Westminster Bridge, the Embankment on a night when I‟d got lucky twice and gone home richer than when I‟d arrived.

14

Anne Brooke Sometimes London could be easy money if you were prepared to flaunt it a little. More so on a Friday night with commuters spilling like wild dogs out of the late bars and heading home to their wives and families. Some of them had no idea what they were doing, but who cared? As long as they paid for it, and I always made sure they did, that was fine. Probably most of them didn‟t remember me the next day they were so ratarsed. Then I thought again of that night at Embankment. No, some of them would remember. No matter what they liked to tell themselves in the morning. Smiling, I continued the journey. The drawings towards the rear of the case were mostly of people I knew. Paul at breakfast, an impression of Joe in the middle of shaving, even, on another day which had been good to me, one of Lee-Anne, just caught in the turn of her shoulder and a hint of a smile. Of them all, Lee-Anne was the best. With her on that day I hadn‟t needed to rely on memory as I‟d finished it in minutes with only a handful of perfect lines as she waited. She had the gift of being still. But it was true that drawing people wasn‟t my strongest talent. The richness of objects was what mattered, and the feel of them: the warm roughness of wood, the angles and harshness of brick, a road‟s cool smoothness, a park‟s jagged railings, and all that my hands could express of them through paper. They were good, but not what people wanted to buy. I had to find something more, and fast. And Joe knew that. What had he said when I left? I needed to be freer than I was. What did he mean? And how could I achieve it? The bus gave a jolt as it turned the corner towards Bank and I tried to forget what I should be doing in the future and concentrate instead on what might be happening now, or in the next few minutes. Time to get off the bus, and go and do some business. Outside, the afternoon had turned bitterly cold. A typical February day. So cold now it could freeze your balls off. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was already coming up to five pm, the time this Mr. Hutchinson had wanted to see me. I hoped he liked what he saw. Because when the bus rolled away with a smoky screech, and I could see the company I‟d been asked to come to, I certainly liked what I saw. MacMillan‟s Reinsurance was something else. Its location too. I knew the City was upper-class, but at the time I didn‟t get out there very much, preferring to take my evening walks in the south and centre of town looking for subjects to draw. The 15

A Dangerous Man dirtier London became, the more I found I liked it. But here, you could smell the scent of money rising up from the pavement. The lack of litter made me feel out-of-place too, and it was as if the thousand windows towering above me were eyes, all-seeing, all-judging. Maybe the richer you were the less you bought. Or threw away. They must be earning millions. Well, if the miracle happened, Mr. Hutchinson liked my work, changed his mind about its destination and put it front of house where famous art dealers could pass by and wonder, then maybe I‟d be earning millions one day too. In my dreams. Straightening my shoulders and feeling like a bicycle faced with a row of oncoming taxis, I tucked my portfolio under my arm and marched towards my appointment. Walking into Reception, there were smooth, pale desks, computers that were so thin that if they turned sideways you‟d miss them, and even a water feature, for God‟s sake. It made me feel as if I was in another world. As if I‟d missed out on something somewhere along the road and hadn‟t had a chance to turn back. How did people live like this? Or work like this? I always thought myself lucky if I had enough room to set up my paper and draw a few appropriate lines without my elbow bumping into shelves or walls or anything else which happened to be in the way. Here, I could have lain flat out and stretched my arms out wide, or set up an easel like a painter and paced back and forth from the paper to gain the perspective I wished I could have every day, waiting for the right line to come, seeing if it was in the right place. When I approached the desk, the dark-haired, slim receptionist looked up with a smile that faded when she took in my appearance. No doubt they were used to well-dressed clients in a place like this. I cursed the fact I‟d been so pushed for time I hadn‟t been able to change. “Good afternoon. May I help you?” “Sure. I mean I‟m Michael Jones. I‟m here to see Mr. Hutchinson, I think his name is.” At once, she sat up straighter as if the name of my potential customer itself was a magic code, enough to make politeness out of indifference and interest out of hate. “Oh, of course. Please take a seat and I‟ll give Mr. Hutchinson a call and tell him you‟re here. Would you like a coffee?” Would I? Sure I would. I never turned down a free drink. So when she‟d made the call and found out that the bloke in question was in a 16

Anne Brooke meeting and would be at least another fifteen minutes, I breathed in the rich scent of Douw Egberts and enjoyed the strength of its flavour on my tongue. One cup of that and you might be awake forever. Chocolate biscuits were brought on a silver tray too and I basked for a while in the knowledge that I was for once an expected and desired guest. Made a change. Though I only allowed myself one thick-coated dark biscuit. No point in spoiling my dinner. As I waited, people began to leave for the day, most of them in their mid-twenties and loud with a confidence I envied. Blokes on the whole, good-looking enough to make me wonder, with the occasional girl, tight-suited and heavily made-up. Some of them glanced at me but no eyes stayed. I was beginning to think Joe had made me take a wasted journey and that I‟d never get to meet my new potential source of cash and glory, when I heard footsteps pacing along the unseen corridor to my right. The receptionist glanced up, said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson, your visitor is here,” and the man himself strode into view. And what a bloke. Tall, slim and with a way of dancing when he walked as if he was about to jump into the air simply with the joy of being alive. Older than me, well into his thirties, I‟d say, so not the sort I usually went for, but with hair as golden as vanilla ice cream and blue eyes which seemed to take all of me in at a glance without the ache of judging. He smiled as he drew nearer and grasped my hand, and for a moment the whole reception area, the City and all of London and maybe even the world itself vanished and all I wanted to do was fuck him. Or let him fuck me, it wouldn‟t have mattered which way round he liked it. If he liked it at all. “Mr. Jones,” he said, his voice low and husky like a warm car engine and a thousand notches above mine on the social scale. “I‟m Jack Hutchinson. Good of you to come, and apologies about the wait.” I was unable to reply. Instead I nodded and tried to suppress the urge to stroke his fingers which were still holding mine, to laugh out loud, maybe even dance like him around the bright desk. Which was slowly coming back into my consciousness. Yes, the desk was still there, with the receptionist who appeared not to have noticed anything strange. And so were the chairs, one of which I‟d been sitting in only a moment ago when everything was different, and the thin computer, the water feature, the

17

A Dangerous Man white telephone. It was all still there and everything would be fine. Everything. Except my skin felt hot as if it would never be cool again. At last, he let my hand go, releasing in me the ability to speak. “Sure, no problem. Happy to be here, you know, it wasn‟t a problem. Really. And Joe... I mean Mr. Garmon sends his apologies, he rang you, I think. Earlier?” I was babbling and he looked at me, one eyebrow arched on his oh so beautiful face. “Yes, he did, but I‟m sure we can deal with it on our own. I didn‟t want to wait. Let‟s go into my office and we can have a chat about the assignment, look at your portfolio.” I followed him as he swung round and led me away from Reception and down a vast expanse of corridor lined on one side with glass overlooking the darkened road and on the other side with prints of objects I couldn‟t name. “What are these?” I blurted out, curiosity drawing my attention away from his body and towards the swirling lines of red and black and gold. He hesitated and came to hover by my shoulder, filling the air around me with the herbal scent of aftershave. “What do you think they are?” “I don‟t know. Something scientific, maybe. Edgy, strange.” “Do you like them?” “No.” “Why not?” Peering closer at the picture I‟d stopped by, I thought for a moment. “No heart, there‟s something missing. As if someone made it and forgot to put a centre to it. As if they didn‟t care.” He laughed. “I understand what you mean. And you‟re right about the scientific element. They‟re supposed to be versions of motherboards or the inner workings of an engine, I forget which.” “For an insurance company?” “Reinsurance. But yes, exactly, it doesn‟t fit, does it? A leftover from this building‟s previous life. Though we can talk business once we‟re in the office. Come on.” He strode away to the end of the corridor, turning right into a long line of wood panelling and opening the first door on the left. “Here.” Standing in the doorway, I admired his surroundings: beautiful mahogany furniture, dark wall panelling like that which I‟d just walked

18

Anne Brooke through, curved work desk, several chairs huddling round a separate small circular table, for meetings I supposed, and a gleaming green leather sofa. He must be even more important than I imagined, I thought, or at least more than Joe had let on. “Nice place,” I said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say but wishing I could have some time here and commit it to paper. Still, I could do that from memory later if I wanted to. “Glad you like it. Has Amanda‟s killer brew finished you off or would you like another coffee?” Amanda. That must be the receptionist. I shook my head and he gestured to the table. Time to forget the disturbing effect he was having on me and instead bring out some art he might like, and try to look as if I knew what I was doing. Harder than you‟d think when all you wished for was to run your hand through the hair of the person you were trying to impress or at the very least get a little closer to that aftershave. What was it? I laid my portfolio on the patterned wood of the table and unzipped the case with business-like efficiency. The action made me feel in control. “Could I have some more light, please?” He sprang away and manoeuvred the lamp from his desk, bringing it to the edge of the table. I adjusted it to my liking and then began to show him what I‟d done, spreading around my drawings of London, Lee-Anne and Joe, but leaving the ones of Paul hidden. Suddenly they seemed too personal. Or not for Mr. Hutchinson‟s eyes. I couldn‟t bring myself to call him Jack, not even in my head. Not then. And I kept on making the odd comment in an effort to seem professional. “Objects are what I‟m best at, atmospheres as well, which is why Mr. Garmon thought I‟d be suitable for what you‟ve got in mind.” “Yes, I know. He said as much. Tried to talk me into some of his gallery artists, but they weren‟t suitable. Then he mentioned you.” And thank God he had, I thought, continuing my spiel. This could be my big break. “And if you want pencil and charcoal drawings and not watercolours or oils, then it makes sense J—Mr. Garmon—should recommend me.” “Why?” “Because most up-and-coming artists don‟t do what I do. They‟re more interested in colour and what they think it can do, which means drawing, 19

A Dangerous Man real drawing, suffers. With me, you get a focus on one medium and so the quality is better. Not everything should be expressed in colour, you see. Some things are meant for shades of black and grey.” As I‟d been speaking I realised I‟d been leaning towards him to make my point and now I found his blue eyes and full mouth were enticingly near. Straightening up, I took two steps back, but he appeared to notice nothing strange and gave half a smile. “Up-and-coming artist?” “Yes. I like to think so.” “So not really established yet then?” I should have kept my mouth shut. Like I usually did. What was it about this bloke that made me want to say too much? But he must have known that. Joe would have told him. “No,” I said at last as he seemed to be waiting for an answer. “Not yet.” A pause, while he continued to look at my work. To me, it was obvious I‟d blown it and there was nothing more to say. A company like this, a man like him, would want someone they could rely on, someone with real experience behind them, even an exhibition or two. I had nothing but some scribbled impressions of modern city life and Joe‟s recommendation. It was pointless, I didn‟t even know why I‟d come or why Joe had bothered to call me in. Maybe it had been a joke after all and I‟d been too eager or desperate to see it. A sick joke. I‟d kill that bastard when I saw him tonight, I thought, really I would. This might have been my only chance to make it in the art world, my last chance... And it still might be. Because looking at Mr. Hutchinson‟s elegant fingers where he was holding my best London drawing, I knew I didn‟t want to let this one go. This one I wanted to fight for. “Mr. Hutchinson,” I cleared my throat and he jumped and glanced across at me, as if surprised to find me still there. “Mr. Hutchinson, I may not be what you would call an established artist, but I‟m good, I can produce the sort of work you want and produce it quickly. On top of that, if—when—I one day make it, just think of how good your business will look at all those posh dinners you go to, when you can say it was you who discovered me first.” He stared at me for another long moment and then burst into laughter, revealing a not quite straight line of teeth. The imperfection made me want him more. 20

Anne Brooke “That‟s one way of looking at it,” he said. “And, besides that...” I was ready to push my advantage, but he held up one hand in the unmistakeable gesture of authority. “No more, please. I get the gist,” he shuffled my papers together and then placed them in a neat pile in the middle of the table. “You‟re certainly keen, which is good. And you can draw. But I have other people to assess so I can‟t give you an answer now. It‟ll take a day or two to make my decision. In the meantime, here‟s my business card in case you have any other questions.” He handed me the card and I pocketed it in my jeans. It felt as heavy as a stone. “Sure, thanks.” But I couldn‟t keep the disappointment from my voice and he gave me a searching glance as he replaced the lamp onto his desk. “And I‟ll need to keep these, to compare with the others.” He patted my pictures as if they were a dog in need of calming just as I was making a move to gather them up again. “You‟ll have them back, whatever the outcome.” I nodded and clutched my almost empty portfolio case to my chest. Like a barrier, but against what God only knew. He saw me out of the building, but our walk through the corridors and the now empty reception area was a silent one. I could think of nothing to say and he, I thought, had said all he needed to. His face told me nothing. As he twisted the latch and swung open the huge, glass door, letting a rush of wintry air and London noise into that warm and silent place, he turned and gave me an unexpected grin. “These days, you know, there aren‟t that many posh dinners,” he said. ***** When you fall in love, everything changes. Whilst it‟s not something I allow myself to do often and it‟s not something I‟m proud of, when it happens, the quality of light falling on your skin makes everything different, more vibrant, more alive. The journey back to the dark corners of Hackney was filled with the sound of singing in my head and at every judder of the bus, every coming and going of its passengers, I found myself smiling and unable to stop. It was as if London itself had receded a step or two to allow me to breathe. But why now? And why with a man a good ten years older than me, maybe more, with lines around his eyes and—I was sure of it— 21

A Dangerous Man wrinkles on his skin? Not my style at all. The couple of times I‟d fallen in love in the past, the bloke had been young and hot, though of course it never lasted. Why should it? Love didn‟t help anyone, though lust was different. And love didn‟t interest me. The things that mattered were drawing and having the money to draw. Anything else was fun, but nothing to change a life for. This, I told myself, would be the same. But still it worried me. It was still worrying me as I pushed open the broken gate Joe had never bothered to mend and padded up the overgrown path. The light in the high-up kitchen window told me someone was home, and when I turned the key in their door and walked in, I knew it was both of them. Murmured conversation was coming from the kitchen, but I didn‟t feel much like joining in, so headed along the hall towards the privacy of my room. Caution didn‟t do me any good because Joe must have heard my key in the lock though I‟d tried to be quiet; the kitchen door opened, releasing the smell of coriander and cumin into the hallway, and the landlord I wasn’t sleeping with right now poked his head round the corner. “So?” he said, wiping from his cheek a smear of yellow that clashed with his red beard. “How did it go?” “Too early to say,” I shrugged, trying to stop a smile from giving me away. “You know.” “No, I don‟t. Come in and tell me.” Joe grinned and clapped me on the back, guiding me through the doorway and into the steam and spices of the kitchen and almost forcing me into the nearest chair. As I sat down, Paul glanced up from whatever he was reading opposite me, frowned and looked back at his book. Joe didn‟t notice. He was sprinkling a handful of herbs into one of the pots on the hob, after which he gave it a quick stir, wrinkled his nose and then turned to me. “What did you think of Mr. Hutchinson then?” he said. “Tall. Important bloke. Knows what he wants.” Meaning gorgeous, sexy and I am desperate to sleep with him. “Yeah, he does. But what did he say?” “Nothing. He‟ll let me know, in a few days.” Please, oh please. “Didn‟t turn you down straight off then.” Paul muttered, and as he spoke he flipped shut the magazine he was reading before leaning back in his chair, arms folded, head on one side, like a dog about to bite. “Makes a bloody change.” 22

Anne Brooke “What do you mean?” All my hot fantasies about Mr. Jack Hutchinson vanished as I glared up at Paul and clenched my hands into fists under the table. “You heard. Ain‟t no-one ever given you a commission for that scribble you produce, have they? Now Joe here says...” “Paul,” Joe began, whirling his wooden spoon in the air like a conductor, but it was too late. “Why don‟t you shut up?” I was standing now, leaning across the table right against Paul‟s podgy face. “You‟re just jealous, that‟s all, because no matter how hard you try there‟ll be nothing you‟re ever any good at, nothing at all, and you know what I mean.” “You little...” He reached out to grab me, but Joe snatched at his hand and pushed the two of us further apart. “Now, boys, stay cool, will you? Or if you‟re going to fight, for God‟s sake don‟t do it in my kitchen. Okay?” That was fine by me, but Paul had obviously had enough. He gave me a look which promised revenge later and strode out of the kitchen, leaving his magazine behind. Without looking at Joe, I picked it up. The Gay Times, Paul‟s regular drool, I should have known. There were several adverts at the back he‟d been reading to go by the smudges and I grimaced. It always surprised me that Joe never said anything about some of the blokes Paul hooked up with. Or where he hooked up with them. Maybe he simply didn‟t see it, or chose not to. Whatever, it was their business, not mine. Sitting down, I pretended to read, though it didn‟t tell me anything I didn‟t already know. After a while, I looked up. “Sorry.” Joe turned round from his intense scrutiny of his cooking efforts and gave me half a shrug. “He shouldn‟t have said that, though,” I went on and then something else occurred to me. “What did he mean about what you said to him? What did you say?” “Nothing, Michael. Nothing you don‟t know already. And, hey, everything passes.” “Tell me anyway.” “You don‟t...”

23

A Dangerous Man “Please, I want to know, to get it clear in my head. It might help me.” I moved round the table to stand next to my landlord and, in spite of what I owed him, in spite of the fact he could make my future difficult for me if he wanted to, shook his arm. He sighed. “Okay. I told Paul you draw well, you have a lot of potential but...” “But...?” “But, once again, you need to loosen up your style even further. You‟re good of course, but you could be better. Your current work will suit Mr. Hutchinson if he chooses you, and I hope you‟ll use the opportunity I‟ve carved out for you to go to the next level of your art. If you don‟t and if they don‟t like what you come up with, then...” “Then...?” “Then I‟ll use the contact I have now with them to guide them towards a more traditional artist, at very reasonable rates,” he grinned. “Either way, I win.” Everything was still. He was using me. For all his talk, he didn‟t think I‟d deliver the goods, and he‟d get his own gallery artists in there in the wake of my failure. For a moment I wanted to throw up, there on the floor I‟d scrubbed yesterday. Then I wanted to hurt someone, badly. I did neither. Instead, I swallowed once, turned and left. In the hallway, Paul was staring at me, threat hanging over his head like a dark cloud. “You‟re wrong,” I said, to both of them, and then louder. “You‟re both wrong, do you hear? I‟m a good artist now and I‟ll be a bloody good one, one day soon, no matter what I have to do to get there. You‟ll see, you‟ll all bloody well see.” As I opened the front door and felt the cold air knifing through me, I heard Joe call out, “Michael, for God‟s sake, that‟s not what I meant. You don‟t understand, I...” I didn‟t bother to hear him out or reply.

24

Chapter Three February Joe had twisted the afternoon into something cruel and I no longer wanted to be inside with the two of them. I slammed the door behind me and swung down the garden tarmac into the open street. At once I felt lighter, as if the walls and roof of the flat, the spices in the kitchen had been weighing me down, forcing me into a shape I didn‟t recognise. Few people were about, only a couple of tramps and a scattering of whip-thin boys, too young for my liking. Three of them tried to hustle me but I pushed right through the cage they‟d made with their bodies, spitting something wild into the night air, and they drew away, laughing. The tramps I ignored, I had nothing they would want. I strode on, past the litter and broken railings, the wiry straggle of parkland and the promise of gardens. The heavy smell of London splintered into strands of human flesh, brick, tile, dying grass and abandoned dogs. All of them demanding a response I was unable to give. Because the only thing in my head was Joe‟s comment and what it might mean. Why was I only “good”? Why couldn‟t I be the best? How could I get better? Drawing was what I breathed for; it was the only need that drove me from my bed in the mornings. Every day, I was always looking. Looking for snippets of vision, something quirky at the corner of a building or in the way some men held their smiles. Looking so I could memorise what I thought I saw and commit it to the precious paper afterwards. It was a release and an abandonment. But how could I improve enough to make the people who mattered see its quality? Heading south, my head full of desire, I passed orange street lights casting monstrous shadows onto faces, old warehouses which would never be used for anything but drugs now, and always more and more people with the poverty or desperation they wore. London. It smelt of failure, something I couldn‟t stomach. Until today, so much in my life had been wrong, or less than right, that I couldn‟t see how I could bear it any longer. I had to make a change. Striding past a bus waiting at traffic lights, I turned at the last moment and squeezed on, the aisle packed with people 25

A Dangerous Man heading to the centre for clubbing or for sex. And so for a while we careered round the streets, leaving behind our lives, and seeing lights and gangs and theatres and always people, so many people sparked once in my sight and then gone. The nearer the heart of the city came, of course, the slower the journey. I knew by now where I was heading. Just past Tottenham Court Road, I waited for the bus driver to change down a gear and then jumped; a sensation of flying through dirty air, and then landing on my arse on wet pavement. Behind me came the raucous jeering of the bodies left on the bus, trapped like animals until their destination. I took no notice. Picking myself up, I brushed my jeans, checking for rips, but found none. Then pushing through the curious stares of more tramps and drunks, I hunched my shoulders and hoped that the end of my journey might take the sweat off my skin for a while. Or add to it, maybe. Ten minutes of walking and letting the air dry my jeans brought me to the narrow entrance of The Two Ravens. An ugly building, with its crumbling brickwork and crooked, rain-beaten sign, but still something about the way the lines edged into each other as if stumbling their way home made me feel alive. It was one of the places I most enjoyed drawing, though I showed no-one the results. Through the warped door, the smell of flesh and sweet wine flowed over me. On offer, as always, more poncy cocktails than I would have liked, but behind the bar Frank was only doing his best. Not that there‟d been many new faces here in all the time I‟d been coming, let alone yuppie ones, but you had to admire his trying. He nodded as I walked in, his thin face sweating in the muggy heat. “The usual?” “Sure.” Around me, male flesh danced its muscular rhythm of mating, eyes smiling, catching glances and letting them go. Soon, I thought, I would join in, simply for the hell of it, to see what might happen, tonight when I so much needed to forget, but for now other things were more important. So I waited and watched as Frank reached for the nearest glass, wiped it and began pulling the foaming liquid from the pump. It made my mouth water. “Don‟t know why you won‟t try any of my posh stuff, Michael. Everyone says my Manhattan could pass at Claridge‟s.” 26

Anne Brooke “Yeah, but I wouldn‟t. Anyway, I‟m happy with what I know.” He laughed, his smile taking years from him, but said nothing. While he finished pulling my pint, I wondered if he still had a thing about me, and what I might do if he had. When I‟d first mooched into his establishment, partly for the dope and partly for the other extras you could get without fear of questions, I‟d caught him a couple of times looking at me with that certain slyness about the eyes. I knew what it meant, but at the time I hadn‟t been interested in someone his age. Why bother with ancient history when you could get something fresh? Now with my reaction to Jack Hutchinson so hot in my memory, I wasn‟t so sure. To take my mind away from the flush burning my skin at the thought of that bloke, I grabbed my drink, took one long swig of it and leant back against the bar. “So what‟s different?” “Since last week when you were in, you mean?” “Come on, this is the city—things change all the time around here.” “If you say so. Smoke?” When I nodded, Frank reached down and pulled out a couple of spliffs from the counter under the bar. He gave me one of them and lit the other, holding it in his mouth. Then leaning forward, he touched the lighted end to mine. A moment‟s suppressed laughter and hesitation and then I breathed in the sultry smoke, feeling it begin to drift through my blood, easing muscle and bone and so much history. Opening my eyes, I sensed rather than saw Frank‟s hand almost touching the skin around my mouth. Smiling a little at him, I moved away. But not too far. “Go on, tell me,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse. “Anything new around here?” He grimaced and jerked his head towards the corner of the bar. “Well, as you‟re asking and I‟m nothing but a bloody good publican, and don‟t forget it, then he is.” Following the direction of Frank‟s gesture, I saw a figure I hadn‟t seen when I‟d first come in. A dark-haired slim bloke, a boy really from the look of him, huddled round his glass as if he was protecting it from thieves. Obviously a first-timer, but even at this distance, I could tell his suit was good quality, maybe even the best. An inexperienced rich punter. At last my luck had changed. It would be a walk-over.

27

A Dangerous Man Leaning across the counter, I whispered, “Watch this, Frank. Watch and learn.” I sauntered across the floor, dodging blokes snogging or pretending to dance, my beer in one hand and the joint in the other. I felt mellow, like honey. At the table, the boy looked up, seemed to shimmer as I smiled at him. “Can I get you a drink?” “N-no, thanks. I mean I‟ve got one.” He opened up his arms as if surrendering to reveal what looked like Frank‟s most colourful cocktail. What did he put in those things? They had to be lethal. “So I see.” Hovering for a few moments brought no response. “Can I sit down then?” “Oh. Oh of course, yes that would be great.” We chatted for a while and I learnt more than I wanted or needed to know about his job as an accountant in Bloomsbury, the girlfriend who had just chucked him and how he felt that he was missing out on something in life, maybe not going in the right direction—yeah, yeah, same old stuff we’d all heard a thousand times before—and how he‟d walked into The Two Ravens as someone at work had said it was a gay bar. That made me laugh, knocking shop for blokes, more like. But I mean, who cared about all the social stuff? If we were going to fuck, and now I desperately wanted to, then why bother with small talk? So I just waited until he‟d talked himself out, which didn‟t take as long as I‟d feared, and then leant back on my stool and stretched a little, so he could see the goods. “I need to freshen up,” I said. “Nothing like a quick spruce in the bathroom, is there?” “No, I suppose not, I...” “Would you like to come with me?” For a second, I could see he had no idea what I was talking about, and then his face cleared as if lit by a streetlamp. “Yes, yes I would, thanks.” I got up before his gratitude killed the feeling, “Okay, the Gents here is down the stairs and first on your right. Give me a minute and then come and join me. Bring your wallet. Got that?” He nodded and, triumphant, I sashayed back the way I‟d come to show him a hint of what he was about to have. As I passed the bar, I stage28

Anne Brooke whispered to Frank, “Be a pal and make sure no-one but him goes downstairs for a while, would you?” He gave me a dark look and grunted, a noise I took as an affirmative. The old bugger had never let me down before, no matter what. In the shabby toilets, I splashed my face with water and noticed that the peeling paper above the sinks was worse than ever. Frank would be better off sorting out his décor rather than worrying about cocktails and the yuppie crowd. It might please his regulars more. A minute went by. Then another. Great, maybe Mr. Sex Tourist had changed his mind and slipped away before he got into too much trouble. Frank would be laughing out loud now if it were true and I‟d never be able to drink in here again. I was beginning to think murderous thoughts and cursing all sex cowards when the clatter of shoes on the wooden stairway made me reconsider. The door swung open. “At last, I thought you‟d never...” I began to say, but then stopped. It was Frank. And the sly look was back. Oh well, I thought, I‟d rather have had the boy, but if I‟d suddenly developed a fancy for older skin, then Frank was as good a place to see what it was like as any other. Neither of us bothered with conversation. Thank God for the more experienced punter. First I went down on him, noting with satisfaction the size of his prick. Never let anyone tell you size doesn‟t count, because it does, every time. Then because he seemed to want more, I undressed him, slowly, taking in the lines and folds of his skin, before shedding my own jeans and jumper. Choosing the strongest-looking of the condoms I‟d brought and closing my eyes, I leant over the cleanest loo and let him fuck me. He enjoyed it and it wasn‟t that bad for me either, especially when I could imagine it being a sexy investment analyst rather than a rickety old queen. Though I suppose there couldn‟t have been that many years between the two of them. It just proved what money could do. Whatever, it got some of the fire out of my blood and I was grateful. Afterwards, Frank lit another spliff and we shared it until it was all but gone. I found his being older than me wasn‟t a problem and was glad. “Why now?” I said, wishing I was more spaced than I was. “Why try it on this evening after all this time?”

29

A Dangerous Man “Because for the first time ever, you looked like you might let me. And because...” “Because what?” “Because I know there won‟t be another chance. Will there?” ***** No, there wouldn‟t be, but knowing the landlord he wouldn‟t let it bother him. Which meant I could still go back and drink or fuck in a pub I liked. Stretching myself awake in my narrow single bed the following morning, I glanced at the table and smiled at the five crisp twenties nestling in my wallet. Good old Frank. He hadn‟t been keen at first when I‟d asked for cash afterwards, saying something about the beer being on the house, but when I‟d suggested that what I‟d done and let him do was a hell of a lot of beer, and besides he‟d got rid of my one paying customer, then he‟d given in and had even been generous. Not as generous as any yuppie on the prowl, but generous enough for a bloke like him. If nothing else, letting Frank screw me had made me decide what I was going to do about the art deal, how to make Jack hire me ahead of all his other choices. It was wonderful how a bit of prick-work could make everything clearer. For some. First though, I had to wait for Paul and Joe to finish their early morning humping which I could hear through the thin walls of my room, and get out of the flat. They never took long. Joe must have liked it like that. While they grunted and bounced around on the duvet, I planned my campaign to get that job and if I could manage to get the giver of the job into bed with me. The first part of the campaign was thought up while my two landlords shared a noisy shower and got dressed. The second part took a little more time as I got a lot hotter, so had to give myself a thorough seeing-to while the happy couple were in the kitchen poaching egg and enjoying a post-sex glow. Mind you, after ten minutes, all three of us were enjoying the glow, but not together. Thank God. I waited until the clock showed 8:30 am and the front door had slammed shut before I got up. Deciding to grab some breakfast before I showered and started step one of the great plan, I padded through the hallway and into the kitchen. But I wasn‟t alone. Paul was stubbing out a last-minute cigarette, his crumpled suit smelling of smoke and stale aftershave. “You up then?” he grunted. 30

Anne Brooke “What‟s it look like?” “Thought you couldn‟t face us,” he said, ignoring my words. “Not after last night‟s little scene. What is it, Mikey? Got all shirty just because Joe told you that you just don‟t cut it. Again.” “Yet. And God knows why Joe doesn‟t see through you.” He got up and leaned towards me. “I tell you this, the only way someone like you will make it in the bloody art world, you bastard, is by screwing your way into it. At least that‟s what I think. Now I can‟t chat all day to you, pleasant though it is. Some of us have real jobs.” He swung past me on his way out, still laughing, and I came as near to punching him as at any time. The only thing that stopped me was the discount. And the fact that, if I couldn‟t find a way of upping my game, then he might be right. But I knew what to do about that, didn‟t I? ***** “Hi there, can I speak to Mr. Hutchinson, please?” The woman on the switchboard paused as if weighing my accent in the balance and finding it unacceptable. Then she said, “I‟m sorry. He‟s busy, I‟m told. May I take a message?” “I‟d like to speak to him.” Fingers digging into flesh. He had to speak to me, he had to. “I‟m sorry, he‟s busy, but I...” “No, don‟t worry,” my tongue was too big for my mouth and the words seemed to get caught where I couldn‟t rescue them. “Just leave it. Just...” “May I say who called?” I was about to say no, it didn‟t matter, what was the point as someone like him would never ring me back, it was too stupid, when my hand closed around the business card in my jeans pocket. He‟d given me that, whatever it had meant. “Yes,” I said. “Tell him that Michael Jones, the... one of his possible artists, rang and I want to discuss something with him. Cheers.” Dropping the phone back onto its base in the hall, I sauntered back into the kitchen and lit a cigarette. One of Paul‟s. I thought I might even have sounded okay on the phone to that posh tart at Reception, like someone who had a business deal and knew how to hustle for it. Someone not like me then. Finishing the smoke, I wandered into my room, trying to look important. The late morning sun was slanting through the narrow window, 31

A Dangerous Man filling the duvet‟s folds and valleys. Reaching under the bed, I pulled out my selection of papers, all stacked in different sizes. My hand drifted towards the largest, but I hesitated. There wasn‟t the room here to do it justice. Instead, I went for the middle ground. More than anything I wanted to start something new. I’d have to ring him back. Of course I would, if he was going to find out about my plan. Stupid, stupid git. I hadn‟t told the girl what to do, had I? I‟d said nothing about ringing back later or whether I wanted Jack to ring me. I‟d just said the bare outline and then left it. Great, Michael, yeah, last of the art wheelers and dealers or what? I was never going to be a real professional, not at this rate. Slouching down onto the bed and grabbing the nearest pencil, I ran one hand through my hair and rolled into a position where the sun lit up whatever I might do. Pushing the worries of the day into the smallest fraction of my head, I moved my hand across the page and let out whatever I could find inside me. Drawing, even if it wasn‟t for a living, at least not yet, is a strange thing to do. Taking what‟s inside yourself and making it into something else isn‟t natural, not really. And, most times, I would never know what it was I was going to try to get onto the magical, oh-so-white paper until I‟d started. That was always the best part of the game, just seeing what was there and what I really thought of it. Then, once I‟d got going I could bring into play what I‟d learnt in my short time at school and from the practice I‟d had over the years. All twenty-four of them. What was sexy Jack Hutchinson doing when he was twenty-four? Or who? I wish it had been me, I wish I was older. Mustn‟t get side-tracked, not even by sex. It‟s no good when I‟m about to start a picture, because when everything else is gone, even physical stuff, or when, God help me, I‟m too old to pull anyone, it‟ll be the pictures that count. It‟ll be the pictures that last. I hope, I hope, somewhere. It doesn‟t matter about me, but what I do, that‟s what matters. And then, suddenly, when the sun is beginning to warm my face, I‟m there. In the zone where everything is perfect, and I‟m drawing. Fingers, hand and charcoal pencil, even thought, are one and what I am, what I see, or part of it, is skimming across the page, darker here, lighter on the left, a smudging—deliberate—and feathering with spit. While inside, the 32

Anne Brooke crimson glow is burning, that bubble I carry within me where I store everything that happens, good or bad, where I can think about it when I‟m alone, at night or on the street, waiting for the chance for cash and an easy screw. As the glow burns, it travels through my limbs, blood and bone, and into my head where something explodes like an electric shock, so I‟m shivering, retching even as my hand still moves over paper, tasting vomit in my mouth but refusing to let it go, swallowing down the bitterness. And still I draw, sweat sticky on my forehead and under my arms, but the only part of me touching what I‟m doing is my hand with its instrument for line and block and shadow. Nothing can harm me now. Ten minutes later the urgency fades, though I wish it would stay. Maybe that is what I need to make it. Just more of the beginning push and the feeling of flying to get me over the edge of amateur into the realms of the professional, I wish it so much. But I can do nothing about it. What comes, comes when it wants to. And I‟m left with the shreds of what I hope is talent to make it stick. The thought for some reason makes me laugh and I slide off the bed, kneeling down and staring at what I‟ve produced to see if it means something. To anyone else, that is. It always means something to me. What I see makes me smile. So much for not thinking about sex, because the outline of what I‟ve done is the inside of Jack Hutchinson‟s offices. An impression of panelling and a deeper smudging for carpet—so deep it looks like the sea. And all of it leading to the hint of a great window, a space, facing out onto... what? I didn‟t know and it didn‟t matter. But I knew I wanted to finish it. So gathering up everything I needed, I headed to the less intense surroundings of Joe‟s living room. The light was always softer there, more spread out. And of course a damn sight nicer when neither of the other two were in. Starting to work up what I‟d done already, I was happy, in the way that being alone and drawing could make me. The only other thing I could wish for was that I had an easel, rather than relying on one of Joe‟s art books across my knees, I thought as I added the remains of the window, placing it to the right on the paper, something that would mean there might be a future. For Jack and me? I wouldn‟t dare even to think it. But the art job, maybe there was hope there. I‟d ring him back this afternoon for definite. Just for fun, I drew in the outline of a figure sitting and gazing

33

A Dangerous Man out, focused on something through the window. Something I couldn‟t draw. Something beyond the paper. What would it be? The phone rang, as if from nowhere and my breath caught in my throat. Probably bloody Paul back to stick the pins in a little more. Let the answer-phone get it this time, what did I care? I was pushing open the living room door when the machine finished its bland greeting, clicked in and I heard the start of the message. Two seconds later, the phone was clutched in my hands, sweat making it slide across my cheek. “Hello?” “Ah, you are there then. Good morning to you, it’s Jack Hutchinson here. I believe you called?” Of course I knew who it was; he didn‟t need to announce himself. One word from across the city and it felt as if I‟d been scalded. “Yes, yes, I did,” I said, trying to kick my brain into action and finding nothing connected. “So, as I’m keen to get this project up and running, I thought I’d ring now. I’m seeing a client this afternoon and I don’t want to waste any time.” “Sure, yeah, I see that.” A pause during which my fizzing brain still couldn‟t produce any logic to impress the bloke with. What the hell was I going to tell him? “So...?” “So,” I took a breath deep enough to catch my quarry if he‟d only been nearer. “So, I‟d like to discuss an extra proposition with you. About this art project.” So far so good, I thought, though I wished I hadn‟t stumbled over the word “proposition” quite so badly. “Go ahead,” Jack said. “But make it quick.” I did. “I‟m very interested in what you want to do, and I‟m working right now on something that might fit. If I can show it to you and you like it, you can have it for free. If I get the job, that is. And the same goes for the next picture I do.” When I finished, I was panting as if I‟d been running for hours. He was silent. I thought he might laugh and if he did I might die. Right there on the end of the phone, and Joe and bloody Paul would have been right

34

Anne Brooke about me and what I did all along and no-one anywhere would miss me for a fucking second. “All right,” and now he did laugh but not in a cruel way. “You’re on. I assume Mr. Garmon is happy with this. That being the case, come to the offices again tomorrow, eleven o’clock, and you can have three minutes to convince me with whatever you’ve got. I’ll see you then, Mr. Jones.” With that he put down the phone and I was dancing, like a boy, right round the hallway, into the kitchen and then back, back to my picture to do the best I could do for tomorrow. ***** Jack‟s offices swallowed me up once again like a fly in the Underground. I wished that their owner would do the same to me, but right now that was too much to hope for. The art was what I was pushing, not sex or even a good snog and a hand-job, which I didn‟t even know he would be up for. He was probably straight with a wife and at least three children crawling over his vast estate somewhere in west London. What was I to know? I didn‟t have a hope. Standing in front of the curved reception desk, my eyes prickling with lack of sleep and clutching in my portfolio the picture I‟d chosen to tempt him with, I knew I wasn‟t at my best. “Good morning,” the receptionist—Amanda—began and then, “Ah, it‟s Mr. Jones, isn‟t it? Mr. Hutchinson is expecting you.” Well, I thought, this is different from last time. Almost makes me feel important. I refused the coffee she offered and sat down, avoiding the layers of meaningless newspapers and staring in the direction which Mr. Hutchinson would come from. The air seemed to quiver with the expectation of male beauty and I found myself smoothing down my hair and rubbing my face to try to banish exhaustion. Some hope. The clock said 10:45 am and ten, no, thirteen slow minutes ticked by unendingly, during which I changed my position four times, stood up, stretched, and yawned, whilst people, who weren‟t the man I wanted to see, strolled through chatting about nothing, or nothing I could understand. At last at 10:58am I heard the sound of a door clicking shut, the shuffle-whoosh of feet on rich carpet and he appeared in the sunlight that flooded the reception area, his hand outstretched. I took it. And squeezed once, before letting go. I couldn‟t help myself. Not that it seemed to matter as his mind was on the business ahead. 35

A Dangerous Man “Welcome again, Mr. Jones. Glad to see you‟re early. Shall we begin?” From instinct I turned to head in the direction of his office, buried deep in the heart of the building, but I was wrong. This time, he headed past the reception desk, smiling at Amanda as he did so, and opened the door at the corner which I hadn‟t seen, hidden as it was by the end wall. Following him, I found myself in a purpose-built office, filled with a table, four or five chairs and a small coffee machine. Everything in plastic and light wood. Nothing at all like where I‟d been before. I‟d have preferred to have been with him in a room I already knew, but he‟d obviously decided against it. For whatever reason. He gestured at a chair before taking one himself and steepling his fingers in front of him like someone about to give judgement. I didn‟t sit down. Instead, I stood opposite him and without taking my eyes from his, I eased my picture from my case and pushed it across the table to him. “There,” I said. “That‟s what I‟ve done. Something I thought you‟d like and, as I said on the phone, this one‟s for free.” He nodded once and then took the paper and studied it. I watched him frown and then give half a smile but still he said nothing. What was it he saw? Of course I knew the physical lines which made up what I‟d done, but what the viewer saw, well that was another thing, something I couldn‟t control. Thinking this, I found I was sweating even though the room was cold. I closed my eyes and my drawing seemed to be burned into the blackness. The strokes and shadows of Jack‟s office, the scent of sweet wood shown in charcoal, the space of air laced outside the window which, if there was a life beyond the page or rightness to be found anywhere, might show trees flowing through railings, silhouettes of people walking. And nearer in perspective than that, the figure at the front right of the picture, the profile of a man gazing out, a suggestion of happiness in the light lines of his body, but with a hint of strength inside that couldn‟t be tamed by walls or parks or cities. A man with the eyes and mouth of Jack Hutchinson. What would he think? So much depended on this, more than I could bring myself to know. He went on looking. Shifting from one foot to the other, I hugged myself and wished he‟d say something. Anything. Maybe I was stupid to think I could swing a big business decision in this way, maybe I should snatch back my work and walk out of here, leave the building and the 36

Anne Brooke whole of the bloody City behind with all its rich-git laughter and politeness and go back to what I knew. Walk and keep on walking until I could tell by the smell of the dirt that I‟d come home. The downbeat drum of Hackney, the sweat and shine of the streets. Then he looked up. I waited. Finally he spoke. “This is good,” he said. “Not the best I‟ve seen, maybe, but you haven‟t had much time. And I like the fact that you‟ve been proactive. None of the other candidates has been. That‟s a big point in your favour.” “Meaning...?” One eyebrow was raised at such an interruption but I held his gaze. He leant back in the chair and crooked his head to one side. “Meaning,” he said, “that we accept your offer and we‟ll give you two months to come up with something we like. If we don‟t like what we see, then the agreement‟s off, though of course you‟ll get paid for your time, and we‟ll go elsewhere. Deal?” I smiled, “Deal.” But what a lot I would have to learn in such a short time.

37

Chapter Four February to March I danced out of that bloody office, I swear I did. I remembered pumping Jack‟s hand over and over again but have no idea if he might have said anything else. I left with excitement buzzing in my ears, the pavement almost melting with late morning sun. The whole of London seemed to be smiling; even the tramps in the gutter and lurking in what was left of the bus-shelters, even the women tap-tapping along in their high-heeled business shoes, even the men in their pressed suits and pressed frowns. For the moment the world felt good. In a way it might never again. The first thing I did was take a bus, swaying through the silky City streets in a cloud of fumes and wishes, and into the dirt-encrusted houses of Hackney. The gallery was warm and welcoming, this time with two or three blokes dressed in chinos and grey polo shirts sauntering through Joe‟s market-place. Tourists only, I thought, not serious buyers. Lee-Anne, a vision in sapphire, must have thought the same, because she wasn‟t paying them much attention apart from the odd smile when they looked her way, and was instead flicking through some office catalogue. “Hiya,” I said, trying not to grin like a boy with a new train-set. “Joe in?” “Morning, Michael. Or afternoon, rather. Yes, he‟s in. I‟ll check if he‟s busy.” But just as she lifted the internal phone, the great gallery-owner himself opened the door and strode out, presumably on the way to some cut-throat artistic wheeler-dealer session somewhere. “Michael,” he boomed across at me as if I were the person he‟d most wanted to see all day, even though I would have thought I‟d be the last. “How are you?” His accent became several notches more northern as he spoke. He must be worried about something; certainly couldn‟t be drunk. It wasn‟t a Friday night and it wasn‟t late. I shrugged. “Fine.”

38

Anne Brooke “Good, good, I‟m pleased,” he rubbed his hands together like a TV presenter about to get a scoop. “Listen, Michael, about what I said... I don‟t want you to think that... I mean everything...” “… passes, sure I know. But I‟ve got some good news.” “Oh?” “I‟ve got that job. The one with the City firm. Start next week.” “Really? Excellent, well done!” As he spoke, the second‟s disbelief on his face gave way to relief, and I could see him calculating his cut. Probably best not to tell him about the freebies I‟d offered, I thought. Not yet anyway. Though I‟d swung it, hadn‟t I? He‟d be pleased in the end. All I had to do was make sure Jack liked my stuff enough to keep it. So I smiled as Joe gestured at Lee-Anne who from nowhere—how do women do this sort of stuff?—produced cold champagne and three glasses. A part of me was touched at the gesture so I swigged it down, wishing it were beer. I wasn‟t a champagne bloke. While I drank, I gazed round the walls of Joe‟s gallery and hoped that soon, soon, one day and somewhere, it might be my artwork on display. Fifteen minutes of congratulations and planning later and Joe had gone. Floating out behind him and still wafted on a tide of champagne and joy, I dared to kiss Lee-Anne goodbye, an action which made her flush to the roots of her auburn hair, and then left to take the ten-minute walk back home. Where instead of doing what I should have done and got down to some hard slog with the tools of my would-be trade, I drifted about the flat, tidying the papers Paul tended to dump on any surface he thought fit, taking the bowls and glasses and plates out of the dishwasher and putting them back in the cupboards, each in its place. I hated things to be a mess. Whatever I could control, such as where things were kept or how the lines on a page melded together to create something better than themselves, I would do it. It made everything seem more familiar, easier to handle. After that, I got engrossed in the idea of cleanness and I was just finishing off the hoovering in the hall when Paul came home. Early. Sometimes flexible hours could be a bad thing, for those who lived with those who had them. “Got your French Maid outfit on then, Mikey?” he sniffed the air as if searching for clues. “Been spraying the lavender polish around? Or is it some kind of weird sex game you‟re going to let me in on later?” “For God‟s sake.” 39

A Dangerous Man “What‟s that? Can‟t take a joke?” he flung his leather jacket at the coat hooks, missed, and stomped into the kitchen, where I heard the sound of a can being opened and then a faint gurgle as Paul downed his first beer of the evening. Picking up the jacket and hanging it up while trying not to touch it was difficult, but I did my best. He slunk out of the kitchen, beer can swinging in his hand, and snorted when he saw me. “Fancy a quick one? Before Joe gets home? He‟ll be ages yet, he rang to say he was held up at the gallery. Again.” “Come off it, it‟s not your usual day, is it?” I tried to suppress a twitch of disgust, but I couldn‟t have been too successful as Paul frowned and paused in the act of opening the living room door. “Meaning...?” “Nothing. We just don‟t do it at weekends, do we?” “So maybe now‟s the time to start. Don‟t worry, Mikey, there‟s good discount in it for you.” But I wouldn‟t have cared if there‟d been the bloody Crown Jewels and half the London fire brigade in it for me. Because all I could think of, for the first time ever, was how dirty I‟d feel afterwards and how if my new employer found out he might dismiss me on the spot. Who would want a hooker in all but name doing a drawing job for your high-living, highclass company? Not that he would find out—I was mad to think he might. It was just that if Paul touched me this weekend and I went in on Monday, I was sure that somehow Mr. Hutchinson would know. God knows how. But it made me shiver. “So?” Paul prompted me. “Naa, no way,” I was chancing a smack from his fat hand but I didn‟t care. “Let‟s save it, shall we? Anyway, I might not be needing a discount for a while.” He laughed. “Cut the crap, you‟re cash-crazy, you are. When have you ever turned down the readies?” Knowing he was right didn‟t help. “So maybe I‟ve changed. People do.” “People like you don‟t.” Fists clenched, I took two paces towards him and was pleased to see him flinch. In my experience, bullies were always cowards. If only I‟d known that sooner in life, things might not have turned out as they had. 40

Anne Brooke Leaning right up against his sweaty body, I spoke quickly before he recovered his usual swagger. He‟d get me later, I knew, but I simply didn‟t care. “Don‟t be too sure about that. I‟m a bloke with a commission now and I don‟t need your charity. That job I went for, I got it, so put that in your bloody can of beer and drink it.” And before he could retaliate with his fists, I backed off and hot-footed it to my room. Behind me his laughter followed. “Fucking hell, what did you have to do to get that? Sleep with the bloke?” I wished he‟d been right. ***** As I‟d thought, I paid for that bit of rebellion. Still, on Monday morning, ten minutes before Mr. Hutchinson was expecting me, I turned up at the offices almost like a normal worker and prepared to start my new life. If I‟d let myself think about it, I wouldn‟t have been able to count the times I‟d tried to do that but this time, I swore to myself, it would be different. When he stepped into view, he was humming a tune I didn‟t recognise, something classical which had never been my game, and his smile made my skin shiver. What I wouldn‟t give for a couple of hours with this bloke, for starters. And then who knew? A couple of hours alone with him would wipe out those nights with bloody Paul and all the other nameless punters and sweep the past away. “… don‟t you agree, Mr. Jones?” “What?” I hadn‟t been listening at the very moment when I should have been paying attention with every atom in my body and more. Shaking my head to rid it of the image of the man in front of me naked and ready for anything, I listened while he repeated the question and then agreed that, yes, it was a good idea to take a tour of the building, meet some people and then discuss assignments. Though, to be honest, I would have agreed to whatever would make him smile. So we spent the next two hours walking the padded corridors and plush offices of what I was now sure was the most posh and cleanest place I‟d ever been in. Everyone I saw was dressed in identical dark suits with crisp plain shirts, if a bloke, and tweed or twin sets if a woman. It was like being back at school, as the uniform took away any traces of who you 41

A Dangerous Man were, melding everything into a vast mass of working humanity. In my newest jeans and cleanest sweater, I felt like the poor boy come to beg. All the time I shook hands and nodded and smiled, with not a hope of remembering people‟s names afterwards, my fingers itched to put pencil to paper and recreate some of the swinging and diverging lines of contact between people and machine that hummed the air. The sunlight gathering in the enormous darkened windows seemed to lurk and promise a brighter day. At the end of it all, we reached Jack Hutchinson‟s office. It felt like coming home. He gestured me to the rich green sofa and switched on the coffee machine, the heavy scent of beans weighing the air down. But I was too curious to sit. Instead, I wandered round his desk looking for clues. Next to the laptop, so small I could have walked out with it under my jacket and nobody would have known, were two photos I hadn‟t been able to see before. One of an older couple laughing straight into camera and surrounded by what looked like acres and acres of meadow, and the other of two children playing on a swing, a boy and a girl, whose ages I hadn‟t a chance of guessing. No picture of a woman though, so maybe no wife. Or could he be a widower? The thought made me feel sick. There was so much I was wanting right now that letting it go would feel like a knife in the gut. “My parents,” he said. “And the others are my nephew and niece—my sister‟s two.” Good. That solved it. For the moment. “Nice.” “Yes, I‟m very fond of my sister. Have you got family?” He sat down, leaving me stranded like a wounded bird on the carpet in the middle of his office. Everything shimmered once before coming back into focus. “No,” I lied. Then, “So what would you like me to draw for you first?” He looked at me for a long moment and then turned to shuffle some papers next to him. “What struck you most when I was showing you around?” “That‟s easy. The way people here are with each other.” “Which is...?” “Formal but with something else—something that reminds me of water.” 42

Anne Brooke “Water?” “Yes.” The way Jack was looking at me was making me feel uncomfortable but I struggled to the end of the thought. “It sounds off-thewall, I know, but it‟s like seeing what happens on a pond, isn‟t it? The way you can be sitting watching the water any time of the night or day and there‟ll always be something happening, but all the time the birds or insects don‟t bump into each other or even seem aware of each other. It‟s like a dance.” He leant back and smiled, “Very impressive. So why don‟t you interpret that in some way? In your drawing, if you understand me.” “I do.” “Good, then go ahead. How long do you think it will take you to produce something we can use?” “A day. No more.” “Okay, I‟ll see you back here on Thursday,” he paused as he tapped something into his laptop. “I‟m free for a short time at three-thirty. Will that do?” I nodded. At the door, I turned back for a second. “Is your sister like you?” “Penny? No, not really. She‟s very back-to-nature, a bit of a dreamer, works part-time, something I wish I could do sometimes. No chance of that yet, I‟m afraid. Still we all have to have our dreams, don‟t we?” “Sure.” And that was the end of our first real conversation. The next couple of weeks were spent padding round the offices, jotting down ideas, lines and half-sketches which I could complete or expand on later, and after a while Mr. Hutchinson asked me to drop the “Mr.” and call him Jack, a gesture which filled me with joy. In the end, I gained a commission to come up with ten to twelve pictures they could use, initially in one of their boardrooms, though some might be for their reception area, depending on quality and subject matter. That would show Joe for sure. I‟d be making him money that didn‟t include rent. It was good, but it was strange. I‟d never been in any office for that length of time and in the days ahead what was first a jumble of people and paper came to have some sort of logic. A routine became visible, of morning meetings and snatched breaks, moments of wild flurry and moments when everything was a sea of calm. But always under the 43

A Dangerous Man surface was the feeling of movement, of people working to one purpose, no matter how individual their efforts were. Edginess was apparent too, the scent of hatred in the air between long-time enemies and also the times when a desk was empty, a coffee mug unwashed. None of this happened in Jack‟s department though, and as I watched him I could see the generosity and fairness with which he treated his staff or those he considered to be his staff, even me. Not that he didn‟t demand the most you had, but he gave more. And he cared, something I hadn‟t seen in a while. If situations got sticky or edgy when he was around, he‟d be there with what seemed to be his stock phrase, “Let‟s be calm about this,” sorting it out and restoring peace and purpose. Being with him and watching what he did felt like retracing my steps down the years and wondering if even I could have taken another route. All the time I was getting to know him better. I timed my breaks and my trips to the City to coincide with what I could find out about when he was going to be in and not as busy as he usually was. Whenever I could, I‟d show him the progress of what I was doing on the pretext of asking his advice but really I simply wanted to see him, because each time after I‟d gazed at his honey hair and blue eyes, at the firm lilt of his muscles and the way his mouth was slightly crooked when he smiled, I came away fizzing with heat. In a way which made my drawings all the better. I was producing the best work I thought I‟d ever done, in a series of fluid styles bordering on the surreal, from clear blocks of solidity to a pattern of swirling lines, through which I made the shapes of people and objects quiver. And while I showed him these and noted any comments he had, I found out by luck and subtlety the things I wanted to know. He was rich, of course, someone like that would be. He had no wife to spend it on, and I could make out no other lover, male or female. Or none he talked of. Though why should he? I wasn‟t a friend, not even a colleague; as far as he was concerned, as soon as I‟d completed his commission that would be it. All the more reason to try to slow down my pace of work though that, for me, was hard. He lived in Islington, yuppie-land for sure, and talked about his parents, who lived in Surrey on something which sounded like a mini estate. In fact he talked about his whole family, and as if he got on well with them, loved them even. I didn‟t know whether I envied that.

44

Anne Brooke Some of my drawings he liked, some he didn‟t. Nothing is ever perfect, is it? But I soon got to know that the trick of keeping the commission was to set the lines on the page verging on the surreal, but still containing enough so that people could make sense of it. My impressions of people improved too. But the couple of times I asked if he‟d like me to do another one of him, he shook his head and I didn‟t push it. He was paying me, after all. Not that I minded that much, not at first. Because at home things were very different. Whenever I left him, I would spend the bus journey back thinking up new ways to draw the man I was obsessed with. The moment I got back, usually mid afternoon during those cold February days, I would switch the heating on—neither Joe nor Paul ever bothered to set it to suit me, only themselves—and stretch out on my bed with a clean sheet of paper in my sketchbook. I had special pencils I used for drawings of Jack. Secret drawings, ones I didn‟t want anyone to see, except him if one day the thing I wished for and dreamt about were to happen. God, that would be so good, I could hardly bear even drifting towards the great barrier between knowing something is fantasy and wondering if it might become real. Most of the time I managed to stay on the right side. After all, he‟d given me no reasons to plan for reality. Which was maybe why the pictures I did of him during those days meant so much. I started off being good, drawing him with clothes at first, shirt open to hint at the cool expanse of sleek chest, and then the shirt disappeared and my drawings took on their own erotic life, a life I took pleasure from. Best of all was when I allowed myself to stop pretending and draw him naked, stretched out on a bed I knew was mine, hair messed up after sex or sometimes gazing straight out of frame at me, in the moments before sex might happen. On those moments above all the others, my cock showed me how much I wanted him. Even when I was happiest though, a part of me was listening for Paul‟s key in the lock and his heavy tread up the communal stairs. The signal that I had maybe thirty seconds to hide my work inside my portfolio case, shove it under the bed and lie and wait to see what the hell he was going to do that evening. I‟d already paid the price for my rudeness to him in the week I‟d started working with Jack. Three rough sex sessions with no rent discounts before he considered the insult paid for. I think afterwards Paul had even felt guilty because he hadn‟t then come near me for a week, 45

A Dangerous Man which was no sadness for me, and when he did he was quick and the discount was bigger. As a one-off. And of course Paul never asked in the middle of his thrusting, before the great collapse, how I was doing. He wouldn‟t think of such a thing. Joe did though, a couple of times, and seemed pleased when I told him I was hanging in there and everything was great. But why wouldn‟t he be? As he‟d said before, with this commission he could win either way. And so the days moved into March. The nearer I came to the end of my time of work and pleasure, the more I dreaded everything going back to how it was. Was that it? I‟d give in the last picture, Jack would smile, shake my hand and then it—whatever it had been—would all be over? The thought made me sick. Like the job, I couldn‟t let him go, but I had no idea what to do about a man I fancied but couldn‟t treat like a paying punter. Relationships had never been my thing. Up until now I‟d never wanted one, but the more I saw Jack, the more I talked to him, smelt his fragrance, and heard him laugh, the more I thought I might be wrong. But even if he were gay which, Jesus, I still wasn‟t sure of, what the hell would someone like him want with someone like me? Which was the question, almost, I asked Frank as I leant like a man in need of support on the wet bar of The Two Ravens just before closing time the night before my last day with Jack. “What bloke do you think I‟ll end up with then?” I scanned the flesh in the pub for a couple of seconds, decided I couldn‟t be bothered tonight and glanced up at the landlord to see what he‟d say. “You mean tonight?” “No, I mean like permanent. You know?” “You?” he snorted and then stopped laughing when he saw I was serious. “Sure, me. Why the hell not?” “No reason,” he wiped the dirtiest of the glasses in front of him with a damp tea towel, which only made it worse, and placed it under the counter. “It‟s just I didn‟t have you down as the type.” “What type‟s that then?” “The type to be bothered with seeing a bloke for more than a quick fumble in the nearest loos, the type that doesn‟t think of pleasure first and what it can do for him.”

46

Anne Brooke For a second or two, I was silent, thinking he might have a point. Who didn‟t like to have fun? “People change.” “Sure they do,” he said. “All the time.” “Even me?” “Maybe. I suppose you haven‟t been coming in here scoring weed as often over the last few weeks,” his face cleared and then took on an expression of cunning. “Oh I see, Michael, you‟re in love, are you?” “Don‟t be stupid. I...” “Then why ask the question?” “Just curious, that‟s all.” “Sure, sure you are. But if you want to know my answer, then you probably won‟t end up with the bloke who‟s best for you, though you won‟t know that. You‟ll do whatever it is you want, if you can get away with it. And whoever it turns out to be, I don‟t know which of you I‟ll be sorrier for.” “Cheers, Frank. Great character reference.” “You know me. I tell it like it is.” Yes, he did. That much was true. But as I walked home, it didn‟t feel as if I liked how it would be tomorrow. I couldn‟t sleep. My heart was pounding too much blood round my body and every time I lay down it felt as if my head would explode. A couple of times early on that night, I even thought I might be sick, just like I had when I was a boy, but padding to the bathroom and leaning over the toilet panting didn‟t help. Sometimes there was nothing inside to come out, no matter how much you wanted it. And the shabby bathroom, though clean, didn‟t make me want to stay with its whisper-pink tiles and goldlined mirrors. Sometimes Joe could be too much of a queen for his own good. He should never have been allowed to decorate. I crept back to the bedroom, trying not to listen to the muffled groans coming from the boys‟ room. It made me think of Jack, and thinking of Jack only kept me awake. Lying flat out on the bed, I stared at the patterns on the ceiling and tried to follow them to a logical end but nothing went anywhere. Not where the need to touch Jack‟s skin, to look at him, didn‟t follow. The clock said one o‟clock. Another six hours before I could get up, take a shower and go to work for the last time. From where I‟d come away and never see him again. I couldn‟t bear it. I‟d have to think of something to make him want

47

A Dangerous Man me to stay on. What could I do? Another picture? But he was happy with what I‟d done, he didn‟t want any more. It was over. But it wasn‟t. Not inside. Something about Jack had really got to me this time in a way that all the others hadn‟t. It made me feel weak and I hadn‟t felt that in a long, long time. Groaning, I ran both hands through my hair and swung my legs onto the cold floor. Why couldn‟t Joe run to carpet? Thin rugs were useless in winter air. No way was I going to get any sleep now, not when Jack was lodged in my head like a knife in flesh. I might as well do something. And as ever when sleep refused to come, I did the only thing I knew. I took my sketchpad, turned over two or three pages at random so whatever I did would be secret and began to draw. Jack, of course. I drew Jack. Naked because the thought of clothes wouldn‟t come, even though by now I knew exactly what he‟d wear: his Pierre Cardin suits, his pressed silk ties—in many colours, his gleaming shoes and bright gold cufflinks. If only you could draw the individual smell of someone, the scent that makes them them, I would have done it. I would have drawn herbs and small wild flowers whose names I couldn‟t hope to know, and something exotic, of the East. Something out of reach. Thinking this, my face felt wet, but I carried on drawing. It took a long time, far longer than usual because my eyes kept on crinkling up and the skin on my face felt tight. Neither would my hand concentrate. After two hours, I knew I wouldn‟t finish it. Sleep was winning at last. So I sat back and considered what I‟d done. It was gentler than usual. There was none of the wildness that took my fingers when I was lost in what I was doing. Jack was lying stretched out in a setting which held no clues. But it didn‟t matter because what mattered was the man himself. There was no strong sexual feel to it, or not as much as had been coming out in my drawings of Jack, and that surprised me. I ran the edge of my finger over the borders of how I‟d drawn him, how I imagined he might look if he‟d let me undress him. Long, lean, his arse tight and his thighs strong, a runner‟s thighs. He was at rest, for now, and I let my hand linger there for a while before smoothing the paper over the back of his neck and then the profile of his face, caught as he turned towards the viewer with a slight hint of that sock-it-to-me smile he had. It was rough, but I‟d do another one later, a better one, and add the glow which his

48

Anne Brooke perfection was made of. For now, it made me smile, though something in my chest was tight, like a strung-out bow. When I slept, I slept with the drawing pad wedged under my pillow. And when I woke, I knew I couldn‟t leave him behind. ***** “Last day then.” Jack gave me a look I couldn‟t interpret before running one elegant hand across the top of his highly polished desk. I wished I was that desk and then almost smiled at the thought, except the ability to smile at all seemed to have gone. This was the first time I‟d seen him today. He‟d been in bloody meetings all afternoon and now it was 6pm and not much time was left. Underneath my arm, I felt the throb of the drawing I‟d done of him nestling in its case. All day I hadn‟t been able to lose sight of it, all day I‟d been wondering when the original would turn up and now he was here. “Yeah. I...I‟ll be sorry to go.” “You‟ve done a good job.” “Sure, thanks.” “No, I mean it. Thank you.” He stared at me for a moment and I wondered if I looked as desperate as I felt. Maybe that was what was making him seem jumpy. Because that was what he was at the moment. Jumpy, edgy, in a way I hadn‟t seen him act before. What the hell was happening now? I had to say something, anything to break the deadlock. God, Michael, sound professional and maybe he‟ll recommend you again the next time someone wants some wall candy. But no, don‟t think like that, it‟s not wall candy, it would never be, even if it was only me who thought so. It‟s my life, it‟s my life, it‟s my life. “Was there anything you wanted me to do before I go?” I asked, knowing even as I said them that the words sounded stupid, out of place. “A last request, if you like. A final picture.” And then I laughed, God knew why, and it didn‟t sound like laughter anyway. The space between my laugh and his reply lengthened between us until I wondered if anyone would ever speak again. Or breathe, or move, or live. Not just here, where the silence was as strong as hatred, but outside, in the street, the whole of bloody London, the world. “Such as?” he said at last when I thought I would die here, staring at him. “One of the offices?” 49

A Dangerous Man “No. You. It wouldn‟t take long. I‟d make it a free one. Again.” I saw him swallow. Once, as if swallowing down words he couldn‟t bring himself to say. Then he turned round, looked at all his rich bloke possessions as if he hadn‟t seen them before and gave half a shrug. “Where?” “On the sofa,” I said, not because I‟d planned it, but because if he were really going to give me the chance of drawing him as he was and not as how I remembered or imagined, then I‟d need somewhere he could relax. Relaxed people, or people focused on something other than the artist, are easier to commit to paper. He sat down. I took one of his chairs and sat opposite him, opening my pad to the first clean page. I would sketch him now and work it up later. I didn‟t have the equipment for anything else. He fidgeted, shifting left and right, sitting straight and then swaying as if the leather was burning him. “It‟s okay, I don‟t bite.” Now I was the one in charge and it felt good to see him smile. “Just sit sideways, get a comfortable position and I‟ll do a sketch. It won‟t take long.” He nodded and then rubbed his hands up over his face and through that dazzle of soft yellow hair. A quick movement, hardly worth the mention, but when it was finished, there was a mark on his face, a speck of dirt that hadn‟t been there before. “Your cheek,” I said, sweeping one finger across my own as a guide. “Sorry?” “There‟s a mark on your left cheek. If you could...?” Without a word he passed one hand across his face again, but still the speck remained. I shook my head, smiling. “No luck. Try again.” He did, with the same result. Still smiling, I stood up, dropped my paper and pencil on the seat behind me and walked towards him. “Here, let me.” Bending down, I reached out to brush the imperfection from his skin, but instead my hand moved of its own accord to balance itself against the back of the sofa and I leant closer, using my tongue to lick him clean. His face tasted of salt and that herbal aftershave I couldn‟t name. I took my time, drawing my tongue across his cheekbone almost to the level of his eye, which I noticed was closed. Then I stepped away, surprised at my own boldness. 50

Anne Brooke “There,” I said. “All fine now.” He said nothing. Back behind my sketching pad, my fingers were trembling and I was unable to bring them under control. Neither could I breathe. For the next five minutes I couldn‟t look at him once, not a great position for an artist to be in, and neither could I draw anything worthwhile. Thirty seconds into that time, I knew he wasn‟t going to respond, that I‟d read it all wrong, he wasn‟t gay and I‟d made myself into an idiot. Bloody, bloody hell. Why didn‟t he say something? Was he simply being polite, pretending it hadn‟t happened? Who was the mad, the dangerous one, him or me? My pencil scrawled strange lines I couldn‟t interpret over the page and in the end I couldn‟t stand it anymore. Grasping the bottom of the page and angrier than I could remember being for a long time, I crumpled the paper and was about to tear it off when a hand was placed over mine. His hand. I hadn‟t even heard him get up. At once, remembering the drawing which lurked underneath to give me away, as if I hadn’t already done that myself, I tried to pull the paper back down, to cover my own wild fantasies. “Here,” he said. “Let me look.” Wrestling the pad away from my grasp, he smoothed down my ruined drawing and turned his head to one side as he took it in. “Hmm, I can see why you‟re not happy with it. Why don‟t you have another go?” Before I could stop him, he‟d ripped the paper out and the drawing underneath, the naked, yearning drawing of him, the one I‟d wanted him to see and not see, was exposed. Now, there was silence. Except I could hear the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of voices outside the room. They might as well have been in another universe. I turned away and put my head in my hands. He‟d know now. He‟d know everything. I‟d thrown away any chance this job might have given me. He‟d tell Joe what I‟d done and I‟d never get another commission. Anywhere. The world of art was a small one. Especially in this town. I wanted to throw up and it took a few deep breaths to deaden the feeling. I wished Jack would say something, anything. What was he doing? I mean it couldn‟t have been every day he came across a naked drawing of himself or what I imagined he might look like naked. He‟d know now that I thought about him every day and most of the bloody night too, week after week after week. Surely 51

A Dangerous Man he‟d see it all. He had to have some kind of response if it wasn‟t going to be the one I‟d longed for, didn‟t he? Anger? Embarrassment? Dismissal? But he still said nothing. I couldn‟t bear it. “Look,” I said. “I‟m sorry. I‟ll go. It was stupid, I know, but...” “Shut up.” I shut up. When I glanced up at him, he was gazing at my drawing and his face was still. What was he thinking behind that beauty? I wanted to get up, run out of that room and away from my humiliation, but I felt too weak to move. Neither could I speak again. In the end, it was he who broke the tension. “It‟s good. Different. I wonder... I wonder how you think it compares.” Then laying down the pad with its drawing of himself exposed to the warm inquisitive air, he turned and walked to the door, which he locked before sauntering back to the sofa, as if nothing had changed. My throat felt dry. He stretched once, muscles flexing under his dark blue silk shirt and then sat down. Without a word, he took off his shoes and socks, placed them at the edge of the rug, and began undoing his cufflinks. Not all the cash in the world could have made me look away. So I watched as he took off his shirt, folded it and laid it next to him. Next came the trousers and briefs, revealing his dick, still astonishingly limp, and a mound of fair curly hair. He was even more beautiful than in my fantasies or so I thought then. My throat felt tight and my own cock pushed against my jeans. “So,” he said at last. “Do you want to make some alterations? To your drawing?” “What? Yeah, I mean sure.” Even to myself, my voice didn‟t sound like my own. He was crazy, he had to be. Just what the hell was going on? But I grabbed my pencil and, stealing glances at his body now and again, began to work up what I‟d done: the length of his thighs which I‟d foreshortened; and his large, bony feet. Another imperfection which, like his uneven teeth, somehow made me smile. But not for long, because my mind was travelling elsewhere even as my hand skimmed over the page, adding a line here, a smudging there, a hint of more, and more delicious. And in the end I couldn‟t keep going any longer.

52

Anne Brooke “Look,” I said, dropping my pencil onto the floor and knowing my skin was burning hot. “This is crazy. I can‟t concentrate, I just can‟t. Don‟t you see that?” “Yes,” he said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear it. “I‟m not blind. And I hope I‟m not stupid, but how long are you going to make me sit here naked with you fully dressed and looking like...? God, Michael, how bloody vulnerable do I have to make myself before we can have sex?” My head jerked up as if pulled by strings and this time there was no mistaking it. He was fully erect, quivering and dark purple. His blue eyes burned into my brown ones and the next second the sketchpad had tumbled to the floor and I was scrabbling at my own clothes, ripping off my polo-shirt and not caring about untidiness or anything else but the need to touch him. Then he grabbed me and I tore at his skin as if I wanted to wear it or be worn by it, but he held me away for a moment. I wondered if he might kiss me. I‟ve always liked kissing, though it‟s not something breeders expect us to like. But what do they know? Smug bastards. Anyway he didn‟t. Not then. Instead, he reached out and touched my neck with his fingers, stroking me and drawing his hand down my back, down and down and then slowly round to the top button of my jeans. Which he began to undo. I didn‟t even think about asking if he‟d be willing to pay. Such a question never entered my thoughts. That was about as much foreplay as either of us could take that first time. Turning me round with a strength I couldn‟t help but find exciting, he pushed me forward and across his desk, scattering papers, disks and files over the carpet, and I felt his legs shaking against mine. Just before he pulled down my jeans and briefs, I managed to whisper, “Condoms... back pocket of jeans... use one.” He did. It was good. Not that surprising since I‟d been dreaming about it for weeks. But it was so good that halfway through I forgot myself and cried out, something I tried never to do—as if you enjoy it, it always upset the punters. The noise made him reach forward and jam his hand against my mouth where I sucked and bit at his fingers. After he‟d fucked me, he removed the condom with experienced ease and placed it in his bin, covering it with my ruined drawing. We said nothing, but as he began to put his clothes back on, I could hear the tremor 53

A Dangerous Man in his breathing. At the same time I tried to stand up from the desk. My jeans were still round my ankles and my knees felt weak. “Why don‟t you sit down?” he said at last. I shook my head, not sure if I was capable. I was trembling. He helped me dress again, his smooth fingers touching my skin and making me jump as he slid my shirt over my neck. After that I sat down, carefully, on his sofa. Looking up at him, I realised that his fingers were bleeding from where I‟d bitten them, and blushed at my own violence. “I‟m sorry,” I said. “Your fingers—they‟re hurt.” He glanced at them as if he‟d been unaware of it, “Don‟t worry about me, I‟m fine.” Then he smiled. “So, would you like to go for a drink?” he said.

54

Chapter Five March Would I? God, yes. Anything you wanted me to do, anything at all, Mr.-Jack-full-of-surprises-Hutchinson, would be no problem at all. Climb a mountain? Swing naked from the tower blocks of Hackney? Run down to Bank tube with a rose between my teeth, or anywhere else, thorns or no thorns? No problem. Not if I went on feeling this way. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?” Was this a date? After sex? No-one in the world had ever asked me out for a drink after sex. If it happened at all, it was always beforehand, when they wanted to get me into bed or crammed into a street corner or wherever their chosen place of pleasure was. Never afterwards, when they‟d got what they wanted and there was no point to it. Bastards. But this was different. God knew how I was supposed to react. And then a bigger question leapt to my mind. “Do you want me to go first?” I said, as I shrugged on my jacket. “And then you can come in five minutes or so?” “Why?” he sounded intrigued. “Is it like a spy game or something?” “No. It‟s just that someone might see us and twig that...” “Michael,” he said softly. “I am “out”, you know.” The way he‟d spoken my name made me shiver. He hadn‟t said it with the open-handed desire he‟d used just before we‟d had sex. He‟d said it like it might be something important. Did he want it to be something important? He‟d soon have second thoughts about that. I knew he would. “Is it a problem for you?” he went on. “Because if so, that‟s fine, I understand. And I‟m happy for us to leave separately, if you want. I can wait for you outside somewhere. Would that be all right?” I shook my head. “No, it‟s okay. If you‟re happy, then I‟m happy.” And to my surprise I found that was true. So we left together. One or two people saw us, but nobody said anything apart from the usual greeting. Maybe they would have if they‟d known what we‟d been up to ten minutes earlier. Maybe they would have been shocked, or maybe not. This was the City and I never knew its rules.

55

A Dangerous Man Outside, catching me smiling, Jack grinned back at me. “What‟s up now?” But it was too soon to say the truth, no matter what we‟d just done, so I shook my head and followed him, not touching and not talking, along streets as wide as sin to one of those swanky City wine bar places I‟d never been to. A high cut above Frank‟s place, but even the thought of Jack knowing about Frank‟s place almost made me laugh. “Jack?” I touched his coat sleeve as he was about to open the door. “Hmm?” I glanced at him once, then left and right, down to the oh-so-clean pavement and up again. “The thing is, I‟ve got no money. Not for somewhere like this.” “That‟s okay.” “What?” “That‟s okay,” he repeated. “I‟ll pay. After all, I asked you.” Bloody hell. I‟d never met a prick-lover with a dating code before. This was going to be weird. I‟d have to be careful what I let him know. He pushed open the door and gestured inside. “So?” I stumbled in, like a traveller entering a new land. Inside, it was full of men with bald heads and cut-glass accents, even the young blokes, all the same and all laughing and competing to be the loudest. Tough contest. Cutting his way through the crowd with ease, leaving me scrambling like a rabbit in his trail, Jack strode up to the bar and said, “And what would you like to drink?” I had no idea. I could have murdered a bitter or even a cider, but I sensed it wouldn‟t do here. The air was full of wine and sparkle, not hops or dust. Just what the hell did you drink in a place like this? Staring straight at him, I said the first thing I could remember from Frank‟s cocktail list, “I‟d like a Slow Comfortable Screw, please.” The blood rushed to his face and I knew without having to look that he would be hard. God, that was stupid. First rule of sex was never embarrass a punter on his own ground. But he wasn‟t a punter, it wasn‟t like that. I‟d ruined it and after all this he‟d be spending his evening with one of the boys giving him the come-on at the other end of the bar. “Sorry. I meant anything, I‟ll have anything, I don‟t mind.”

56

Anne Brooke He smiled, turned to the barman and said, “No, it‟s a good idea. Make that two of those, please. And would you like some crisps as well? Or peanuts?” Playing safe, I nodded. “Which?” he asked. “Both?” “All right.” My heart was beating fast as we sat down opposite each other at a corner table with our drinks. God knew how he‟d got it but I didn‟t mind. It was quieter for one thing. Not knowing what a Slow Comfortable Screw would taste like, I took a cautious sip. “Hey, that‟s nice,” I said in surprise and found myself staring straight at him. “Thanks.” “You say that as if you haven‟t had one before.” “I haven‟t.” He said nothing and I stole another glance at his soft vanilla hair, wondering what we were really talking about now. “Not today anyway.” He passed me the bag of crisps and I tore it open, taking a handful and then another and another. “Hungry?” he asked, his lips twitching. “Sorry,” I mumbled and offered him the few crisps that were left. “No, please. Finish them off if you like. Do you want the peanuts as well?” “Well...” One sexy eyebrow raised, he opened the peanuts without comment and placed them on my side of the table. We said nothing until I‟d finished them. I smoothed out both empty bags, folded them into four and placed them in the ashtray. “Sex makes me hungry. Doesn‟t it make you hungry?” “No, thirsty,” he said. Then, “you live in Hackney, don‟t you?” I nodded. He leant back in his chair, his long fingers drumming on the side of the half-empty glass, “And do you like it in Hackney? That‟s something I‟ve never asked you.” I wanted to ask: compared to what? “It‟s okay, I suppose.”

57

A Dangerous Man To be honest, I didn‟t want to talk very much at the moment, I only wanted to go on looking at his face but if this was a date, I should at least be making sure he got his money‟s worth. “No,” I said. “That‟s not true. It‟s a dump. You wouldn‟t like it. Not someone like you.” “Someone like me?” “You know, someone who works in the City, drinks somewhere like this.” With one hand I waved at the fat salaries sipping their champagne cocktails and braying before the first-class journey home. “Does that make a difference?” “Course it does, everyone knows that.” “Not everyone, Michael.” He‟d said my name again in that special way he‟d suddenly developed since fucking me in his office. It made me quiver inside and I fought to change the subject before I lost control and kissed him right here in the middle of the wine bar or said something crazy. “What about you?” I said, fingers itching to reach across the table and take his hand. “How‟s Islington? How‟s number twenty-four, Hatchland Gardens, N1? Nicer than bloody Hackney, I bet.” Even before he spoke, I knew I‟d given myself away, for the second time this evening. That would teach me to try to be clever. “How did you know that?” I stared at the table and mumbled something about his office or Personnel, I didn‟t know what, but he had the grace to let it go. Thank God. “It‟s nice, I like it very much. Would you like to see it?” he said and then went on quickly as if he was saying something that might cause offence. “I mean, if you‟re still hungry, why don‟t I make you something to eat? I‟d enjoy your company.” That would be great, yes. It would mean sex again, wouldn‟t it? That was what he was really asking. Not something I‟d expected, not to get it twice with him. But didn‟t I deserve a break now and again? “Yeah, thanks, I‟d like that.” “Come to number twenty-four, Hatchland Gardens, N1 then, and see what it‟s like for yourself.” We swigged down our drinks as if they were beer, left the bar and strolled out into the night. His hand was touching me lightly on the elbow. 58

Anne Brooke And because of it I couldn‟t see the night, or the wide empty streets, the beauty of their lines and shadows or anything else at all. “Tube or bus?” I asked him. He laughed. “That might make it rather difficult for me to pick up the car tomorrow morning. It‟s at the office.” Stupid, stupid, stupid, of course it was. He must think me a fool. Of course he‟d have a car. What was I thinking? Jack Hutchinson hadn‟t seen the inside of a tube carriage or a bus for years, maybe even never. Lucky bastard. But what on earth did he want with me? Heading back to his office, we took what I assumed was a short cut down a narrow, unlit street. No-one was around and after a few moments I realised he‟d stopped and was no longer beside me. “What is it?” I asked, turning round and feeling the solid streets shift beneath me. “What‟s wrong?” “Come here, Michael. Please.” Wanting to run to him more than I‟d ever wanted cash, more perhaps than I‟d ever even wanted to draw, I strolled up to where he was standing like I was only doing it because I had nothing else to do, and until we were only centimetres apart. I made the moment last. What was he going to do to me now? “It strikes me that since we‟ve been together this evening, we‟ve made love,” he whispered. “But I haven‟t kissed you yet. I‟m sorry for the oversight.” With that, he put his hands round my waist to draw my body against his and kissed me on the lips, opening them with his tongue. The way he did it felt as if he wasn‟t taking anything away from me at all, but instead was somehow giving something back. It was different, it was good. When he stopped and made as if to move apart from me, I put my hands up to the back of his head to bring his mouth down to mine again. I wanted to get as much out of the night as I could; on past history, it might be my only chance. Threading my fingers through his hair, something inside me felt warm in a way that hadn‟t happened for a lifetime. Letting go of his head at last, I eased the shirt from his trousers, running my hands up his spine. I felt him gasp inside my mouth and knew he could have me again right here if he wanted it. But instead, hearing the noise of people approaching, I pushed him away and tried to catch my breath. I didn‟t want anyone calling the police 59

A Dangerous Man or anything stupid. That was the last thing I needed. Tucking his shirt back in, he laughed, but with a break in the middle of his laughter. A small group of chattering people, men and women, hurried past towards the end of the road, and I wondered what they thought of us. And then I wasn‟t sure if I cared. He drove me home. We said nothing to each other throughout the journey. His car turned out to be the latest model BMW and I ran my hands along the door as if it might give me some of his secrets. We all have secrets. I didn‟t dare touch him again as I wasn‟t sure what I‟d do, and he kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead all the way to Islington. His house was big, of course, and in a close where all the houses were different. Outside, in the street light I could see elegant white statues of two sphinxes, reminding me of something I‟d watched on TV about Egypt years ago. It smelt of money. But right then for once I wasn‟t interested in the location or what it might look like on paper. Inside, everything was clean and so luxurious I thought I must be dreaming. In the hallway, I stared at the mirror which was framed with carved wood that glittered in the light. In the reflection, I saw him come close, lean down and kiss the back of my neck, our two heads blended together, one dark, one fair. Seeing us like that made me think of monsters or magic and I almost laughed. Without asking, he took off my jacket, half-caressing my shoulders as he did so and making me shiver with excitement. This was going to be one hell of a one-night stand. Or first date. Which was it? God, please God, let it be the second choice. I‟d do it with him now, no need to give me dinner. He only had to ask. “Is this too quick for you?” he said. I shook my head, but my stomach rumbled, giving me away. He laughed and stepped back. “All right, that‟s settled. Food first. I promised you food, didn‟t I? Is pasta all right? It‟s what I had planned and there‟ll be plenty for two.” “Okay.” The wait would only make things better. So I followed him into the large, oak-lined expanse of kitchen, running my fingers over the smooth work surfaces as I had in his car and wondering if I would ever afford such luxury. Maybe, one day, when I had a gallery of my own, somewhere I could place my work and watch people admire and buy it. One day soon. While I dreamed, Jack cooked real spaghetti, not the dried 60

Anne Brooke stuff, and added chopped beef, herbs and sauces, the heavy smell of it filling the air, while I watched him, drinking in the way he looked, the way he moved, the fair down on his arms that glowed golden like the mirror frame, the enticing swell of his crotch. At last he smiled. “Michael, if you continue eating me up with your eyes, there‟ll be nothing left of me at all.” I looked away at once. “That‟s a shame,” he said. “I was enjoying your attention. But here, have some bread while you‟re waiting. The pasta will be ready soon.” It was. I began to eat what he‟d placed in front of me. It was delicious and I knew that fresh pasta would now always be my favourite. Whatever happened. He, on the other hand, didn‟t even pick up his cutlery. “Aren‟t you hungry?” I asked him, between mouthfuls. “Yes,” he said. “But not for food.” I started to shake, all hunger gone, and my knife clattered down onto the plate. “Christ, Jack. What are you doing to me?” “Nothing. At the moment. But I hope to be doing something very soon,” his voice was hoarse, almost rough, if such a man could ever be said to be rough. “Come to bed with me, Michael. Please.” I had no clear idea how we managed to get upstairs with no more than a few passionate kisses and fumblings on the way. On my part, it wasn‟t for want of trying. In the bedroom, he continued to hold me off and said, his voice catching in his throat, “You mentioned you wanted something slower and more comfortable. At least I think that‟s what you meant. So let‟s see if we can manage that, shall we?” Afterwards, a long and satisfying time later, I stretched out, still feeling the marks of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on my skin, and gazed at the shape his body made next to mine in the darkness. He was asleep, breathing calmly as we travelled onward through the night together. And I wondered what the morning would bring. Looking back on it now and for his sake only, we should never have met.

61

Chapter Six March All those sorts of ideas came later. Back then, the morning after the night before, I could only think of how lucky I was and if he‟d let me see him again, work or no work. So this time, I didn‟t creep out of his bed before dawn had begun. No way. I simply stayed right next to him, waiting for him to wake up. It was a new sensation lying there watching the bedroom shimmer into view as my eyes grew used to the darkness. I could see the curtains now. They looked to be velvet, if I was remembering right from last night‟s impression. And the sheets were silk, I was sure of it, though I had no idea then what silk felt like. I glanced at Jack‟s profile and thought, hey, if I had his money and his accent I could be him. But the thing that got me, really got me, was the art. He had some stunning work there. On his walls were two pictures of Japanese women, but I had no idea who‟d done them or when. It was the shape and swirl of them that made me stop breathing for a moment. The angle of the arm against the body, the flow of the hair around the face. Some of this I could make out in the half-light and some I knew I had to be remembering from the night before. It must have been when I‟d first been in the bedroom, when he‟d made me slow down. Those first few seconds must have planted an impression of colour and movement into my head, so that if I closed my eyes I could see more clearly. Because after that, I‟d had no time to think of anything else but Jack and what he was doing to my body. It had been good. Again. I‟d never done it like that before and I‟d never felt like this afterwards. No matter who I‟d been with. Even thinking about it turned me on and I wanted him to wake up. Though shaking him seemed mean. He‟d have to go to work soon enough and he‟d be tired. I was. Next to his face, the clock‟s blue light showed 5:15 am. What time would he get up? If he worked in the City, it would have to be early. But not this early. What was I going to do in the meantime? I couldn‟t get back to sleep, not with my cock standing to attention. Having Jack next to me only made things worse. Even though being here was making me feel as bright as the sky on a clear day. 62

Anne Brooke I‟d have to get up, get going and wait for him to surface. Without waking him. Easing my body out from under the duvet was made more difficult by the slight ache in my arse. We‟d got a little carried away now and again, but I hadn‟t minded. Sometimes I liked it like that and he hadn‟t gone too far. Once upright, I padded across the thick-pile carpet, my toes sinking into its softness, to get a closer look at the paintings. I wished I could turn the light on them and gaze at them properly almost as much as I wished I could magic my pencils and paper out of the air and draw something myself. Maybe if I played the moment right, I could even draw Jack. Thinking of what he might say if he woke up and found me sketching him made me smile though it was no more an invasion of privacy than what we‟d already done. Shaking my head, I opened the bedroom door without bothering to put on any clothes and slipped outside. The landing was as plush as I remembered. It contained several shelves of books and a couple of bookcases stuffed to the brim. When I ran my fingers along the top, no dust appeared and, now I came to think of it, a faint scent of lemons filled the air. He must have cleaned yesterday, before I met him. Hang on though, I thought, I shouldn‟t be more stupid than I needed to be. Of course, he‟d have a cleaner who came in; the house had that sort of feel about it. The first room I discovered, at the far end from where I‟d just emerged, was the bathroom. A second one, as Jack‟s bedroom was en-suite, although I hadn‟t used it. It would have been too loud, but now the need to piss was burning me up. When I pulled the light switch, a fan came on so I closed the door. When I turned round again, I almost laughed. Everything was so shiny. Decorated in light blue, with a seashell patterned tile here and there, it was the biggest bathroom I‟d ever seen. Next to me was a modern-style shower but against the far wall was a ledge with the bath raised up like a throne, standing on curved metallic legs and positioned in such a way that you could see out of the window. It was definitely big enough for two and I wondered if Jack had ever thought of using it for sex. I smiled; he must have done. Anyone with an imagination like that couldn‟t have failed to notice that his main bathroom was like something out of a soft porn film. Or could be. Which brought me to a question I hadn‟t faced before. In this or any other situation. Did he already have a... a... partner? Or whatever you 63

A Dangerous Man called someone you slept with on a regular basis but not for cash? A sudden twist of pain in my chest brought me shaking down onto the wooden toilet seat and I ran my hands over my face. I felt sick, but I mustn‟t be. What would Jack think? I‟d have to see if he had anything to take for it in the bathroom cabinet. And soon. After yet more deep breaths, I sprang up and pissed away the night‟s drinks before flushing the loo. I froze in case the noise of it woke Jack but there was no sound. In the silence, I opened both the cabinet‟s glass doors and rifled through the aspirins, throat sweets, razor blades and assorted bath products. Which were for men and women. Was he into sex both ways then? I hoped not. Staring at what I‟d found, I wondered if it was for a special someone. But there was nothing definite, no particular brand so you could say, yes this is for someone who exists and who prefers... whatever. No, to me, it looked like stuff you‟d buy if you wanted to have people to stay, maybe even family. Not that I had any experience of that. Nothing good, anyway. Placing what I‟d disturbed as far as possible back into the positions I‟d found them in, I realised I didn‟t feel quite so sick and breathless any more. Pulling the light cord and waiting in the darkness until the fan was quiet, I opened the door and slipped like a thief onto the landing again. No narrow band of brightness shone from where Jack slept and I hesitated, wondering what I should do now. I didn‟t know how light a sleeper he might be and if going back to bed with him would mean he‟d wake up. Good for me if he woke up wanting more, but not so good for him. Not if he needed to be alert today. The thought slipped through my head, I could explore, find out something else about him, see the things he sees each day, touch them even. It would give me memories for drawing and I might not get the chance again. So I stood naked on the landing, hesitating between two courses of action. Go back in or explore. Go back in or explore. Something clicked in the depths of the house and I jumped. The boiler, that was all. Nothing to worry about. But it took away my hesitation and, telling myself I was thinking only of Jack, I made my way into the next room along. A single bedroom, this time done out in green with a duvet in a darker shade. I was beginning to see he was a man who liked to have things matching but different. Again all was so very clean it made me want to stay forever. On the one shelf, next to the computer which I ignored, was a scattering of books and I picked them up to see 64

Anne Brooke what they were. A history of Japan stood next to a set of Thomas Hardy novels and the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Who on earth read that kind of stuff anyway? He was so way out of my league. Why the bloody hell had he wanted me? Why the...? Another noise stopped me in the middle of replacing the last Hardy on the shelf. What was it? Jack? What would he say if he found me snooping like this? I supposed that was what I was doing, though I couldn‟t be sure, not having been in this position before. Straining to hear what was going on didn‟t help either as the silence swirled back into place. After a few moments during which nothing happened, I felt my muscles unclench and my breathing became more regular. When I crept out onto the dark landing, everything was quiet. It must have been the heating again, that was all. Nothing to worry about. But if I‟d started to nose around like this, I may as well carry on. The next room I crept into was lilac, this time a double room, and, putting conscience to one side, I went to work, though my swift search through the built-in wardrobe and chest of drawers didn‟t bring anything helpful to light. Only towels, jumpers and shirts that looked as if they were waiting to be worn in another season. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, I‟d still be here whenever that season came round. So far it seemed as if I didn‟t have a definite rival. Because that was what this was beginning to feel like now. I was searching for clues. The last room on the upper floor was where Jack must store things he didn‟t need very often as it was full of old boxes and spare ends of carpet propped up against the wall. It made my fingers itch to unpack and to tidy, to clean and to possess. But the best thing about it was the huge picture window through which the sun must fling the light into every corner. It would be a wonderful place to draw in, somewhere I could be free to see everything in the way I wanted to see it, in a way I couldn‟t do now. As if I‟d been waiting for this all along, I knew I had to have it, I had to be here. If I could be here, living somewhere like this with a man like Jack, everything would be all right and I could have all I‟d ever wanted. An art exhibition, which was important to me in a way I couldn‟t explain, not even to myself, good write-ups, maybe even a following. I could make it happen, if I had this, if I had Jack. I wanted it so much. This room, this life, this everything. Downstairs on the mat in the hall, a newspaper was lying, waiting to be read. The Financial Times. Maybe that was what the noise had been earlier 65

A Dangerous Man on. He had a paper delivered, the posh bugger, and read it too, I was sure. I suppose he would need to, working where he did and all that. The habits of the rich, eh? Picking it up, I put it on the table I‟d spotted the night before where he could see it. Then I carried on my search. The living room was enormous, enough to put the whole of every flat I‟d ever lived in inside it and still have room to breathe. He had everything. State-of-the-art TV system, Cable channels as well, creamy leather sofas—two of them—three originals—an ink drawing by Marquet, an etching by Manet, even a Hockney; one I hadn‟t seen before. The sight of them made me smile. I liked what I saw to be crisp and clear. It kept everything under control. Not like someone such as Turner, for instance, where something else was always going on which you couldn‟t quite see. But never mind that, because I needed to know what Jack was doing with me. Or what he intended to do. I detected no hint of another presence in the living room and I walked into what I assumed was the dining room with a hopeful step. Dark wood panelling which I could never afford and which I‟d only seen in old films. Like his office, but I‟d never realised people actually lived like this, here and now. On the other side of the room were yet more shelves of books and as I wandered over to them I thought, God, does he never stop reading? But these were different. Completely different. A couple of John Grisham novels were lying next to a whole section of worn old books by Agatha Christie and, running my eye along the line of paperbacks, I saw it was crime novel after crime novel: Ruth Rendell; Minette Walters; P D James; Nicci French. Funny, I hadn‟t got Jack in my head as someone who was keen on this sort of thing. From the stuff upstairs I had him down more as a... Ah. But these weren‟t Jack‟s, were they? These belonged to the mysterious other person I hadn‟t come across yet. This was the man Jack had already let into his life and house. My rival. But if he lived here, where was he now when his lover was screwing me? Me. Someone who should be out on the streets or letting bloody Paul shove that stupid little prick up his arse just about now, not standing here in this upper-class dining-room naked and wishing he was somebody else. My hands trembling, I tore through all the books I could find, searching for something, anything, a name, a hint as to who I had to fight against. Because one thing was sure, I 66

Anne Brooke wasn‟t going to let this one go without a battle either. My luck was in. Wasn‟t it? I‟d won the battle for the art job, hadn‟t I? I‟d be damned if I lost the battle for the man. Not without a fight anyway. Jack‟s real lover, whoever he was, could bloody well get someone else; he didn‟t need him like I did. Anyway, though I was no reader, I didn‟t like his taste in books. Drifting through to the kitchen, I tried to plan my campaign. What would impress Jack? Persuade him I was a better option than this other bloke, wherever and whoever he was? Gazing round, it was obvious. Keep it simple, of course. So I washed up. I was hunting for a fresh tea-towel to dry the crockery when Jack walked in. He was wearing a short blue silk dressing gown. “Hello there,” he said. “What are you doing?” I straightened up, glad he hadn‟t discovered me any earlier, as the snooping would have been harder to explain. “Washing up.” “Yes, I see, but you don‟t have to do it. That‟s what dishwashers are for.” “I didn‟t want to wake you.” He smiled. Then, “You‟re naked.” And he looked at me. That was all, he just looked at me. But I felt myself curl away inside, almost shy, although I couldn‟t, and didn‟t want to, break his gaze. It was as if he was discovering and weighing up every part of me, storing it up for consideration later. I wondered if he might be shocked at what he saw, but he smiled and I felt myself relax. But the moment lingered on and I had to break its strange power; I didn‟t know what I might tell him otherwise. “Can I get you anything?” I said and he laughed. “I should ask you that by rights. You‟re my guest.” I didn‟t like the word, “guest”, but had no time to dwell on it as he was already onto his next consideration. “No, I have to get a move on,” he said. “No time for breakfast.” “Why? What time is it?” He glanced at his watch, something expensive in gold. “Seven am. I should be at work by now. I‟ll be late.” “You start too early.” “It‟s my job, I love it.”

67

A Dangerous Man He looked for a moment as if he were about to say something else but thought better of it. Instead he shrugged. “I‟d better get dressed. I‟ll see you in a minute.” Then he was gone and I was left alone in the kitchen once more, at a loss as to what to do. He hadn‟t said anything about us seeing each other again, but he hadn‟t asked me to go. That had to count for something, didn‟t it? Other man or no other man. From upstairs, I could hear the faint sound of a shower and toyed with the idea of joining him. But no, if he wanted to rush away to work, then I didn‟t want to piss him off by slowing him down. That was the last thing I should be doing. Looking down at the length of my body, I grimaced. And maybe the first thing I should be doing was having a shower myself. Washing my hands, I found a cupboard where it looked as if the crockery ought to be kept and put it away. I was wondering what to do next when Jack came back. Smelling of that aftershave and dressed in a suit which made me want to take it all off slowly. Or not so slowly. “Michael,” he said. And I thought, God, this is it. He‟s going to dump me or keep me. Which is it going to be? “Yeah?” “Do you want a lift anywhere?” Where? Like bloody Hackney? Where you can see the sort of place I live and decide you‟re best off without me? No way. “No, thanks,” I said when I saw he was waiting for an answer. “I‟ll take a bus, or walk. I like walking. I‟m not in a hurry.” And there‟s no job for me to go to now, I felt like saying, but didn‟t. Maybe he caught the unsaid words, because he swallowed once before replying. “Okay. But if you want a shower before you go, there‟s one in the ensuite. You know where it is. Use whatever you want. Or the bathroom‟s at the end of the landing from where we were... last night. That‟s got a shower too, if you prefer. Whatever. Don‟t worry about locking up. Just shut the door behind you, I‟ve got my keys.” “Sure, cheers,” I said, thinking shit, shit, shit, those are my marching orders and I‟ve got no come-back, none at all. I couldn‟t compete. I followed him into the hallway and watched as he straightened his tie in the mirror. He turned to go. 68

Anne Brooke Someone said, “Can I see you again?” Someone said it—the worst thing you can ever say in a situation like this—and that someone was me. God. His back stiffened and he swung round to look at me. At least he didn‟t laugh. “I don‟t know, Michael,” he said. “I‟m sorry, but I just don‟t.” “Why not? Haven‟t you enjoyed me being here? There‟s someone else, isn‟t there? Isn’t there?” He shut his eyes for a second and when he opened them, his expression was even more serious than it had been before. “Yes to the first question. And yes and no to the second. There‟s someone else, but it‟s difficult at the moment.” “Why? Where is he now? Where is he when we‟re busy,” I paused to take hold of my small supply of courage and blundered on, “making love in your office and in your bed?” He went white and clenched his fists. “Peter‟s not living here at the moment. We‟re... we‟re having a break, but that doesn‟t mean we‟re not together. Haven’t you found that out in your little tour of my house this morning?” “How did you...?” I started to say and then stopped as his eyes continued to burn into mine. “I‟m sorry. I was curious, that‟s all. About you.” He didn‟t reply. I supposed there was nothing to say, but inside I could feel the power of knowledge growing. Peter. So he had a name then, my rival. Knowing a name gave me an advantage, but the sight of Jack in pain took it away. “Look, I said I‟m sorry and I meant it. I don‟t want to hurt you. Let‟s just leave it.” Looking away from him, I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest and gave half a smile. “Anyway, shame for me, and lucky for Peter. How long have you been having a break?” “A month. Not long.” “A month?” I had to say I was surprised. If I had Jack‟s looks, I was sure I wouldn‟t be without male company for more than a day. “Yes. What‟s wrong with that?” “Nothing. It‟s just that...” “What?”

69

A Dangerous Man “It‟s just that if I were Peter, I would never let someone like you out of my sight for a minute, let alone a month.” Then I kissed him long and hard. His arms went round me and his physical response left nothing in doubt. Then I watched in silence as he touched his mouth, picked up his briefcase and was gone.

70

Chapter Seven March Falling in love is one thing, making love another and then trying to work out a way of keeping love still another. After Jack left, I didn‟t stay long, though I wanted to. It didn‟t feel right, especially since he‟d somehow found out about my trawl through his belongings that morning. How had he managed it? He must have heard me after all. I shouldn‟t have done it. My fault. So after a quick breakfast and shower and tidying up, I clicked the door shut behind me and gazed out at the early Islington roads. How different everything looked. The sun seemed to be brighter though maybe that was because there wasn‟t any dirt or litter to take away its glory, or maybe I was still in that post-sex haze where the whole world looked good. Even so, as I ambled down the front garden, I saw enough about the way it was laid out to know it was a million times better than what I was used to, though I had no idea what any of the plants or bushes were. In daylight, the house looked grand too, all the lines and soft grey colours blending together. And those amazing statues. Nothing out of place. Gazing at it made me feel at peace. Perhaps because it had the style of its owner: elegant, beautiful and poised to dance. I knew then that I wanted to dance too. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I strolled along the broad road on the way home, admiring the rest of the perfectly placed houses, with their perfectly landscaped gardens. I tried to memorise the clarity of the place, but after a while all I found myself thinking of was Jack, about the way he looked, how he spoke my name and the way he moved. But most often about the way we‟d been together. That was the best and I wanted to experience it again soon. Even to see him once again today would be enough. But how? Making up my mind, I veered away from the road to Hackney, took two buses, each time managing to get off before I needed to pay anything, and was left with just a ten minute walk. MacMillan‟s Reinsurance Company, Jack must be there right now. The thought made me shiver.

71

A Dangerous Man The clock on the front of the building showed ten am. I was here then. And just what the hell was I going to do? Barge in and say what exactly? I shouldn‟t have come, it was stupid. What if he saw me? I had no right to be there; the commission was over and he‟d think I was stalking him. Maybe he‟d be right, because I couldn‟t leave. Not without seeing him. My legs wouldn‟t turn away and take the sensible road home. It was impossible. So I parked myself in the middle of a bench that was opposite and to one side of this building that I longed to be in, and I waited. And waited. The sky above me changed from grey to a darker shade, wrapping the tall buildings in muggy layers of yet more grey, blocking out the sun. A couple of girls approached where I was sitting, hoping I supposed for a rest, but when I glared at them they went away. Right now, other people were an intrusion. Time hung slowly, the minutes ticking by and the cold entering my skin like ice in the blood. I half wondered if Jack might come out, his elegant stride taking him in long paces to his destination, but I didn‟t know whether I wanted that to happen or not. Would it be better if he were in when I tried my luck or would it be better to meet him outside the office? I thought the first option would be the preferable one in the end as that way it would be to do with work. I could make up some question about my drawings, but on the other hand outside there‟d be fewer people to hear us, fewer people to care. Not that I knew what I was going to say, or how I could convince him he wanted to see me again, in spite of Pete, the bastard. I was relying on the pressure of the moment to help me find the right way in to his head. Thinking about Jack made me remember the fun we‟d had, a series of thoughts that made me smile. And more. Somebody near me coughed and I crossed my legs. When I looked up, I found an old man hobbling in front of me, his beard wet with what I hoped was spit and his long coat slicked with what might have been vomit. The smell of it sent all my fantasies skittering away like pigeons. Not what I‟d expected in the City, but even poverty and pain crept everywhere these days. No-one was immune. Instinct brought me to my feet but already he was leaning into me, giving me a blast of stale breath and muttering nothing I could understand. “Hey, leave it,” I said trying to back off and out of the unwanted encounter. “I don‟t have anything.”

72

Anne Brooke In answer he went on muttering to himself but a glint of something on his face made me glance again and I realised he was crying. “Please,” I said. “Please...” Before I knew what I was doing I‟d reached into my jacket pocket and brought out a handful of loose change. My bus fare home. Taking hold of his hand, sticky and slicked with God knew what, I pushed in the coins and closed his fingers round them. He stopped his muttering and gazed down at the small prize. “Go on, get some food, a drink, whatever, maybe a joint if you can find one that cheap. Half a one. God, we all need something to keep us going, don‟t we?” He laughed, a mad sound that seemed to come from someone else, and then nodded several times before swaying away, round the corner of Jack‟s building and out of sight. Sitting down and trying not to think of the long walk home, I tried to hug some warmth into me, but it was useless. After that, more people started leaving the offices around me for lunch, I supposed, as it was now coming up to twelve. How had I passed two hours here thinking what the hell to do, without even using my sketchpad to kill the time? I gazed at all the workers, girls in gangs of four or five together, then younger blokes on their own with less posh suits. Not the movers and shakers then. Those blokes—like Jack—probably thought going out for lunch was a waste of time. Come to think of it, when I‟d had the run of his offices, he‟d never left his desk for a break, but only to meet clients or have endless meetings. He wouldn‟t come out and see me. It was stupid to imagine he might. No, I would have to go in, meet the enemy on his own ground. So, when the lunch-takers had cleared, at about 12:30, I stood up, stretching my aching limbs until I felt my muscles quiver into life again, and headed over to Jack‟s foyer, dodging to the Gents first for a pee. Inside the foyer it was the same as before—though why did I think it might have changed? It felt as if something ought to have changed since last night. Physically, as it had inside me. Amanda was at her post, as always, and smiled when she saw me. “Mr. Jones,” she said. “Good afternoon. I didn‟t think we were expecting you today.” “No, you‟re not, I...” “Oh, I see. Can we help with something?” 73

A Dangerous Man I wanted to say sure I’d like to see your Mr. sexy Jack Hutchinson, take him into the nearest office and make love to him until one or the other of us self-destructs, but didn‟t think that would help my case. “I need to see Jack. Mr. Hutchinson, I mean. If it‟s convenient.” My hands were shaking and I thrust them into my pockets so she wouldn‟t notice. “I‟ll give him a call.” I smiled my thanks and took a seat. While I went on smiling until my face hurt, she picked up the phone and was soon speaking to someone. Jack. It must be Jack. I had to keep control; I couldn‟t afford to lose it now. But what if he refused to see me? What if he had me thrown out? He had every right to do so. He hadn‟t asked me to come, but no, I might have a real reason for being there. He wasn‟t to know that, not until he came. If he came. He still might not bother. Or what would be worse, he might send someone else or refuse to see me at all. That would be the end, I knew it. I ought to go. There was still time. Standing up, I realised my legs were unsteady and I tried to speak but found my tongue was too heavy to make sense. Amanda looked up, her eyebrows raised in polite enquiry, I took two steps forward and thought I might throw up, just as the lift doors swooshed open and Jack strode out. He wasn‟t smiling. He was frowning. Under his arm was a sheaf of papers. He looked like he was busy. Why had I come? What the hell was I doing here? It would never work; he was too high-class for me. I must have been mad or stupid or something, I must have been... “Michael, hello,” he said, that smooth chocolate voice of his cutting across my panic. “Was there something you wanted to see me about?” I shook my head, then I nodded, then shook my head again and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. Jack‟s frown deepened and he gave me a gentle push between the shoulder blades, his fingers setting fire to my skin through the layers of jacket and tee-shirt. “Okay, let‟s use the reception meeting room and we can talk through any final issues. Amanda, see we‟re not disturbed, will you?” She nodded and two seconds later Jack had ushered me into the room we‟d spoken in before. “Sit down,” he said.

74

Anne Brooke Easing my body round the frame of the chair I was already grasping, I subsided into it, my brain a mass of emptiness and desire. He sat down opposite me, keeping a whole universe of table between us. Outside I could hear the faint ringing of the phone but it seemed a thousand miles away. Nothing to do with us, nothing to do with now. Bloody hell, I thought, I‟d do anything to get him to say my name again. Even really piss him off. Seeing I wasn‟t likely to see him after this, it might even be worth it. Oh yes. He leaned towards me, hands clasped in front of him like a barrier. “This is about last night, isn‟t it?” “What makes you think that? God, you‟re arrogant, aren‟t you? Sure, last night was good, you know that. But I‟m an artist, a professional, I‟m here with a question about the pictures, about my job.” I stopped because I didn‟t know what else to say. Whatever it was, it wasn‟t coming out of my mouth with conviction enough to fool me, let alone him. “What question?” That floored me. I stared at him, opened my mouth but nothing came out. “You‟re lying. You don‟t have any question about work. We sorted all that out; you know what the arrangements are. Why don‟t you try telling me the truth?” The truth? I wasn‟t sure I ever knew what it was, let alone how to tell it. Anyway, everyone knew that if you gave the truth away, it would destroy you. But the gentleness in his eyes dragged something of it from me. “Okay, the truth is I‟m here because I wanted to see you again, that‟s all. I‟m not a... stalker. I just... bloody hell, Jack, I know I‟m not in your league, but why don‟t you give me a chance?” As I spoke, I reached forward and gripped his arm, making him jump. He wasn‟t wearing a jacket and the warmth of his skin under his shirt made me want to have more. Now. But he took my hand and placed it under his. Not in affection but to gain control. “Michael, we had a good time together, but I think that‟s all it can be. I‟ve already told you about Peter. I‟m meeting him later on and I don‟t want to mess that up. I‟m sorry if you‟re hurt. I realise I shouldn‟t have let this go so far and...” 75

A Dangerous Man I was halfway to the door before I replied. “I don‟t want your pity,” I said. “And you don‟t have to bloody explain so much. What I want is you. Why is that so difficult for you people to understand?” And then when I‟d at last got his attention, I opened the door and strode through the foyer without acknowledging Amanda, into the crisp afternoon air and away. Walking and walking until the pain had dwindled almost to nothing. Two hours later, my feet took me to the gallery. Home was too much to bear and I thought here might bring me some peace. When I pushed open the door, Lee-Anne was busy, talking on the phone and making notes with a silver pencil. I gestured at Joe‟s office, but she shook her head and wrote “Out. Back—when??” on her telephone pad so, as she continued with her phone conversation, I eased myself out of my jacket, placed it over one of the guest chairs and did what I‟d been meaning to do for a long time. Grabbing a leather-bound catalogue, I strolled round the artwork Joe had gathered round him in order to sell and tried to discover what he saw in the traditional style he exhibited. Apart from the chance to sell it, of course. Though I was saleable now, wasn‟t I? I‟d completed a commission. Someone had bought me and there was always hope, wasn‟t there? Maybe I would try one more time to see if he might have a corner for me, for the more spontaneous work. You never knew. And in that spirit of uncertainty and expectation, I performed a slow tour of the Moonlight Gallery. It calmed me down and it was a revelation. Some simple country watercolours were displayed in the first room, with here and there a drawing of a woman gazing out onto a river, always in a different position, lying, sitting, kneeling. Praying perhaps? The pencil work was light, almost absent, but it delineated her body with surprising sharpness and carried with it a strong sense of movement as if she was about to stand up, step out of the frame. Whoever had done it was good, very good, but a whole world of art away from my impressionistic style. It was buyable though, that much was clear. The watercolours I enjoyed, but colour wasn‟t where my heart was hidden. So I meandered onwards, through rooms of ochre and plum, emerald and gold, wild brushstrokes creating intricate flowers of fire and pain, and then other smaller displays, filled with the cool blue of peace and dreams 76

Anne Brooke of the sea. Joe knew how to place his art and what to place it with. Or was that Lee-Anne? I‟d never thought to ask before today. But it moved even me, the hater of colours. And would do anyone who came, even tempt them to buy. After forty minutes of gazing and wondering, maybe an hour, I found myself back in the reception area with Lee-Anne, a burning knowledge weighing on my heart. “Enjoy the view?” Lee-Anne smiled up at me as I approached her, my shoes squeaking on the polished tile floor. “Sure, it‟s great, but...” “But...?” I pulled up the chair with my jacket draped over the back, swung it round and straddled myself across it. The barrier of the wood-slatted chair back between her and me gave me more confidence than I usually had with her. Or any woman, for that matter. “But depressing though.” “Why so?” She tilted her head at me in a way which made her hair fall to her shoulder. “Because it makes me see I don‟t have the style Joe would want for here. And if I had, maybe even then I wouldn‟t be as good as these.” “Your stuff‟s different, Michael, that‟s true. Good too. But it‟ll grow, just give it time. Don‟t worry about it.” “You‟ve seen it?” That surprised me. Joe had never said anything about that. The only people I thought had seen my drawings were him and Paul. And Jack, of course. And Jack. “Yes. Is that okay? I saw some of your work on Joe‟s desk a couple of months ago.” I couldn‟t help the next question. Who could, who‟s ever created anything? “What did you think? Really?” “I thought it was very interesting, with the potential for being shocking in parts, bitter even, given time and the right circumstances. As I say, a lot of good stuff, but, when thinking of the “Moonlight”...” “…not traditional enough. Or sellable.” I completed her sentence and closed my eyes for a second, resting my head on my arms across the seat back. Sometimes everything in my mind seemed so black. She was silent. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, the sort you‟d used to reassure a child or injured animal. “Look, Michael, I don‟t 77

A Dangerous Man know the business in the way that Joe does. But you must keep going, see what develops. You‟ve completed the MacMillans commission, that‟s something for the CV. And you have lots of talent, you know. Don‟t give up.” Don’t give up. Her closing words echoed through the glitter of sunlight in the air and marked their shadow on my skin. Don‟t give up. Maybe I wouldn‟t, not yet. I looked up at her. “I won‟t. But could you do something for me?” “What‟s that then?” “Lend me ten quid. In change. Please.” ***** She did. Half an hour later, I was back outside MacMillans‟ Reinsurance. Waiting. Because, as Lee-Anne had said, I wasn‟t going to give up yet. Not in any area of life. I was lucky. After ten minutes, I saw Jack leave the building, shrugging on his long coat and striding off into the evening, in the opposite direction from me. Even a glimpse of him made me struggle for breath and my skin feel hot. I began to follow him, not so close that he‟d know I was there, but not so far away that I might lose him. Though of course I knew, and didn‟t want to know, where he was heading. To meet Peter. A few minutes later, the two of us, the distance between us stretching out like invisible elastic, were outside the wine bar where he‟d taken me on the night we met. Shaking my head, I tried to slow my intake of breath. It felt like betrayal but I didn‟t know who of. So I swallowed and waited to see what he might do. Glancing once at his watch, the gold glinting in the orange glow of the street light, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before pushing open the door and vanishing inside. I was alone, but for the many questions firing through my head. Was Peter already there? If he was, how would Jack greet him? With a kiss? A smile? A touch? Would the other man see in my lover’s eyes what he’d done? If he did, what would happen? Or if Peter wasn’t there, how long would Jack wait before he left? Would he pick someone else up to make the evening pass quicker?

78

Anne Brooke No, of course he wouldn‟t, don‟t be stupid. He wasn‟t the type. That was me, not him. But it would be unbearable if he did. I couldn‟t let it happen. So without waiting for a second thought, and with no understanding of what Jack would do if he saw me, I half-ran over to where he‟d disappeared only a moment ago, pushed open the door and slipped inside. The light was soft, softer than before, as if someone had decided to use candles instead of bulbs, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw that indeed a candle had been placed in a glass at the centre of every table. The flicker made everything unreal and the air smelt wealthy. I pushed my way through what I was sure was the same group of noisy city slickers I‟d met before and found myself at the bar. The bloke behind the counter was the same one who‟d served Jack and me the night before, but I didn‟t think he recognised me. So trying not to catch his eye—the remains of Lee-Anne‟s generosity weren‟t enough for here—I looked up and down the bar but couldn‟t see any sign of Jack. He must have found a table, perhaps even now he‟d be with Peter, touching him if he could, stroking him if he thought people couldn‟t see. I bet he hadn‟t thought of me at all since he‟d left his office. I bet his head was full of bloody Peter. The bastard. “Can I get you anything, sir?” I jumped and looked up, coming face to face with the barman‟s enquiring gaze, the last thing I wanted right now. “No. Sorry, I‟m looking for someone, that‟s all. Can‟t afford your prices anyway.” I‟d meant this as a joke but he didn‟t take it that way and his expression changed to contempt. “Then perhaps you‟d better find someone who can, sir.” There was a burst of laughter from the bloke on my right and I pushed myself back from the bar, managing to jog his arm and spill his drink down his shirt front. “Hey, watch it, will you?” And suddenly, I‟d had enough of it. “What‟s up with you?” I said, holding my face close to his and watching his laughter fade. “Can‟t hold it in, or something?” “Cool it,” the barman‟s voice echoed through my head. “And I suggest you leave.”

79

A Dangerous Man Turning round to argue against the dropped “sir”, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a tall muscular form moved like a cat between me and the bloke with the drink. “Michael,” Jack said, a smile on his mouth but none in his eyes. “Didn‟t think you were coming. Why don‟t we have a chat outside?” With a nod at the barman and a soothing apology to the bloke I‟d upset, he pushed me out into the empty street, his hand still gripping my shoulder. I was shaking. I‟m screwed, I thought, really screwed. Might as well get back to where I belonged and forget all about the last couple of days. Jack gave me a little shove so my back was pressed against railings. He said nothing and I didn‟t look at him. He let me go. Then he began to walk away. “Please,” I said. “Please.” He stopped but didn‟t turn round. I rubbed both hands upwards over my face and realised my fingers were wet. God. “You got inside me,” I went on, and for once I didn‟t mean sex. “I want that feeling again, that‟s all.” He was still silent. “If you‟ll let me be with you, just sometimes, I won‟t get in the way of you and Peter, I swear it.” I was speaking quickly, the words spilling over themselves in the race to get out of my mouth. “Or if you don‟t want that, then we can just talk, okay? I don‟t care. I‟ll take anything.” My lips felt dry and my hands were clammy. Even in the cold. I‟d run out of words and it hadn‟t been enough. Whatever I had wasn‟t enough and would never be. Didn‟t I know that by now? Didn’t I? “Pete‟s rung,” Jack said and I closed my eyes. “He can‟t make it tonight after all. Something else on.” My eyes flashed open. “Are you breaking up?” I said. “Rather than having a break?” He shrugged and turned to face me. “Perhaps. I don‟t know. I‟ve been thinking about what you said before you left the house. About why he might not be there. I can‟t stop thinking about it. You know, sometimes you can try so hard with something and it still doesn‟t work. Even if you want it more than anything. Do you know what I mean?”

80

Anne Brooke He sounded on the edge of tears. Propelling myself away from the railings, I moved to be nearer him. Close enough to see the frown lines on his forehead. “Sure. But some things happen really easily and are simple, and if we get that lucky then maybe all we have to do is go with it.” Stroking his cheek now, feeling the tips of my fingers tingle at the touch of his skin and the blood beneath. “While it lasts.” “Hmm. Perhaps.” Now watching him lower his head and kiss the inside of my hand, his blond eyelashes flickering as if surprised by his own action. “Michael, I can‟t...” “It‟s okay, I know.” I put my arms round him and held him, I didn‟t even try anything on. After a while the shaking of his body subsided and he stepped back from me, our lips brushing only once. “I just don‟t...” “No, wait, let me say something,” I interrupted, the weight of the words heavy on my tongue. “I meant it, Jack. I want to be your friend. I‟ve never said that to anyone before, but I swear it‟s true. I don‟t do relationships, I‟m happy with a quick fuck and a fumble and don‟t look back, but working with you has been great, the best time I‟ve ever had, and that would still have been true if we‟d never had sex. Sorry about following you around today, but I can‟t help it. Call the police if you want, make a complaint, God knows, whatever you like, but it won‟t stop me wanting to see you. I wouldn‟t... I wouldn‟t stand you up.” He gazed at me as if he were gazing from a great distance, his blue eyes shades of black in the darkness. “I‟m going home. Please don‟t follow me again.” “Okay.” Swallowing, I folded my arms and tried not to think. Just as his frame was about to disappear into the night, he said, “Call me.” ***** “Call me, he asked me to call, he said call me.” Leaning across the dusty bar of The Two Ravens, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, I grinned at Frank as if I‟d never stop grinning. He raised both eyebrows and carried on making a nightmarish cocktail for the group of trannies who‟d come in and who were filling the air with shrieks and high-pitched giggles. “That‟s got to be good, hasn‟t it?” I prompted him and he sighed. 81

A Dangerous Man “If you say so.” “Sure I do. It‟s got to be good. If he‟d wanted to get rid of me, he‟d have said he‟d call me, but he didn‟t. Come on, Frank, you know how it works.” “I know how it works with us lot, not with them lot.” “What that‟s mean then? He‟s gay, I know he is.” “I‟m not saying he‟s not but it‟s not sexuality that‟s the big divide in this bloody country, it‟s class. This new bloke you‟ve got the hots for, he‟s posh, high-earning, high-living. Way out of the league of anyone I know. What‟s he see in you anyway? Bit of rough? Change from what he can get at home? And yeah, yeah, I heard what you said about that boyfriend of his but maybe that‟s just talk. Which is fine if all you want is bed and a bit of wham bam thank you ma‟am, which is what you‟re usually after, Michael, and good luck to you. I only wish I could be part of it again, but this time something tells me you‟re not. I mean you‟re acting different, you‟re even looking different. You‟re in lurve, and you‟d best take my advice.” “Which is?” He stirred the sewage-blue liquid into four glasses, added a green cherry to each and a swizzle stick, plonked them onto a tray and swerved round the bar to deliver the poison. Before he vanished into the growing crowd of gays, would-be gays and downright weirdos, he turned to me and said, “Run.” By the time he got back from sweet-talking his new customers, I‟d finished my beer and stubbed my cigarette out on the bar. “Want another?” “Nah, better go. No cash anyway.” I shoved some loose change down on the counter, hoping that would cover it. When I looked up, Frank was frowning at me and to my surprise had something like concern in his face. “So?” he said. “So what?” “What are you going to do?” Glancing away, I shrugged. “What do you think? I‟ll call him, won‟t I?”

82

Chapter Eight March to May It took me two whole months to wean him off Pete. Using whatever tricks I could. Two months watching the two of them break up, get back together, break up, get back together and then finally break up for good. Though I never met Pete—I couldn‟t. The thought made me sick. For two months, in those rare moments when Jack allowed me to be with him as more than a friend, we had to put sex on hold when his phone rang in case it was Pete. Two months of sharing him and trying to smile about it. Was this what love was about? I would churn it over and over in my mind on those nights when I couldn‟t sleep, couldn‟t even draw, and would find no answer. It didn‟t stop me. Jack was like a drug, and though it might kill me, I couldn‟t give him up. Everything else became a haze in black and white, trapped in my head. It felt like I was marking time until something happened. Either Jack would choose me or he wouldn‟t. Until then I simply had to bear it. At home, if home was what it was, Paul ignored me except for those times when he was up for it and Joe wasn‟t around, or when I was desperate for cash for the bloody rent. Where I could, I put him off and he stopped short of forcing me, thank Christ. When we did it, it was done in silence and instead of fiddling the rent sheet on Joe‟s computer, he‟d peel off some notes from his wallet and drop them on the floor before he left. I didn‟t like it but I was grateful. Anything was better than pushing the streets for trade. What if Jack found out? He‟d never want to see me again. And I was damned if I was going to waste any of the time I now needed for reading books from Hackney library. History, opera, the latest modern novel; I even trawled through the newspapers so that I could sound clever enough for him. After two months, I was all but a bloody genius. And still there was no other commission, in spite of the effort I tried to make. One evening at the end of May, with Paul out at some gay club somewhere, and due to increasing desperation, I tackled Joe again. He was sprawled across the living room sofa, his red hair clashing with the yellow cotton throw, puffing away at one of those cigarettes of his. The air smelt of moss and dampness, and jazz music filled the room. 83

A Dangerous Man When he saw me standing at the doorway like a schoolboy waiting for the head‟s attention, he grinned and waved me in. “Come and join me, Michael. Do you want a beer? How‟s things?” “Okay.” I sat down on one of the chairs and rubbed my hands up and down over my thighs, the worn fabric of my jeans catching my thumbnail. “No drawing tonight?” “No. Too tired.” It was true that when I wasn‟t with Jack, most evenings were spent in my room pretending to draw or thinking about drawing. But that night I‟d been too hyped up about the conversation to come with Joe to think of anything else. For a while we sat there, him finishing his cigarette, and me flicking through the TV pages of the local paper. At last, folding up the loose pages and placing them on the crowded coffee table, I said, “How‟s the gallery getting on then?” Joe stretched, muscles tightening in his arms and legs like a cat. “Not bad. Business is good, but I wish people would buy more. It‟s always a bloody struggle, whatever you do.” “I‟m sorry.” And I was. I liked Joe, no matter what. “Don‟t worry about it, Michael. Everything passes, as my mother always used to say. And there‟s nothing you can do about it.” He flicked open the small, white packet he was holding and eased out another cigarette. “I‟d help if I could,” I said as the match flared. “And maybe I can.” “Yeah? In what way?” His eyes crinkled with what I took to be amusement and I ploughed on before he could stop me. “Look, I know we‟ve discussed this loads of times before but maybe the gallery needs some new talent. Something less traditional in style. Ja... MacMillan‟s liked my stuff; they paid us for it. Why don‟t you take a look at what I‟m doing now, Joe? I know I‟ve moved on. So why don‟t you? No pressure.” When I finished what turned out to be a pathetic plea rather than a business proposition, I was leaning forward and almost touching him. He brushed his cigarette-free hand nervously across his face and I sprang backwards in my chair, cursing my own desperation. He looked away. “That‟s a kind offer, Michael. But I‟ve got artists lining up at the door right now. I don‟t need anyone else.” “But what if I...?” 84

Anne Brooke “No.” He held up his hand as if stopping traffic. “I mean it. That commission gave you a lot of good experience, but to be honest you haven‟t done much since then, have you? I don‟t know, I gave you that break, and though I‟m the first to admit it lined my pocket too, you should have followed it up somewhere else. God knows why you didn‟t. If you‟d found an opening, I‟d have been happy to handle it for you again, but I don‟t have the time, what with my other, more sellable artists. Don‟t you see that?” I felt sick. “No, I don‟t.” “You see, Michael, I think...” He stopped and I glanced up at him. “What? What do you think?” “You don‟t want to know, not after the last time I said something I thought was true. You weren‟t happy.” “Yes. I do want to know. Tell me.” “All right. If you want the truth, Michael Jones, good artist though you are and, yes, one with a lot of potential, you‟re not there yet as far as I can tell. And the only way you‟ll get a gallery showing right now is to win the lottery. Then hire your own venue. That‟ll do it.” Springing up, I shoved the chair to one side and almost ran out of the room. Joe didn‟t try to stop me. In the doorway, I turned back to him. “Then that‟s what I‟ll do,” I said. ***** If I only had the cash, the things I‟d do with it. I spent the next couple of days swinging between dreaming of riches and fame, and longing for Jack. Wanting to ring him, I didn‟t dare, in case I got Pete on the line. I had no intention of speaking to that bastard, as the more distant I kept him, the less real he became. If I thought like that, then the screwed-up feeling in my stomach that had me retching over the toilet grew less. But the need to be with Jack was like an itch under the skin and three days after we‟d last seen each other, two days after my useless conversation with Joe, I was determined to ring him, no matter what. We‟d never gone this long before without speaking. What could be wrong? As it happened, I didn‟t need to. He rang me first. In the afternoon, which surprised me. Usually he phoned at night from the car. “Michael?”

85

A Dangerous Man “Yes, it‟s me.” The sound of his voice made me want to dance but I would have lost his next words if I had. “Can you come over? Tonight? Please?” “Sure, you know that. Any time. I love you.” The first time I‟d told him that was the third time we‟d slept together. It had felt like pushing a car uphill but he hadn‟t seemed to mind. He‟d only smiled and kissed me again. Now I said it all the time and even though he‟d never said it back to me, I found it didn‟t matter. It was only words, and actions were more important. Weren‟t they? He named a time and after a few soft phrases, put the phone down. He‟d sounded different but I was too jazzed up at the idea of seeing him to worry about it. Ten minutes before the time he‟d named, I was pacing the road outside his vast home, as out of place as a cat in water. The chill of the night was creeping through the shadows, making everything seem smaller. It was funny how clean Islington smelt. As if it weren‟t part of London at all. It had no tramps, no gangs and not much litter. Much as I loved Jack, he didn‟t know how bloody lucky he was sometimes. Stopping by a hedge, I lit myself a quick cigarette and, coughing, took a few puffs before grinding the stub under my shoe. Smoking indoors wasn‟t allowed; Jack had made that clear enough. Not that I minded, as I was too busy basking in the pleasure of being with him to worry about where the next smoke was coming from. Sex must be good for addiction. Further down the road, someone opened a front door and the sound of laughter flowed over me. God, what I wouldn‟t give to be part of something normal and safe. Even in the matter of love, I was treading a cliff edge. Swearing under my breath—out loud didn‟t seem to fit round here—I strode up to Jack‟s front door. But before I could reach out to press the bell, he‟d opened it and pulled me inside. “Peter‟s gone,” he said. “Sure he has,” I replied, stupid with lust. “Otherwise I wouldn‟t be here, would I?” “No, you don‟t understand. He‟s gone. For good.” An hour or so later, huddled together on Jack‟s huge bed, I sat up on my elbow and teased a strand of yellow hair from his eyes. Grinning, he pretended to bite at me, but I placed a finger on his lips. “Why?” I said. 86

Anne Brooke “Why what?” “Why Peter. What happened?” He swallowed and rubbed his hands up and over his face. “I‟d had enough. I hate lying. It‟s a waste of time. And yesterday, he finally got round to asking me if there was someone else. So I told him.” “Me?” “Yes. Of course you. Who else?” I laughed, but my laughter had no depth. “I don‟t know. What do I know about what goes on when I‟m not here? How can I tell if...?” I didn‟t finish. Jack grabbed my arm and gazed at me. If he started doing that too often I didn‟t know what I wouldn‟t tell him. Such eyes as he had. “There is nobody else. Not that you don‟t know about.” He spoke each word as if it had a life of its own. Listening to him felt as if I were about to leap from a high cliff into unknown water where I might drown. I couldn‟t speak, I couldn‟t even breathe. At last he let me go. “So he‟s gone?” I said and as the words spilled out they were the truth too. “I‟m sorry if that hurts you. I know you and he were close.” “It‟s all right. It‟s over and I‟m glad. It was a long time coming. You see, he asked me something which made everything clear.” “What?” “He asked me to choose and I didn‟t have to think. I chose you. I love you, Michael. And I‟m glad that at last I can say it.” The air around us shifted to brightness. “So what happens now?” I said. “God knows. I‟m not used to all this drama, at least not in one day. What do you want to happen?” And then, God help me, the ideas which had been drifting through my dreams took a dangerous step towards reality. Nothing we do is pure, though I loved him, I swear it. “I want to live with you,” I said. ***** It took him a week to decide. Thank Christ it was no longer, because the suspense was worse than it had been when I waited to see who, of Pete and I, would win Jack. I‟d hoped for an instant response, but I should have learnt by now that Jack liked to mull things over, as he called it. He was 87

A Dangerous Man never one for the snap decision, apart from the night we first got together. That was different, and I could never bring myself to believe he might have planned it. No way. But his positive answer brought me to an evening in late May when I gazed round my scrawny room—no more than a dark cupboard compared to the vast spaces and lights of Islington—and knew it would be the last time I saw it. Funny but it felt as if I were looking through a stranger‟s eyes. With a grin, I began to pack my holdall, stuffing it full of the little I had: jeans, tee-shirts, jumpers, briefs, socks. Not much to show for the months I‟d spent here, but none of it mattered as what I was heading to would be so much better. Once installed in my boyfriend‟s elegant home, I could relax and draw as much as I wanted and whatever I wanted. There‟d be no holding me back then. Head filled with dreams of art and fame and money, I hummed to myself, one of Jack‟s opera tunes I must have picked up on sometime, and reached for my portfolio case. “Escaping to the bloody good life now, are you?” The voice behind me splintered the air and I swung round. “I hope so.” Paul laughed. A wave of stale alcohol filled the room and he folded his arms. “Oh yeah? I dunno, but I can‟t believe it. Not really. Your sort doesn‟t have that kind of luck.” I said nothing. He was more dangerous when drunk. I watched him as he strolled into my bedroom and began picking through my things. Where the hell was Joe? “Have you paid up all your rent?” he said, giving me a sideways leer and moving closer. I would have stepped back but the bed was in the way. “Sure I have. Joe sorted it.” “I don‟t think so. Anyway, Joe‟s not here. He‟s gone to the office.” That answered my question then. Putting my hands in my pockets, I stared him out. “Then he‟ll be back in a minute, won‟t he?” “Not before we‟ve had time to settle some debt.” “Don‟t be stupid. There isn‟t any debt.” But already Paul was beyond listening. With a sudden lunge, he shoved me so I fell backwards onto the bed and then jammed his legs around mine so I couldn‟t move. This close to him, I could smell the sourness of his sweat, the essence of Hackney he always carried with him, and I tried not to gag.

88

Anne Brooke “There‟s always a debt to pay, especially for you, Mikey. So why don‟t we give your Mr. Posh Git something else to think about when you join him in your lurve nest tonight?” he said and began to unzip his chinos. “I‟m sure he‟d like to share in a little memento of your time here and...” But I‟d heard enough. I made a grab for Paul‟s balls and twisted them. Hard. He shrieked and lashed out at me, but I ducked under his arm and pushed him backwards into the mirror, so his head cracked onto the surface of the glass. He slumped to the floor, swearing. I reached for my portfolio and bag, gave the bastard a kick for good measure and, without a second glance, ran onto the landing, outside the flat, down the stairs and pulled open the front door. Where Joe was standing, a brown paper bag wedged under his arm. “Michael,” he said, taking a step back and waving his free arm in what was either greeting or farewell. “Are you off then?” “Yeah. Sorry. I have to go.” I risked a glance at the stairs behind me but saw no lurking shadow. “Okay. Well, good luck and... and here‟s a goodbye present for you. Thought you could have it tonight.” With that, he thrust the package into my arms and grinned. It was icecold. When I peered inside, I could see a bottle of champagne. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks. It‟s been... it‟s been...” Not knowing how to finish the sentence, I glanced up at him and saw his face twisted up as if he were about to cry. “… not great,” he looked straight at me. “I know. Paul can be difficult.” He knew. He knew and I couldn‟t handle his knowledge. “I‟ve got to go,” I said, and side-stepping him on the threshold, half-ran down the path. At the gate, I paused. There was something I desperately needed to understand. “Why do you...?” “… let him stay?” Joe‟s face was back to normal now, as if it had never changed. “He needs me, Michael. He needs me.”

89

Chapter Nine June I needed Jack too. But living with someone was different to sleeping with them, as I was soon to find out. The first thing I noticed was how much time he liked to spend in the garden; the plans he had for new features, a rockery and how it should be laid out, even maybe a pond. It all meant nothing to me; I‟d never been anywhere that had a real garden. All the places I‟d lived had what could only be described as London scrubland, with tired grass, a few weeds and straggling bushes. Not surprising thinking about the amount of traffic roaring past and when I moved in with Jack I couldn‟t tell the difference between a rose and a dandelion. It made him laugh and he tried to teach me. About the soil and the sun and how long it takes to grow something good. He loved it so much. The times he could be in the garden made him come alive in the same way that he did when he cooked for me or listened to his opera CDs. Perhaps I hadn‟t noticed before because we were too busy sneaking around in secret or because it wasn‟t summer and he couldn‟t get out into the garden in the evenings. But now in the full flight of June and the London heat, he would get back from work as soon as he dared and be out in the garden, digging or watering or planning. Telling me his dreams and grinning like a young boy when I pretended to understand. I suppose it‟s different if you own your house, it‟s yours and you can do what you like with it. Being rich gives you choices. Nothing of the garden stuck in my head though. I loved to watch him and the way his muscles flexed and his skin gleamed when he worked. That was the best. That is what I will always remember. Later in those magical June evenings we would sit inside with the patio doors flung open teasing the setting sun to warm us, Jack with his Pimm‟s and me with a beer or when I felt more relaxed a glass of something red and pungent. He would listen to opera, Mozart, he told me, or Handel, Janacek or Wagner. I didn‟t tell him I‟d spent the last few weeks learning about all this stuff as he loved to explain it to me. The first two I‟d come to love, but the second two still left me frustrated and uneasy, as if I‟d been brushed by wire. Flicking through his vast collection was like turning 90

Anne Brooke the pages of his soul, something I could investigate more deeply now that I was living here and had permission to pry. He asked me a couple of times if he could put on something I had, another type of music, but I‟d never owned either a CD or even a tape so I shook my head and told him I liked what there was. Which was true. Looking back, I think we might have been happiest then. Everyone needs a time like that. And at last I could draw again. Whenever I could, I would sit down, even in front of him, get out my sketchpad or, more often, my papers and, with every stroke of my pencil, the memories of Paul and Joe and all my past would drift away so I dreamed it might have gone for good. I started to pick up objects from his garden or from my walks around Islington and bring them inside to draw: blocks of gnarled wood from his shed, the twists and thorns of a rose stem, a length of old pipe, a discarded clock, all of them I would hold, feel the life in them, gaze at them, turning them over and over in my hands before committing my thoughts on them to paper. For a while, my work became gentler, more like summer water than ice. It mirrored the change in me, because everything felt different. The clothes I wore, even the way I spoke with the words I picked up from my lover, but most of all myself. Outside I drew Jack‟s garden, soft grass flowing into herbs and the young apple tree he‟d planted only a couple of years ago, he told me. I drew the lines and curves in the house which hummed with their own particular energy and made me feel as content as a cat. And of course, I drew Jack. At rest, working outside, cooking, at one with his surroundings. Wherever my imagination or my eyes saw him. When I‟d finished, I‟d show them to him and he‟d laugh and hug me again. This time they had to be good enough. Something, I thought, for the exhibition to come. We would talk too, in a way I‟d never talked to anyone. There‟s not much reason to chat when all you‟re in it for is the sex. But this was different. I wanted this to last and I knew that if it did, it might be the one chance I had to go somewhere with my art. Such thoughts did me no favours, but they were true. So we talked and it was almost better than having sex. More intimate and more revealing. It was as if I‟d been given the gift of curiosity and was using it like a new set of pencils for drawing. I came to believe I could lose what had gone before and start again, and I couldn‟t get enough

91

A Dangerous Man of who he was or who he‟d been, even though it might take me into dangerous places, particularly when it came to my own past. Or perhaps it was the danger which called to me. I no longer know. “Have you lived with anyone else?” I asked him one Saturday as we lounged, limbs entangled, on the sofa, not watching TV. “Before Pete, I mean.” Jack put his head on one side and raised an eyebrow at me, a favourite expression of his. “Why ask that now? You haven‟t before.” “It didn‟t seem important then.” “But it does now?” “Yeah, sure,” I shifted my position as he continued to look at me, seeming to want more. “I don‟t know, I haven‟t needed to before.” He was silent for a moment and then smiled. “I see. As you‟re asking, I‟ve lived with two other men in the past. One you know about.” Yes, but I didn‟t want to talk about him. “The other one, what was he like?” “His name was—is—Robert and he was the first man I ever lived with, or slept with. I was twenty-two. We lived together until I was twentythree. Just under a year.” “What happened?” “He left.” “I‟m sorry.” “Don‟t be,” he kissed my hair and then said, “I was devastated at the time, but it wasn‟t meant to be.” “Where is he now?” “Not sure. We finally lost touch about five or six years ago. I think he ended up in Japan. What about you?” That would explain the bedroom pictures then, I thought, before looking up and seeing him waiting for an answer. I should have expected the return question, but I still wasn‟t prepared. “No, nobody. I mean I‟ve only ever lived with you.” “What about other boyfriends though? Come on, Michael, I know you said you didn‟t do relationships, but with your looks there must have been some.” “Don‟t be stupid,” I ran one hand through my hair before folding my arms around me. “Anyway, I could say the same about you and other boyfriends. Apart from the ones you‟ve lived with.” 92

Anne Brooke He shook his head. “You could but it wouldn‟t be true. You, being a child of the eighties, may not credit it, but you‟re only the third man I‟ve slept with.” “Come off it,” I said and laughed. “These days that never happens.” “Sometimes it does. I‟m a one-man man. Or was until you came along and persuaded me to change the particular man. But we were talking about you. So let‟s hear all about your conquests then. Enlighten me.” “They don‟t matter, it‟s not important.” “Go on. Anything you do is important, Michael.” “They‟re not. Really,” I realised my hands were clenched tight so I made an effort to relax. I failed. “It‟s just the usual stuff, blokes at parties, clubbing, gay bars, that sort of thing. Nobody I ever got to know, not really. Not like you. I was just having fun. It‟s what you do, isn‟t it, if you‟re someone like us? Or it‟s what I thought you did. Sometimes I liked it and sometimes I didn‟t, but it‟s a long time ago and I don‟t want to think about it now. God, Jack, let‟s just leave it. Can we?” He bit his lip, “All right, of course we can. I didn‟t mean to hurt you. I‟m sorry. But we‟re together now. None of it matters, you know.” But it did. Underneath. ***** Because no matter how much you want to understand someone, you never can. Too much of what they have experienced will never translate to anyone else and each person has their own take on the world. Mine was different from Jack‟s and I think even if we‟d talked and loved for a lifetime, getting close enough to know would have been impossible. Though we tried, God help us, we tried. But I always backed away, and the one time I didn‟t only helped to widen the subtle but increasing gap between us. Again it was a weekend, the last Sunday in June of that year, and the weather was thundery, clouds layered in oppression over our heads, with the occasional break of sunshine. Jack was frustrated, unable to get into the garden and lose himself before the week‟s work round started up again. But he smiled and for a while let me take the opportunity, once again, to draw him. He sat as still as he could on the living room sofa, but now and again would leap up and stare out at the sky.

93

A Dangerous Man The fifth time he sighed and pressed his face to the window, wrinkling his nose at the weather, I laughed and dropped my pad onto the floor, halfthrowing my pencil after it. “You, can‟t you sit still today?” I said. “What? Oh, sorry. Is it bothering you?” “Well, seeing as I don‟t have to rely on memory these days, I‟d like to make the most of that fact.” “All right.” He came and sat down and for a few minutes was the perfect subject. Or would have been if he hadn‟t twisted his head round to see outside whenever he thought I was busy with my pencils. “Have you always been like this?” I said after a while. “Like what?” “Desperate to get out in the garden at the weekends and like an angry fly when you can‟t? Or is it only since I‟ve been here?” He laughed and sat back in his seat. “Don‟t be crazy—you‟re the best thing about being home. But yes, I suppose so. Wouldn‟t you be? I work all the hours there are during the week and when I‟m here I like to do things I don‟t have to do.” “I thought you liked your work. You‟re bloody good at it.” “Am I?” “Sure. When I was there, everyone said so. And it‟s obvious you‟re committed.” “Maybe. But it would be nice not to have to work full-time for ever. Doing what I do takes over my life. I worry about it all the time. Sometimes I wish I could just give it up, or at least work part-time.” “What would you do? Dig the garden all day?” Jack grinned. “Perhaps not all day. I‟ve got you to consider as well. Hey, look, the sun‟s out.” And he was up again, striding past me and out into the heavy air. “Come on, you can finish the drawing later. But just look at that sky.” I joined him at the patio doors and he put his arm round me. The sky was charcoal but here and there slender rays of sun pierced through the clouds and down onto the earth beneath, and into our part of it, Jack‟s garden. If I used paints, I would have been running for my colours, but as a pencil and charcoal man I was content with looking. Committing it all to memory, without the need to act, would give me vital inspiration later. 94

Anne Brooke “Isn‟t it great?” Jack said. “It reminds me of being a child. You know, one of my first memories was of a day like today. At home, my parents‟ home that is, and I couldn‟t have been any more than about four, I definitely hadn‟t started school. We were outside in the garden so there must have been a break in the weather though I still have an impression of how dark it was. I was playing on the swings and Dad was keeping an eye on Penny. I suppose she must have been a baby. And then I remember my mother walking out of the back door carrying a tray of homemade lemonade. It was the best thing I‟ve ever tasted, I swear it. I can still remember the feeling of happiness I had. It‟s funny what you take from being young, isn‟t it?” I mumbled something non-committal and turned to go back inside. It was clouding over again anyway, and I didn‟t want to get cold. But Jack‟s next question made me shiver. “What about you?” he said. “What‟s your first memory?” “I don‟t know; it‟s not important.” He followed me inside, stretching, and closed the patio doors behind us as it started to drizzle. “Of course it is. To me. I‟d like to know.” “I suppose school then, lessons, that sort of thing; nothing particular.” “What about before that? Everyone can remember something from before they started school, can‟t they? Do you know, you never talk about your family, not like I do. Come on, Michael, give me something to mull over, rather than being the mystery man in my life. What about something to do with brothers? Sisters? Friends?” “There weren‟t any,” I said quietly and not looking at him. “I was always on my own.” I sat down on the sofa, and after a moment he sat next to me, putting one arm over my shoulders and drawing my body close to his. Realising then that I would tell him what he wanted to know, I tried to relax against him. “I don‟t remember very much,” I went on. “I suppose because I try not to. And I don‟t talk about my family because I don‟t see them. Ever. Not now. I don‟t know whether my parents are still alive even. I don‟t want to know. Not all childhoods are happy and, God, Jack, I envy you your memories, honest I do. My first memory of my father is so vague, you see. I remember being frightened and everything seems much bigger than me. I don‟t know how old I am but there‟s a street, noise from traffic, it‟s dark 95

A Dangerous Man and wet. Typical London. Somebody‟s shouting, raving even—it‟s my father and I can smell beer and sick and piss, and I don‟t know if the piss is mine or his, but everything else is his. Then suddenly there‟s a pain in my head, red-hot like fire and I can‟t see. I don‟t know how long I can‟t see for, but when I wake up he‟s gone and I‟m so cold. So bloody cold.” By now Jack was hugging me and I wished my hands could keep still but they couldn‟t. There was more to the story, much more, but I couldn‟t tell him. Still in his arms I slid a box of matches out of my pocket, reached for the cigarettes on the table and after a few stupid attempts managed to light one. Jack said nothing even though usually he made me smoke outside. The rich smoke filled my lungs and pushed the memory down. After a while, my hands stopped shaking. “I‟m sorry,” Jack said, kissing me on the forehead and in my hair. “I‟m so sorry.” “It‟s okay; let‟s just leave it, shall we? Let‟s...” That was when the doorbell rang, launching me out of my seat like a beggar who‟d spotted the cops. “God, who‟s that?” “Don‟t worry, Michael. I‟ll get it, get rid of them.” He disappeared and I took one last pull from the cigarette before stubbing it out and wafting the smell away. The door opened and I heard an exclamation, the sound of laughter and talking. A woman‟s voice. Then the clatter of feet in the hallway, the door opened and a tall blonde woman swept in, bringing with her the smell of rain and confidence. Jack half shrugged and smiled at me. “Michael,” he said. “Meet my sister, this is Penny. Penny, this is Michael.” ***** But I wasn‟t ready. Not for someone as important as Jack‟s sister. He thought the world of her; I‟d known that from the moment I‟d seen the picture he kept of her children on his office desk. What were their names again? Yes, of course, Kathryn and Rob. I should know it, but their ages wouldn‟t come to me. All this flashed through my mind as the woman, Penny, stepped towards me, hand outstretched, ready to meet her brother‟s new lover, who compared with his old one must have been a shock for her.

96

Anne Brooke “Lovely to meet you, Michael,” she said, her cool hand resting for a second in my hot fist. “Jack does nothing on the phone but talk about you.” “Oh,” was all I could think of to say. It was impossible to make the jump between confession and welcome, and all I could think about was how alike brother and sister were. No other words would come and in desperation I glanced at Jack, who did his best to cover for me. “Thanks, Penny,” he said with a laugh. “If I‟d known you were going to give away trade secrets, I would have kept my mouth shut.” “Bit late for that now, big brother. Aren‟t you living together?” “Yes, but...” “Well then, no secrets. Any chance of a drink?” As the two fair heads discussed whether it was too early for a small whisky or whether a Pimm‟s would do, I took Penny‟s coat from where she‟d flung it on top of the sofa and slipped into the hallway to hang it up. When I crept back into the living room, the decision had been made and Jack was handing his sister a tall glass of burnt ochre liquid which glinted like fire. “Michael? Can I get you anything?” he said. “No, I‟m fine, thanks.” Jack joined his sister on the sofa and I sat opposite the two of them, my back to the patio door. It felt like I imagined an interview must feel, though apart from my conversation with Jack about the art project I‟d never had one before. “So,” he said to Penny. “What brings you here? Not that you‟re not welcome, of course.” “Pleasure,” she said. “What else? Katie—that‟s one of my girlfriends, Michael—rang up this morning with a spare ticket to her college reunion, and Grant said go so I went. Not that I went to her college, but nobody seemed to mind. And I now know more than I wanted to about Katie‟s ability to drink everybody else under the table at Freshers‟ Week and still stagger home afterwards. Though whose home I wasn‟t quite sure. Anyway, once they got to talking about old Professor Dawkings and whether the department secretary was male or female, I thought there‟s my cue to leave and see what Jack‟s up to. Which brings me to now. What about you? What are you up to? Cheers.”

97

A Dangerous Man Jack grinned and the two of them raised their glasses while I tried to recover from the sensation of being swept along by a tidal wave of words. My lover must have been used to it. “Me?” he said. “I‟m up to nothing. Same job, same house, same life. No bodies under my patio, I‟m afraid.” “But you do have a new live-in partner,” Penny winked at me and I found myself half-winking back, even though I wasn‟t sure why. “That‟s different, isn‟t it?” “Yes, it is.” Jack‟s face seemed to soften as he looked at me, and Penny groaned and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “How did you know?” I cut in, thinking I ought to say something before I was in danger of disappearing from the room. “I might be a guest. Like you.” “You might,” she said. “But you‟re not. You gave yourself away the moment you took my coat and deposited it somewhere. Guests don‟t do that.” I shrugged. Being a guest anywhere hadn‟t come up before. Not in my life. The conversation moved on to Penny‟s recent theatre trips in Guildford, the cost of living in the south and how frustrating having a commuting husband was. That last one I could sympathise with, in a way, as these days I often found myself waiting for Jack‟s return from work like an excited puppy. But I let their words drift over my head as the evening steadied itself into night. Instead I watched them. Jack was the taller of the two but you wouldn‟t have had to ask if they were family. It was strange how to me my boyfriend looked so masculine, but in Penny, the same features, large blue eyes, thick fair hair, distinguished nose, had been softened to create a gentler beauty. She didn‟t offer the strange glimmer of something undiscovered like Lee-Anne at the gallery always did, but her face was more open. I didn‟t know if I wanted to draw her though. For the same basic look I had Jack, and I thought if I tried to capture her on paper she would turn into her brother anyway. The idea made me smile but neither of them noticed. They were too busy talking. Still. I didn‟t mind, I was enjoying watching them and it took away the rawness left over from what I‟d told Jack. The afternoon was darkening again now, with the onset of more rain. It made the living room look like something from another time, quivering 98

Anne Brooke into absence, not quite here. I seemed to be a thousand miles away from the world of Jack and his sister, trapped behind a screen, maybe because of what I‟d told him. Why had I done it? Somehow he‟d got underneath the part of me I kept for public view, and dabbled in the parts I kept hidden. I shouldn‟t have done that, it would give him a hold over me more than he already had, God help me. Bloody hell, I‟d be telling him next how I‟d earned my cash, when I wasn‟t drawing. Before I‟d met him, that is. And then where would I be? Someone like him would never handle that, being the lover of an ex-hooker, or part-time hooker. I loved him; I‟d do anything to stay. I‟d make it work, no matter what Frank, or anyone I used to know, or the rest of the world said. I‟d make it work whatever I had to do. I realised I was leaning forward in my chair staring at Jack as if I could slice him in half with my eyes, and that Penny was giving me a puzzled look. Sitting back, I tried to appear normal but wasn‟t sure how. So I said the first thing that came into my head. “What‟s Guildford like then?” “Bloody expensive,” Penny said with a grin, the puzzled look vanishing. “We were lucky to get in when we did, just before Kathryn was born. What with me only working part-time now, though I was full-time before the children came along, we‟d never afford it.” “How old are the children?” I seized my chance when I saw it. “Sorry, I know Jack‟s told me but I can‟t remember.” “No reason why you should. None of my friends ever do if they don‟t have children themselves. I think you‟ve got to have gone through the pain of it all before that part of the memory cells are enabled or something. Anyway, Kathryn‟s ten and Rob‟s just turned eight.” Jack groaned and smacked his forehead like someone from an old film. “I forgot his birthday, didn‟t I? I‟m sorry. I never do that.” “You certainly did, big brother, but then again I suppose I can forgive you if you‟re in the throes of new love, which you so obviously are. Not sure about Rob though.” “No, no of course, it‟s inexcusable,” Jack stood up, patted his pockets as if looking for presents an eight-year-old might like, then reached up to the mantelpiece for his cheque book before scribbling something out. “Here, let him have this and he can buy what he wants, but I‟ll bring a real present next time I‟m down. Which will be soon, I promise.” 99

A Dangerous Man Penny‟s eyebrows soared to the ceiling when she looked at what Jack had written. “That‟s enough to last him all the way to Christmas. Are you sure?” “Go ahead. Though maybe best to share it with Kathryn as well, I don‟t want to be known as the uncle that divides.” “Good idea, they fight enough as it is.” “Just like us, eh?” Brother and sister grinned at each other with identical smiles and in spite of what I‟d thought earlier on, I more than anything wanted to draw the moment. No chance of that, of course, but I‟d remember as much as I could for later. Jack glanced at me and smiled again. “You‟ve got that look, Michael.” “What look‟s that?” “You know, the one where you‟re thinking you want us to freeze frame so you can get your paper and pencils out.” He knew me too well; I would have to watch that. “Maybe.” I shrugged, not wanting to commit myself to something so personal in front of someone I‟d only just met. “Oh yes,” Penny said, taking another sip of her Pimm‟s. “You draw, don‟t you?” It was the way she said it, as if it was a hobby like walking or playing football, though I didn‟t think for a moment they would do anything like that in Guildford. Did she have an off-roader? From what I‟d heard, probably. I would have to ask Jack later, but for now all I could think of was the way she‟d said it. Like it was interesting but meant nothing beyond a fun way to keep me off the streets and in her brother‟s bed. In so many ways, if only she knew it, it was. How had Jack told her? What had he said? “Yes, I draw.” It was all I could say. She had no idea it might be my life, or the better part of it. She nodded and put down her glass. Jack smiled, almost indulgently. What the hell was going on? “I remember Jack telling me, at the beginning after you two had first met. It‟s not paint, is it? Just pencil work?” “Just pencil work,” I repeated, trying to smile back. “It‟s so good to have an interest,” she said. “Something to do. I so admire you, Michael, and I wish I could do something like that. I used to 100

Anne Brooke write poetry, but after Kathryn was born I haven‟t written anything since. I should get back into it really, but I...” And then she was off again, chatting in the way that only women seem able to do. In a way that covered over the twist in my heart that was making me want to lash out but at who I didn‟t know. In a way that dampened without destroying the feeling that what had been going well— my first meeting with my boyfriend‟s closest relative—was now lost in the sense of failure it would always be wrapped in. I wanted to be sick but for Jack‟s sake I swallowed the bile down. I don‟t remember much about the rest of the time Penny was there with us. The end, of course, counted in that it changed everything, but in practical terms it couldn‟t have been more than half an hour, maybe forty minutes, more and when she got up at last to leave, my shoulders lost the weight they‟d been carrying. Out of the living room and down the hall, still talking, something about all of us meeting up at their parents‟ house soon, then Penny taking the coat I handed her, checking the pockets and crying out in surprise because she couldn‟t find her keys, her fucking keys. I wish she‟d never left them there on the sofa, with Jack nipping away to find them, closing the living room door behind him, out of habit I supposed, because there was no need to. The silence thrust its way between Penny and me. She opened her mouth for something to say, though I would have been happy, innocent in the silence, waiting for my boyfriend, my deceitful boyfriend, to come back. Why didn‟t you wait, Penny? That would have been fine. But she didn‟t wait, she tried to fill the silence, as I‟d seen Lee-Anne do before now. Her eyes crinkled up and she leant towards me. She leant towards me, the floral scent of her perfume filling the air, roses, lilies, grass, and whispered, “My brother really likes you, you know. He‟s talked about nothing else since the first time he met you, and don‟t let him pretend it isn‟t true. He plays it cool sometimes, God knows why, as it doesn‟t suit him, but don‟t let it fool you. Do you know, he told me he was so desperate to see you again that he would have given you that MacMillan‟s art commission if you‟d been drawing square houses with big smiling windows and smoke coming out of the chimney. Though of course, you weren‟t. He says you‟re very good, you‟re...”

101

A Dangerous Man But it was already too late as Jack, my treacherous Jack, was striding towards us with his sister‟s keys dangling from his fingers. He kissed Penny, not seeing the anxious look she gave me, the sweat of realisation on her face, and they promised to arrange that weekend very soon. And then she‟d gone, a quick squeeze of my frozen arm and she‟d gone. And Jack and I were alone. I was alone with the man who‟d hired me not because he‟d thought I was the best for the job that I so desperately wanted to be the best for, not because he‟d seen something special in the art I spend my lifeblood and guts creating, but because he‟d wanted to get me into bed. Just like everyone else.

102

Chapter Ten June “What did she mean, Jack?” “I‟m sorry?” “What did your sister mean about you wanting me to do that art job for you because you liked me and not my drawings?” It was four hours later and we were sitting in the bedroom. Or rather Jack was sitting, undoing his shirt cuffs and I was standing at the other side of the bed, gazing at the long lines of his back. It was the first time since Penny had left that I‟d dared to say anything or that I‟d been able to form words from the seething mass of confusion twisting my mind to pulp. The evening between the two of us had been jagged, lines stabbing the air and with me unable to respond to Jack‟s gentle conversational nudges. After a while he‟d left me alone and we‟d sat on the sofa, space forming a bridge between our bodies, staring at TV programmes which to me had meant nothing. Now I was able to force words through the narrowness of my throat to try to spin the truth out of him. “What did she mean?” I said again. “About you hiring me for that job because you liked the look of me, not my art?” Jack sighed. “Is that what she told you?” “Yes.” He said nothing, but finished removing his cuffs and taking off his shirt. Then he turned and looked at me. “It‟s true in one way,” he said. “When I walked into Reception and saw you sitting there, with that coffee clutched in your hands like it was a lifebelt, all I wanted to do was touch you. And then you caught me with those brown eyes of yours and I would have given you anything, I swear it. My knowledge of your art came later and I... Michael, what are you doing?” By now I‟d grabbed my sketchpad, papers and pencils and was striding towards the en-suite bathroom. “What does it look like? I‟m going.” “Going? Where?” he stood up and almost shouted as I emerged from the bathroom clutching my toothbrush. He followed me to the door. 103

A Dangerous Man “The spare room. Where do you think?” Because, God help me, there was nowhere else I was welcome, was there? All of me, I mean. Not in the whole wide bloody world. “For heaven‟s sake, Michael, don‟t you see it as a compliment? You‟re the most arresting man I‟ve ever met and I knew that from the moment I saw you. It‟s nothing to do with the way you draw, which is perfectly good, no, it‟s more, you know it, and...” Perfectly good? Was that all? There might be better ways to crush a bloke but none that I knew of. I stood at the doorway and shook off his restraining hands. “I think I‟ll take my perfectly good art and self away from your lies, Jack, if you don‟t mind. I thought you were being straight with me when we did that deal. If you‟d wanted bed, why didn‟t you just say and you could have had me, without the crap of having to buy me too.” With that, I slammed the door in his face and fled down the corridor towards the spare room. Where I locked the door and flung myself on the bed. I knew I was acting like an idiot but I seemed to be caught up in a scene where all I had to do was say the lines and do the actions. I had no input of my own. Maybe this was what it came to if you tried to have a relationship. Of any sort. Maybe I should have stuck to the one-night stands and dark street corners. And don‟t forget that twat Paul and the rent too. I might have been better off where I was. Here the world I‟d come to live in was stranger than the one I‟d left. After a couple of minutes, I heard Jack‟s tentative knock on the door and froze. He knocked again and called out my name, and I was almost ready to get up, let him in, even sort it out. He‟d said my stuff was good and he should know, he had the eye. But then I heard the sound of his footsteps receding along the corridor and I was on my own. Sleep didn‟t come easily that night, and in the morning, I waited until I heard the sound of his car on the driveway and the silence flowing back after he‟d gone before I got up. During that day, something crystallised that I hadn‟t even known was there. I sat for hours in Jack‟s garden, my paper on my knee and drawing whatever came into my head and then flowed down through my fingers; a gloomy Soho street, something surreal, something sharp, and impressions of Jack, his face always in shadow. None of it satisfied me, but I wasn‟t surprised. I didn‟t know if it was the row with my boyfriend or what his 104

Anne Brooke sister had said or if it was one of those days when I couldn‟t get “in the zone” whatever I did. It happened. About an hour or so before I expected Jack to come home, I took everything indoors and began to make preparations for dinner. Not having an idea what you should do when you‟ve fallen out with your boyfriend, I thought that might be the best thing. I chose spaghetti Bolognese, Jack‟s favourite. While I was waiting for the sauce to simmer down as he‟d showed me, I spread the results of today out on the kitchen table and considered them. If Jack had only these to look at, then I could never have been angry with him for they were indeed perfectly good. And that was all. The realisation that I knew it to be so shot through me like dope through blood. Yes. These weren‟t bad, but still something about them told me I could do better. Once or twice I‟d done better in the past and could do so again. Given the right circumstances. I was going to prove it and myself to Jack too. And to get there, I needed an aim, a focus. No more messing around. From now on I would draw and draw only for a purpose. Because I was good enough to be the best, and I would do anything to make him see it. Knowing this meant it was time to move things on a little further, in the direction I wanted them to go. By the time Jack came home, the pasta was burnt but it didn‟t matter. I was ready. He walked in slowly, his face grey and looking older than I could remember him looking before. I took him in my arms and kissed him. I would have to play this one carefully, I knew it. “I‟m sorry,” I said before he could say anything first. “I went over the top. It‟s not your fault that...” “I‟m crap at personal explanations and don‟t think before I speak?” he sighed and stroked my hair away from my eyes. “I‟m sorry for not making things clear and for upsetting you. You see, I honestly didn‟t mean to get at your drawings with what I said, and it would be stupid if I even tried. Your pictures at work, people respond to them. As they should. They‟re good, and so is what you do here at home. Never mind the way I say things, you do have a lot of potential. It‟s obvious. Do you know, even casual visitors have commented on your art and sometimes it‟s the only worthwhile positive statement that comes out of meetings these days. I wish I could walk out of my job, drop everything, and go away with you.

105

A Dangerous Man You could draw and I could garden, and it would be somewhere we could be happy, just the two of us.” Right now I couldn‟t imagine anything worse, not because being with him would be terrible, God no, but because it would put a jagged line through today‟s considered plan. “Yeah, I know,” I lied, though only partly. “I wish the same things. Come on, let‟s eat. Most of what I tried to cook is okay.” We ate. All the time I watched him, in wonder at how quickly love changes, becomes something more than passion and need, and how other things that were important before everything was swept away in the wildness of skin and mouths and fingers, reappear as the same, but different. Still there, but textured a darker shade because of love. He apologised for what he‟d said twice more while he was still eating but I wouldn‟t be pulled into too much of a conversation about it. Far more was at stake. When we were sitting together at last in the living room, he with his brandy and me with yet another beer, I played my hand. “So you‟ve had some comments from people at work over what I‟ve done then?” I said, eyes down and fiddling with my glass. What I wouldn‟t give sometimes for the days when I could just drink straight from the bottle and have a fag too. “What did they say?” “Good things. Some talked about the edginess of it, the power. The guys at work liked the ones you did of them, of course. They‟re so dark, even the pictures you did of the open-plan area where there‟s so much light. God knows how you manage to create that impression but it‟s there in everything you do. As if something is hiding that won‟t come out. Yet. Do you understand what I mean?” I nodded, but didn‟t respond directly. I was playing for bigger winnings, and by some miracle he‟d given me the way in to what I needed to say. “I‟m glad you said that, Jack. Because it leads me to what I‟ve been thinking through today.” “What‟s that?” He put down his brandy, leant back into the sofa and smiled at me. “I need to take what I do further; to try to bring out what I know is there. I want to concentrate on getting more drawings down, more of the things in my head before they‟re lost. Sometimes there‟s not enough 106

Anne Brooke bloody time, you know? I want to get better and for people to see it. I don‟t care whether they like what I do or not, I just want them to appreciate it, maybe even change the way they think. Do you see?” “Of course, Michael, of course I do. It‟s a good aim; I think you should go for it.” “Do you? Will you help me do that? Will you?” As I spoke, I turned towards him and let the fierce longing in my words flow through my eyes. He appeared confused, but didn‟t let me down this time. Perhaps he didn‟t dare. “Of course I will, I‟ll help in any way I can. You know that.” “All right. So can I use your spare room as a studio? It‟ll mean everything to me, Jack.” A second‟s hesitation, then he nodded. Yes. Round One to me then. It was wonderful what recent guilt could make someone promise. And there was so much more to make happen. ***** I spent two glorious days making the sort of space I wanted in the spare room, or Michael‟s studio, as Jack began to call it. The rubbish I put up in the attic, and when the area was clear I set up the easel I‟d chosen, and which my boyfriend had paid for, so that the light fell at an angle across the paper, giving me that clarity to breathe and to think. On the shelves I put the tools of my trade: sketchpads; my Staedtler pencils; charcoals of varying thicknesses; papers, both Bristol and Ingres; erasers; a new craft knife; bulldog clips; a fixative spray. After that, I carried up from the garden the latest collection of objects I was focusing on: more wood, that old pipe, a half-broken brick, and distributed them around the studio at the best angle for the light. When at last I stood like a real artist in the middle of it all and paused to admire the effect, the only thing left was to draw. And I thought I‟d never been happier. It would come. It would come. ***** Keeping my real plans from Jack was making me edgy. Since the visit from his sister, everything had changed and even then I knew there was no way back. From now on I was playing my own game and I was determined to use him to get what I wanted, no matter how much I loved him, and I did. So it was that a couple of days after our row and productive reconciliation, for the first time since I‟d moved in with him I found 107

A Dangerous Man myself treading the wide streets in a different part of the city. The late afternoon sun had brought out the tourists even in this part of Hackney and I wondered what the hell they were doing. It had no sights here for them to admire, only the long lines of pavement and building and above us all the clarity of sky. Ignoring their obvious confusion, I lengthened my stride and left them behind me in a shimmer of heat and laughter. A couple of streets later, I came to where I wanted to be. Joe‟s gallery. It seemed like a lifetime since I‟d been inside and, I suppose, in terms of sex and emotion it was. Entering the coolness of marble and tile felt different and for a moment when Lee-Anne looked up, she had no recognition on her face. I could have been a stranger, perhaps even somebody wanting to buy a picture. But the second or two out of time passed and then she was up, her brilliant smile lighting her eyes and hands stretched out to greet me as if I were a long-lost lover. “Michael! It‟s been so long. One month? Two? More? How are you these days? I know you‟d left Joe‟s flat, but I wasn‟t sure where you ended up. There was some talk of a man, I think?” Trying to answer at least some of her questions took the next few minutes and when I was finally allowed to stop, I realised someone else had walked in from the entrance to the gallery rooms while she and I were talking. It was Paul. The last bloke I‟d expected to see here. He normally never bothered with his boyfriend‟s life. He stood next to Lee-Anne‟s desk, holding a newspaper, his stomach straining against his trousers in that way I‟d managed to forget. As soon as he saw me, his face darkened like a bad light over a painting, and he took a step towards me before stopping. I wondered if he might have punched me if Lee-Anne hadn‟t been there. She, however, appeared to notice nothing. “Paul,” she said. “What did you think of the new display?” He grunted. I didn‟t think he had enough words in his head to say what he thought of such things and almost opened my mouth to accuse him of it but at the last minute realised the sense of silence. This wasn‟t home. Starting a fight here wouldn‟t get me what I wanted.

108

Anne Brooke Lee-Anne smiled again, but something else flickered in her eyes. “Shall I see if Joe‟s free, Michael?” I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the enemy, who stared back at me, his mouth moving as if he had an unpleasant taste in it. Lee-Anne picked up the phone, said something I couldn‟t catch and then waved me in the direction of Joe‟s office. With a last grimace at Paul, I strode away, my speech ready in my head. Joe leapt up when I entered and the door clicked shut behind me. One glance round the room told me that nothing important had changed, except for the flowers on the edge of the desk, a decoration I hadn‟t seen here before. The earthy hot smell of them filled the air. “Michael, how are you?” He grasped my hand and I felt his flesh cool on mine. “Long time no see.” I‟d never heard anyone actually say that before and it made me smile. Joe gave me a quizzical look and retreated beyond his desk. He glanced once at the phone as if wondering if it might ring, but it stayed silent. I was glad of it. “Yeah, that‟s right,” I said, watching as he palmed one of his cigarettes and shaking my head as he offered me one. “So how‟s everything with that man of yours? Jack, wasn‟t it?” “Sure. We‟re fine.” “And how‟s the drawing? Anything different now?” “Yes. Better.” Joe rocked back and forth on his heels and I tried to find the courage to ask the question I wanted to. “Good, good,” he said. “So is this a social visit or can I do anything for you?” It was tempting to ask once again if he might have room in his display for me but two things prevented me from launching into that particular nothrough road. One being the fact he‟d obviously just started a new exhibition, traditional as ever, I imagined from my brief glimpse, and the other being that I was without my portfolio. Though, thinking again, the lack of it might have made him listen to me more seriously. I didn‟t know. Because what I had to ask him was, for me right then, the last throw of the dice. “Yes. You can do something for me.” He raised one eyebrow and I could see the familiar suspicion in his face, the preparation of the refusal. “What‟s that then?” 109

A Dangerous Man “I want to set up my own exhibition, in my own place. Jack would be willing to put up the money for it.” As I said this, I put my hands behind my back and crossed my fingers. “And I can draw pictures round a theme. Something unusual, that will make people stop and think. Don‟t worry, Joe, I won‟t impose on you here. All I want is some advice. I know which magazines to look in, it‟s not that, but what‟s your opinion? Where in London is the best place to look in that‟s not too dear and not too far out of town? And how do I go about marketing it?” In the silence when I‟d finished, I pulled out the chair on the other side of the desk from Joe, and sat down, all the while gazing at my potential helper. He stubbed out his cigarette in a gold-rimmed ash-tray. For a moment, the acrid smell of the tobacco overcame that of the flowers. I waited. He pulled at his beard. “Hmm, not the question I was expecting, Michael. Good to know you still have the capacity to surprise.” But I wasn‟t going to take any stalling. “So what‟s your answer then? Will you help?” “I might. Seeing as you‟re bloody determined, if nothing else. It‟ll have to be somewhere small however; you don‟t have large pulling power, whatever you think. And if that lover of yours is putting up the cash, well, that‟s his business. And, in terms of the art, whatever stage you‟ve reached with it now, there‟s nothing to stop you.” “Okay, cheers, so...” Joe held up one hand. “Wait. I haven‟t finished yet. Let‟s make one thing clear. I‟ll give advice and even help in a limited way and, sure, I‟ll take my cut for that but I can‟t manage the whole thing for you. Not with the amount of work there is to do here and not when every other artist I sponsor draws or paints in a style very different from yours. I can‟t afford to flummox the public, not being one of the big, rich galleries. Is that clear?” I nodded. I supposed it was true and at least it wasn‟t the worst I‟d been expecting. It was something I could use. And I‟d make sure the results were bloody good. They had to be. This time I would have Jack on my side. We would make it work and he, Joe and everyone would be proud of me yet. With a jolt I realised Joe was still talking.

110

Anne Brooke “You do realise that even having an exhibition isn‟t going to open doors for you, don‟t you?” he was saying. “It takes more than a show to convince the art-buying public to get out their wallets.” “Sure, I know that. I...” “So why do you want to do it this way? Why not go down the business commission road and branch out from there if you can? Why are you so keen to have a show? And don‟t pretend otherwise. I can see you are. You‟re burning up with it.” Staring at him, I knew there was nothing I could say. I had reasons I could never tell him, but it didn‟t matter because when I didn‟t answer he didn‟t make an issue of it. Instead he shrugged and pulled out a notebook from his drawer. My heart slowed its racing beat. After going over a few business issues and with a swirl of ideas in my head, I left the gallery feeling as if I were walking with a purpose. I was grateful that Paul seemed to have disappeared, but two streets away I realised it wasn‟t over yet. A hand gripped my arm from behind and I was swung round to see Paul, as he forced me backwards against a low wall. “What were you doing creeping round Joe and me again, Mikey?” His breath was ripe with alcohol. I tried to turn away from the stink of it but with his other hand he grabbed my face and twisted it round again to his. “I said what were you doing?” “Seeing Joe, not you. What the hell were you there for anyway?” I spat the words out as if they were knives but it didn‟t put him off. “You never go to the gallery.” “Neither should you. You‟re no artist, or at least not a successful one. And your style, God. Not something Joe would want to bother with.” With every word, he jerked my head backwards so that pain shot through my throat. One or two people scuttled past behind him but no-one dared to interfere. Not that I could blame them. When after a few seconds he had the sense to see I couldn‟t speak to answer him, he relaxed his grip, but stayed close enough so I couldn‟t run, as if we were friends or lovers. “Go on, then,” he said. “What were you up to, you little ponce?” I stared straight back at him. Once, before Jack, I would have looked at my feet, the ground, anywhere but at him. Now things had changed.

111

A Dangerous Man “Getting art advice from someone in the know. Not something you’d be interested in.” For a moment I thought he might thump me, but instead he thrust his clenched fist deep into the pocket of his chinos, making the line of his stomach more obvious. “Cut the crap, Mikey. What advice?” “Ask Joe, if you want to know.” “Yeah, maybe I will. I won‟t get no sense out of you, if I ever did.” He took two steps away from me but this time I wasn‟t going to run. I had nothing to be scared of, not any more. Or so I thought. Without warning, he struck, slapping my face once with the back of his hand and then kneeing me in the groin so hard I couldn‟t stop myself from crying out. While I gasped for breath, he walked off. “That‟s for when you left us, Mikey,” he said. “And I still owe you. Whatever you‟re doing with Joe, I‟ll find out about it. Don‟t think any artwork of yours will ever see the light of day and if it does for some god-awful reason, I‟ll make you pay.” With that he was gone, leaving me sobbing, shivering and wiping the snot from my nose. When I‟d cleaned up as best I could, avoiding the curious scorn of passers-by, I did the first thing that came into my head. I went to Frank‟s. “What the hell happened to you?” Shrugging, I pushed past Frank‟s wiry body and leant against the bar. This time of the afternoon, the place was empty, the drifting dust and silence making it seem like something deserted, where no-one had ever been. He followed me, but made his way to the other side of the counter, pausing only to tilt my face with rough fingers and tut once at the redness that must have been there. Paul carried unsuspected strength in his hands. I wondered how I was going to explain it to Jack. “Paul?” Frank said, letting me go at last. “Yeah.” “Bloody stupid bugger.” “Him or me?” “Both, maybe. Though God knows why he hates you so much. Some people just have to find someone to pick on, I suppose. Whisky?” “You‟re not open.” “So? I‟m the landlord, aren‟t I?” 112

Anne Brooke I nodded, trying not to grin as it still hurt, and watched as Frank whipped out two shot glasses from underneath the bar and poured a generous measure of golden liquid into both with all the practised skill of his trade. Tonight, I would draw him, I promised myself, and puzzled over why I hadn‟t thought of it before. I drained my glass. The alcohol scalded my throat but gave me a burning sensation in my gut that helped to soothe the muscles aching from Paul‟s attack. “Better?” Frank asked. “Sure.” “Good, so tell me, what‟s been going on?” I told him. Everything from how things had been going with Jack, through my idea about an exhibition to this evening‟s encounter with Joe, and then Paul. As I talked, he grunted what sounded like disapproval here and there, and his frown grew deeper. When I‟d finished, I looked at him and waited. I wanted his opinion, as somehow I trusted it. “You‟re still a bloody fool,” he said. It wasn‟t what I‟d expected. What was up with him? The plan was good, workable even, given the right doses of luck. I couldn‟t see what he had against it. “What do you mean? It‟s a good idea, isn‟t it? Anyway, wasn‟t this what you wanted me to do? You‟ve always gone on and on about me and my lifestyle, and how I ought to settle down—though you trade on those who don‟t, so you can‟t have it both ways—and this is as good a prospect as any so what‟s your problem?” “Hey, cool it, won‟t you? I‟m not getting at you, though I‟ll not take kindly to any more jibes about this pub—you‟ve seen fit to spend a lot of your time here in the past, so don‟t go snooty on me now. All I‟m thinking is, sure it‟s a fine plan, very fine indeed, but not for someone like you.” “What‟s that supposed to mean? There‟s nothing wrong with me.” Without warning, he grabbed me by the shoulders and stared at me, right up close, so I could see the lines on his skin and the grey tufts in his hair. “Shut up and listen, Michael,” he whispered as if there were people there to overhear us. “It‟s a fine dream, I‟ll give you that, and maybe it will work for another bloke, but not for you. I‟ve said it before and I‟ll say it again now, but you‟re not the type for all these plans, and prospects and 113

A Dangerous Man relationships with a future. You‟re way too wild, too unstable, underneath where it really counts. Why can‟t you see that? And don‟t get funny on me, I know you don‟t like to talk about your past so I‟ll stop there, I know when I‟m near a cliff edge. But what I‟m saying is you‟re messing with the sorts of people—posh people, good people—you know nothing about. Sure, enjoy the sex with this Jack bloke while it‟s fun, but then cut your losses and get out, because staying in something like that won‟t help you. It‟s not the future, not for you. Michael.” I should have listened, God, I should have, but I didn‟t. I was too lost in my own undiscovered dreaming and the things he‟d been careful not to say. Even before he‟d finished speaking, I‟d shaken him off, spat once on the rickety floor, and was striding out into the chilled night air, thoughts of home and what I would do there filling my head. ***** When you want something badly enough, everything else fades away, including love and what it can mean. That evening, Jack and I sat facing each other like two old opponents squaring up across the coffee table, as I tried to explain what I wanted from him. “It could work,” I reached the end of my request and began to trace strange patterns in the air with my hands to try to show how committed I was to the plan. “Joe says he‟s willing to offer advice, even sniff around and see what might be available, in terms of gallery space. He‟s got the contacts. I‟m not asking you to buy, just to hire somewhere I can use to show what I can do, display my drawings, get the public interested in them, then who knows? It‟s not a free gift I‟m wanting, it‟s a... a business deal. A step up on the ladder for me and something that might take off and give you a return on your cash. Look on it as investing capital in a young company which might end up going places. Please, Jack? I need your help on this.” It was true. The idea was perfect in its working-out except for one thing. Money. I had none. Jack had it all. Wasn‟t it only reasonable that he let me have some of his riches? It would be a fair exchange; I would make sure of that. Somehow. So I waited and watched as he pursed his lips and relaxed back onto the sofa, almost hating him for having all this power over my life. When had I allowed him to take it?

114

Anne Brooke “What about Joe?” he said at last, when I‟d thought time would be still forever. “Have you thought of asking him to hang your work? Though on second thoughts, you‟re not the style he favours, are you?” I shook my head. And waited. “All right. So speaking for the moment as the enemy, why would people want to buy your drawings? Don‟t get me wrong, as I love what you produce and I think you‟ll go far, but what makes you believe people would want it as it is now, in sellable quantities, I mean?” This wasn‟t what I‟d been expecting. Jack was treating me the way he had when we‟d first met. Like someone he‟d commissioned or a would-be colleague, not like a boyfriend. His response knocked me off balance. It felt as if I‟d been honest and he‟d backed off, putting an invisible wall between what I desperately needed and the possibility of getting it. “I don‟t know. Maybe they won‟t but, for God‟s sake, I want to give it a try, Jack. That‟s all I‟m asking, just a small sum of money—small to you, that is—to get me to the point where I can be where I want to be. You‟ve done that in your life, so why can‟t I do it in mine?” “Sometimes, things can‟t be got for wishing them, no matter how much you might want it. Or deserve it.” “It‟s all right for you to say that. You‟ve got so much power, a good job, everything you want, you‟re so lucky you can‟t even see it,” I sprang up and paced across the room, three steps away and three steps back. Jack watched me, his face unreadable. “I can make this work, I know I can. I‟m good but I‟ll get better and I want people to have the chance to see it. That‟s all I‟m asking. Just a little cash to get me started. Why is that so bloody hard for you?” “It‟s not,” Jack stood up and touched my arm as I passed him, but I flinched away. “I do know what you mean, and I‟m not the callous rich bastard you make me out to be. I‟m simply being careful, that‟s all. Sometimes, no matter how good you are, things don‟t work out in the way you expect and I don‟t want you to get hurt, God knows you‟ve had enough of that, from the little you tell me. All I‟m saying is why can‟t you start off small-scale first and work your way up? Why not wait a little until you‟re more prepared, rather than going for an exhibition now?” “No. I‟m fed up with the waiting around, can‟t you see?” Halting in the middle of a step, I seized his face and gripped him between my fingers. “Do you know I‟ve had nothing all my life, nothing at all? Do you have 115

A Dangerous Man any idea how that can be? Do you? Now I‟ve met you and at last I‟ve got something I‟m proud of, and I want more. I want to make you proud of me, Jack, I want to show you I can do something that lasts, just like you do. All I‟m asking is a little help on the way.” He closed his eyes, smiled once briefly, like a ray of sun through a murky day, then he kissed me before extricating himself from my hands. “I understand that,” he said. “Let me think about it, Michael. Let‟s get the weekend of seeing my family over with, and then we can talk about it again.” Ah yes, his family. I‟d almost forgotten about Penny‟s invitation. It had been brushed to one side by the focus on my dreams, but now the day they‟d arranged together for us all to meet up was racing towards me. The idea of it terrified me—surely I would never live up to the standards they must expect—but I could do nothing about it. I didn‟t like the sound of what Jack had just said either. His words had all the subtle undertones of a future “no”, but I knew he wouldn‟t be pushed about it again now. As always, I would have to wait. And something would have to be done.

116

Chapter Eleven June The Sunday morning of the visit to Jack‟s parents came too soon, one of those days where the sun brings out the harshness of the earth, running bright lines from sky to house to eye and back again, the glare through the trees almost blinding me. If I looked too closely, everything turned to yellow with punches of red just out of view, and then if I kept on looking, to black and grey and nothing. I got up early, creeping from the bed like a ghost in search of release from its task. My heart was beating fast, at a pace I couldn‟t seem to bring under control and my skin felt prickly with heat. Taking only Jack‟s dressing gown and tools for drawing, I padded downstairs, disabling the alarm and picking up my last pack of cigs from the kitchen. Opening the patio doors, I moved one of the garden chairs to catch the sun from the best angle and lit my first cigarette of the day. Best get them in now, I thought. If Jack‟s parents were anything like him then the chances for relaxing later on would be nil. Maybe I should‟ve hustled for something stronger than what I could buy over the counter, seeing as it was a special occasion? God no, Jack would never forgive me; in some ways he was so straight it was untrue. Feeling the smoke slide like silk down my throat, I stretched once and let the warmth caress my muscles. The dressing gown fell open a little but I didn‟t care. If anyone was watching, let them. I had nothing to be ashamed of. I lived here, didn‟t I? With these thoughts in mind to boost myself, and brush away the dark taste of failure to come, I opened my pad to the first clean sheet of paper and began to sketch. What came out wasn‟t what I‟d been expecting. In fact I‟d have been happy with something from the garden, whatever I was looking at right then. A tree, the corner of the rockery, the harsh lines of what Jack liked to call his summer house and what I called his shed. What I drew wasn‟t any of those. I drew my boyfriend and me, together, touching. His hand, sharply outlined, on my thigh, with the pencilled sweep of movement guiding the eye down on its onward journey. My hand, more impressionistic, on his chest, pulling him to me or keeping him away, I 117

A Dangerous Man couldn‟t tell, even in the creation of it. And not something I could have drawn as an observer either, not from looking. Only from memory or desire. Or fear. I didn‟t draw his face, only his body, strong and overpowering, as if taking something from me I should have been unwilling to give. It was the opposite with me. I drew my body as if it were melting away in a heat I couldn‟t have named, or under a pressure too great to bear. But my face—my face I sketched as if each line was pulling out my soul, if I had believed in such a thing. I had never drawn myself before, though it sounds foolish. Wasn‟t that what artists were supposed to do? But why should I? Art, or at least my art, was for dealing with the things outside, not the things within. Such a change now left me shaking and reaching for a too-soon second cigarette. That and even a third didn‟t work so I kept on drawing, as if I had no choice. The lines flowed from my hand through the slim point of my pencil and created an image of myself I didn‟t want to recognise. Older, the shadow of smudging giving my features a hunted look, hair wild and the profiled eye closed. Wolf-like or some other unreal animal. It sang out for a larger environment, a different way of working. And my bent head was almost touching Jack‟s chest, not in delight but in despair. I didn‟t want to see it, didn‟t want to think about it. Tearing the sheet of paper away from its binding, I crumpled it in my hand and sprang out of the chair. The next second, I‟d come face to face with Jack, who was caught in rich sunlight, his smile greeting the morning as if it wasn‟t edged with terror, which for him of course, it wasn‟t. And I couldn‟t have told him why suddenly it had been for me either, because it was more than the thought of his family, more than that, but I couldn‟t find the words to show it. It was only ever in my drawing, which now lay like grief in the clutch of my hand. I drew together the edges of the dressing gown, a shield against something I didn‟t understand, or want to. “Jack, I didn‟t see you. Sorry, I was just having... a smoke.” He laughed. “That‟s all right. No need to look so guilty, it‟s not a crime, you know. Have you been drawing? Can I see?” Before I could stop him, he‟d taken the half-discarded paper from me and was smoothing it whole again. There was nothing I could think of to say, so I simply stood there, arms useless at my side and my back riddled with a light that was only skin-deep.

118

Anne Brooke He stared at the picture for an age before speaking. “It‟s very violent, isn‟t it?” “Yeah, I‟m sorry, Jack, it was just... I‟m sorry.” His eyes were shining. I wanted to hold him so much, but didn‟t know how. “No. No, it‟s beautiful, so expressive.” “Please, it‟s not about... it‟s just stuff, okay?” “Is it, Michael? Really?” I stared at him and made half a gesture, an opening of the hands, a submission perhaps. Too little and too late. After a moment, he spoke. “I came outside to tell you I‟d made coffee. Would you like some?” When I nodded, he swung round and I followed him inside, the back of his head a lesson in the lines of unexpressed pain. By the time we‟d finished breakfast, the tension between us had eased and, not for the first time, I rejoiced in Jack‟s generosity. Perhaps, I hoped, my drawing and what it might mean would be forgotten, and so I enjoyed the drive down to Surrey. It was only the second time I‟d left London and I wondered if I would do it again. Someday. It felt as if things could be different or as if there could be a chance of another kind of a life. One I hadn‟t known before. But such thoughts came afterwards, not then, and could never have been real anyway. Not if I was being honest, and not after what happened later. All I can say is how much I enjoyed the drive. It took an age to get through London, but then we were out of the city and free, the taste of dirt and people being swept from our mouths by a purer air. Once on the M25, Jack slipped the BMW into fifth, opened the hood and we were away. It reminded me of our first night together and I was happier to dwell on that rather than the present journey and its purpose. The strange excitement of it, the discovery and happiness I had felt then. Closing my eyes, I smiled to think that by the time I‟d stepped into his car all those months ago, even then trusting him not to hurt me, we‟d already had sex once and were on our way to have it again. They were good memories, the best I‟d ever had, or ever would have. The warmth of his hand on my leg brought me back to the present. I‟d been right, it looked like I was forgiven so I let him move his fingers upwards towards my dick. “You look happy,” he said.

119

A Dangerous Man “Yeah,” I said, without opening my eyes. “Why shouldn‟t I be? I‟m with you. And if you put your hand even further up, you‟ll feel how happy I am as well.” He obliged for a few moments, making me want nothing more but that he‟d stop the car and take it all the way, before laughing and saying, “We‟d better not. I don‟t want us to have an accident.” We didn‟t do much more talking for the rest of the journey. Sometimes I dozed or listened to music from Jack‟s CDs. It struck me that maybe Frank had a point; I was changing so much and the person I was now was a great distance away from what I‟d been a few months before. Was that a good thing or not? Frank was prophesising doom and disaster for us all, but he was only an old man and a jealous one, maybe. I should ignore him, move on. My life had become different and soon everything about the past, even the hidden histories, would have vanished in what was to come. Jack was my future; Jack and art, and it would be a good one. It had to be, I‟d come this far and there was no returning. Whatever happened today, in meeting Jack‟s family properly, nothing could touch me. So I reasoned it through but, by the time the car swung into the driveway of Jack‟s parents in Chiddingfold, I was already beginning to sweat. More so, when I opened my eyes and tried to take in what was in front of me. “Christ, Jack.” “What is it? You okay?” “Yes. No. Yes, but I never thought it would be like this.” I gazed in disbelief at his parents‟ house, my body wedged onto the leather seat as if trying to burrow into earth. It was like a nightmare, where you try to run, think of running, but you can‟t get away. The place was huge, with a semicircular driveway sweeping past an imposing set of steps in front of which Jack was now parking, closing the soft top and switching off the engine, cutting off all means of escape. I wanted to throw up, but I knew nothing would be there, or not enough to make the effort worthwhile. I should have looked away, but I couldn‟t stop staring. From the grand and terrifying front door, solid wood panels with a glistening brass knocker, my eye was drawn up and up to the façade, Georgian in style, or so Jack would tell me later, half of it covered in ivy, the other half weathered red brick. At first glance, I could see at least four bedrooms at the front, judging by the number of windows with, I supposed, more at the 120

Anne Brooke back. What had I got myself into? Couldn‟t I have found a rich lover without this sort of background? Who did I think I was kidding? They would never believe me, people like this. They would look at me once, that was all it would need and they would know everything Jack had been blind to. “God help me,” I said when I could speak. “What the hell is this?” “My parents‟ home, that‟s all. Nothing to be afraid of. Shall we get out?” I couldn‟t answer him, not directly. “And you tell me you‟re not posh.” “I‟m not. It‟s just that my parents live in a big house.” “Come on, Jack. A house like this, with a driveway.” “It doesn‟t make them bad people.” “Doesn‟t it?” I started to say, before catching the look in his eye. “No, I mean sure it doesn‟t. Sorry.” For a wild moment I wanted nothing more than to run, forget the dreams I had for my life and go back to doing what I‟d done before; helping other blokes get laid, for cash and no questions. I didn‟t ask for much, and I was sure I wasn‟t able to cope with this. Just how was I going to get through the next few hours? How were they? No time to think however. Because the front door opened and a slight woman with greying hair tied back in a bun appeared on the steps. Seeing us, she waved and began to walk down the stairs towards the car. Forgetting all about me, Jack leapt out of the driver‟s seat, grabbing his jacket as he did so, and enveloped her in an affectionate embrace. “It‟s so good to see you, Mum,” he said. “How are you?” So this was her. Bloody hell. Not what I‟d expected from the amount of attention Jack paid to her. I‟d got the impression of some sort of Italianstyle mama keeping her family under control and barking instructions whenever she felt her influence was waning. The fact that at first sighting she didn‟t come across as that put me off balance. And for me that was always a dangerous position to be in. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hutchinson had managed to free herself from her son, “I‟m fine, darling. Even more now you‟re here. Are you well?” “Of course. You know me. I‟m always fighting fit.” Whilst they‟d been talking, I‟d climbed out of the passenger seat and put on my sunglasses. Then I leaned across the roof of the car waiting to see what Jack would want me to do now. 121

A Dangerous Man Mrs. Hutchinson stepped a little apart from her son‟s arms and looked up at me. I suppose if I were honest I would admit that what she saw might not have been what she was expecting. I was nothing like Pete, and she might have assumed Jack would choose a new boyfriend similar to his last, if younger, though I would have imagined that Penny might have put her wise. She obviously hadn‟t, for whatever reason, as Mrs. Hutchinson frowned once before finding a bright, false smile to welcome me. Perhaps to her, with my sunglasses hiding my eyes, and my silence, I might even have looked aggressive. Whatever, I knew at once she didn‟t like me and I shivered. Why did that happen so quickly with some people, and why with Jack‟s mother, of all of them? It was the last thing we needed. God, I thought, why the hell am I here? I hate families. They terrify me. Jack‟s day will be ruined. I should never have come. “Mum, meet Michael,” Jack said, waving me round the car and putting one arm round my shoulders. “Michael Jones. Michael, this is my mother, Dorothy Hutchinson.” We looked at each other again without warmth for a few seconds before shaking hands. “It‟s nice to meet you, Michael,” she said. “Jack talks about you a great deal.” “Hello,” I said and, being unable to think what else to say, fell silent. Then, like me, she seemed at a loss. Several more seconds ticked by. I could feel the wind through my hair and the distant sound of dogs barking. I wondered if we might be here forever, staring at each other, when I heard the sound of laughter and a woman‟s voice, and Penny appeared in the doorway above us, flanked on either side by a corn-haired boy and a taller dark-eyed girl. Recognising them from the photo in Jack‟s office, I knew they must be Rob and Kathryn. Penny came down the steps towards Jack, echoing the actions of her mother a few minutes before, and hugged him while Kathryn followed more slowly. Behind them all, the boy, Rob, lurked in the shadows of the house.

122

Anne Brooke “Darling, it‟s so good to see you again,” Penny let her brother go and held him at arm‟s length as if to check he was still the same. “And you too, Michael. Journey down all right?” I nodded and watched as Jack greeted his niece who unbent a little under his natural charm. I wished that his mother would do the same towards me, but I had none of my boyfriend‟s talent with people, except in a way he wouldn‟t care to know, and that was only with men. When he‟d finished his brief conversation with Kathryn, though I had no idea what they were chatting about, he strode up the steps towards his nephew. Like fans trailing a pop star, the rest of us followed after him. “Well, Rob,” Jack said, hunkering down on his haunches. “I owe you an apology, a big one. Don‟t I?” Rob blinked at his uncle and shrugged, though there was a promise of a grin on his face. “You forgot my birthday, Uncle Jack.” “I know,” Jack struck his forehead and spread out his arms in submission. “It was a terrible thing and I‟m so sorry. But here, I bought you a consolation prize for having a wicked uncle.” Reaching inside his jacket pocket, which was still slung over his arm, he brought out something I couldn‟t see. Rob took it, struggled with the light blue and cream packaging for a moment and then his eyes widened. “Cool!” he said. “Hey, Mum, look what Uncle Jack bought me!” “Oh no,” Penny laughed. “Not something else for the computer! Thanks, Jack! What do you say, Rob?” “Thank you very much. Can I play it now, Mum?” “You‟ll have to wait until you get home, darling. Grandma and Grandpa don‟t have a computer. Now say hello to your Uncle Michael, I‟m sure he‟s looking forward to meeting you.” Skin prickling, I stretched out my hand to first Kathryn and then Rob. They took it in turn and gave one solemn shake each before letting go. Nobody seemed to have any idea what to do next and again I wanted to run. In spite of the heat, the air around me felt cold. Mrs. Hutchinson laughed and carried on the conversation as if Penny had never mentioned me. “Now, dear, I‟m far too old for computers and that sort of thing. It‟s for the young people. Shall we go in? I think Grant and my husband are still in the garden; they probably didn‟t hear the car. Besides Jack and... Michael must be thirsty after all that driving.”

123

A Dangerous Man She was going to say Pete, I knew she was. And she was right too to make the point that I didn‟t belong here. Jack had chosen not to tell me about the present he‟d got for his nephew. He would have told Pete. What else had he not told me? In any case, the unspoken words were like a knife pushing me away from the breath of familiarity that surrounded the Hutchinsons like a warm wall, sealing them safe from all intruders. Without thinking, I glanced at Jack‟s mother and she blushed and turned away. As we filed indoors, Jack hung back and took my hand. “Are you all right?” he asked, lines of concern darkening his face. I nodded. There was no time to talk. Mrs. Hutchinson led us to what I imagined was the living room, though she didn‟t announce the fact as I‟d been half expecting. The walls were covered with rich emerald wallpaper embossed with gold and there were contrasting pale leather armchairs. The air was scented with roses. Maybe I could make Jack sit there later so I could draw him? The way his blond hair was framed by the green, light next to dark, made me itch to get my paper out. I didn‟t feel comfortable enough for that though—if I ever would—and while the children giggled and switched on the TV which was just as promptly switched off by their mother, I made my way to the window. Through it I could see two men at the far end of the garden, one slightly stooped. It must be Penny‟s husband and Jack‟s father. “Typical!” Jack said, standing alongside me and following my gaze. “The slightest sign of good weather and Dad‟s out in the garden, taking poor Grant or me with him, if we‟re around. He‟s probably boring my brother-in-law with his latest rose experiment.” I almost forgot to breathe but Jack didn‟t notice. How could he dare to say such a thing about his father? It took a moment or two for me to realise he was joking and I didn‟t know what to think of it. I would never have dared say anything like that to mine. Jack‟s mother laughed, breaking my thoughts. “Now then, dear, don‟t be cruel. Your father dotes on those flowers.” “And don‟t I know it. Come on, Michael. I‟ll take you out and introduce you to the remaining menfolk. Unless you need some help in the kitchen, Mum? Penny?” Still occupied with her eldest, Penny shook her head, and Mrs. Hutchinson waved his concern away, “No, I‟m more than capable of

124

Anne Brooke putting the kettle on, darling. You go out and persuade your father to bring Grant back in. Is coffee all right for you, Michael?” I jumped at being addressed but smiled and nodded as Jack led me through a door opening onto a small patio area which in turn gave way to an expanse of lawn. Though it wasn‟t a lawn as such, not in my understanding of the word. It was nothing like Joe‟s scraggy excuse for a garden in Hackney or even Jack‟s more luxuriant Islington one. This was more of an estate, built on two levels. The level we were on was put down to grass, edged with borders of plants I was unable to name, though I was sure Jack could have identified them all if I‟d asked him. Halfway down, grassy steps cut into a bank and led to the next level where Jack‟s father and brother-in-law were striding towards us. Behind them were several trees, and in the distance two benches separated by a statue of Cupid. And everywhere the roses. The sense of space was like a shock of cold water on flesh. I felt as if I could have taken a step into the bright air and flown upwards to the sky. There was nothing to hold me down, nothing surrounding me. No buildings, no barred gates, no dirt, no noise. It was terrifying, but it was also beautiful. I could draw it—in fact I would be happy doing that right now and forgetting everything else, never mind what people thought of me. But I needed to know something that couldn‟t wait and I grabbed Jack‟s arm before he moved away. “Does your father know about us?” I asked. “You and me, in the way your mother does, I mean.” “Yes, of course,” Jack laughed. “My mother tells him everything.” I couldn‟t believe it. No-one can tell another person everything. It would be impossible. We keep some secrets buried so far down that it is hard to reveal them to our own selves, let alone anyone else. But I couldn‟t tell my boyfriend any of that, so I followed him out onto the shimmering dance of lawn. As the two men drew nearer, Jack‟s father raised a hand in greeting and then removed his sunhat to reveal the same piercing blue eyes as his son. It jolted me. So that‟s where Jack got his looks from. His father, not his mother. Did I look like my father? Did I? “Good morning to the both of you,” Mr. Hutchinson said, his voice as warm as his wife‟s had been cold, and with the hint of an accent that reminded me of Joe‟s. “I didn‟t hear you come in. Have you just arrived?”

125

A Dangerous Man “Yes,” Jack replied, shaking his father‟s hand. “It‟s good to see you, Dad.” The sudden realisation of the closeness between father and son made me shiver and I turned my attention for the first time to the other man in our group. I had to make an effort, I thought, for Jack‟s sake, even if I wasn‟t sure how. What had I been thinking? “Hello,” I said. “You must be Grant. I‟m Michael.” He nodded, a tall, balding man with quietness in his eyes. His uncertainty made me feel as if I wasn‟t the only stranger here. Jack made the introductions and Mr. Hutchinson smiled at me. “So, Michael, it‟s good to meet you at last. Penny has been speaking about you. Did you have a good journey down? I hope Jack didn‟t drive too fast.” “No, sir,” I said, wondering what exactly Jack‟s sister had said about me. “He‟s always very careful.” “Glad to hear it. But, please, call me George.” I didn‟t know what to say that would be at all suitable. My experiences of life were so very different from what I imagined these people‟s to be. Anyway, Jack and I didn‟t do much talking, maybe more my choice than his, and, for the rest, I found I never needed words to convey my meaning. The sexual charge between us was always enough. Which brought another problem to light. In the here and now, the presence of Jack‟s father was making my dick flicker into life and I was having trouble catching my breath. “We‟d better go in,” Jack was saying. “Mum‟ll go mad if she thinks our coffee is likely to go cold.” “Indeed,” Mr. Hutchinson said, patting me on the back. “Rural women are such strict time-keepers, you see. We mustn‟t make them wait.” We strolled back through the garden, Jack and Grant in front discussing what sounded like high finance, followed by Mr. Hutchinson and me, our shoulders almost touching, as he continued to chat about country life. It felt good, in a way I couldn‟t remember feeling for a long time, if ever. When we were almost back on the patio, Jack and Grant fell silent and Mrs. Hutchinson appeared at the doorway. She must have overheard her husband‟s conversation. “So you‟ve all met then,” she said. “That‟s good. Have you been in the countryside before, Michael?”

126

Anne Brooke Like me, she must have been trying to make an effort for her son‟s sake, but her voice was as cold as her smile had been and, at once, my half-mast hard-on faded to nothing. The children spilled out on the patio around us like puppies let out of a cage. The noise was a bright shock after the murmur of conversation a moment before. “No, I haven‟t,” I said, knowing as soon as the words were out that somehow I‟d failed another test. “I‟ve never really been anywhere but London.” Mrs. Hutchinson gave me a surprised look but Jack drew closer and stroked my arm from behind. “And now you‟re in leafy Surrey,” he said. “Makes a change from Islington, doesn‟t it?” I swung round to face him. He smiled at me as his mother handed me a coffee, but I didn‟t feel that net of safety he usually wrapped me in. This time it was different, he was home and I was not. Refusing milk or sugar, I helped Mr. Hutchinson set up the patio furniture which had been leaning against the wall and the six adults sat down. For a while we watched Kathryn and Rob playing in the garden and listened as Penny and Mrs. Hutchinson talked of the approaching school summer holidays. Once I caught Grant‟s eye and he grimaced at me, but I didn‟t know what to do with this faint beginning of friendship and the moment passed. In a gap in the conversation, Jack said, “So how was church today? Still the same old crowd?” “Oh yes, the usual,” his mother said. “The vicar sends his regards. And the Fosters were there. Mrs. Foster had made a beautiful flower display at the front. There must have been a wedding yesterday. No-one we know, I don‟t think.” Penny disappeared inside to check on the progress of dinner, rejecting all offers of help, and Jack and his mother talked a little about nothing, with Mr. Hutchinson making the occasional comment. I tried not to look at him in case my erection came back. What was it with me and older men these days anyway? To avoid any embarrassment, I got up, taking my unfinished cup of coffee with me, muttered something even I couldn‟t catch and wandered inside to the living room. Once there, the fear that my departure might be deemed rude jabbed at me, but nobody followed and the sense of being alone was like the completion of a long drawing I knew would be good. I looked round the room, noticing the dark wooden 127

A Dangerous Man bookshelves along the side wall, which earlier I‟d somehow missed. No wonder Jack liked reading, if he grew up in this. It would be second nature to him. Whereas at home, I‟d... I‟d... Without warning, a wave of nausea shook me and I clutched my stomach, half-dropping my coffee cup onto the nearby table. It didn‟t break but the crash it made caused the four pairs of eyes on the patio to stare in at me in surprise, puzzlement or concern. Jack sprang up, “Are you okay in there, Michael?” “Yeah, sure. I‟m sorry,” I said, trying to stop my hands from trembling. “I was just looking at the books.” “Were you?” Mr. Hutchinson said. “How wise of you! I‟m extremely proud of my small library. The children tease me about it almost as much as they do my roses. Let me show you the collection, such as it is.” Pushing past his son, he made his way inside, towards the books, and gestured to me to follow. Aware of Jack‟s gaze on me, but unsure how to interpret it, I obeyed. “I‟ve been lucky enough to get my hands on several first editions,” Mr. Hutchinson said, pointing them out and opening them up to prove it. “It‟s such an excitement to look and look for something you want, and then at last to find it, don‟t you think?” I nodded, gulping, and, misunderstanding me, he smiled, “Forgive me, I get my enthusiasms but I know others don‟t always share them. In any case, as Jack keeps telling me, the greatest fun about books is reading them.” “Do you enjoy reading, Michael?” Mrs. Hutchinson asked. I jumped. I couldn‟t help it. I hadn‟t heard her come in. It was the voice of challenge and somehow I knew that whatever I said she wouldn‟t believe me. The shaft of understanding which told me she didn‟t think I was good enough for Jack made me feel sick. Again. She‟ll make him leave me, I thought, one day, if I don’t stop her. When I turned to my questioner, she was still waiting for an answer. “Yes,” I said, looking her right in the eyes. “I like mysteries most of all. Some things can never be explained, can they?” My voice was light, but the only one who could see the expression on my face was her. She didn‟t flinch. “No, indeed,” she said. “But I hear that what you love most is not reading, but drawing.” I wondered who had told her. Jack, or Penny? 128

Anne Brooke “Yes,” I said, not knowing how to continue, and after a moment she withdrew, shaking herself as if shaking away a bad memory. A temporary cease-fire only, I was sure of it. Mr. Hutchinson took back the book I‟d been holding, his fingers brushing against mine, and I blushed. What the hell was going on? It was Jack I wanted, wasn‟t it? It was him I loved, and I‟d not had this sharp twist of sexual need for anyone else for a while. And a bloke that old? I must be going crazy or something, I thought. It was making me feel giddy; it would be better not to think of it. At just the right time, Penny flung open the door, bringing with her the scent of roasted lamb and herbs. “Lunch is ready,” she said. ***** No matter how much I tried to remember differently, I‟d never had lunch with a boyfriend‟s family before. I‟d never been asked. It felt like walking down a dark and unfamiliar road with something dangerous waiting for me at the end. I watched as the family gathered into the dining room, itself a haze of wood and sea-green, and slunk in behind them like a dog. Penny directed everyone into their seats, with the occasional glance at her mother, I assumed for approval, and the two women hustled in the dishes, refusing all offers of help. I found myself squeezed into the middle of a long shining table, feet pressed into the pile carpet, between Jack and Kathryn and wondering exactly what to do with the glittering cutlery laid out before me. Jack‟s hand was only a partial comfort as it lay briefly on my leg; it didn‟t stop the feeling of great weight bearing down on my throat. Drowning in sand might have been easier. Slabs of meat and potatoes arrived and were parcelled out to the sound of squealing from Rob and giggling from Kathryn, at once hushed by their mother. Jack started a conversation with Grant about the Millennium bug and Mr. Hutchinson shook his head and glanced out at the garden, now behind where I sat. The smell of lavender polish was as strong as hash, but not as soothing. Mrs. Hutchinson must have planned the meal for days, hoping to impress her son‟s new friend. Now she‟d met me, perhaps she wished she hadn‟t bothered. I couldn‟t blame her; I knew I was doing myself no favours, but I didn‟t know how to escape the road I was travelling along, or even where it led. I longed to go home with a stab of desire that almost made me gasp, but knew it would be many hours yet. 129

A Dangerous Man Every time Jack touched my hand, under the table where no-one could see, I squeezed his fingers to reassure myself. “Uncle Jack,” Kathryn piped up in the sort of voice that made me jump. “Yes?” “Why do you keep touching Uncle Michael? Don‟t think we can‟t see you because we can!” “Kathryn!” Penny scolded her daughter as I brought my hands sharply up onto the table where everyone could see them and felt my face turn red. Jack laughed, “Why shouldn‟t I? I love him, just like your father loves your mother. Don‟t your parents hug each other sometimes?” “Yes,” Kathryn said, leaning forward and speaking across me to my boyfriend. “But that‟s different. They‟re married.” “That‟s true, Kathy. I stand corrected. I promise not to touch him again, at least in your presence.” Everyone laughed. Except Mrs. Hutchinson, who pursed her lips and took another spoonful of broccoli, and Rob, who buried his head deeper towards his plate and began cutting up his lamb with studied precision. The conversation turned to the holiday Grant and Penny had planned for the children in the south of France once school was over, and I listened to Kathryn telling her grandmother all about the swimming she was going to do, the holiday club and who she might meet there. As she talked her eyes glowed, and I wondered if I‟d ever been as happy or if somewhere I might have lost the gift of it. Thinking about that must have made me miss Mr. Hutchinson‟s question as it was only when Jack grinned and nudged me that I realised his father was waiting for my answer. “Sorry, sir,” I reddened. “I didn‟t hear what you said.” “Not surprising in this family‟s racket,” he raised his voice a little to carry over his granddaughter‟s giggles. “I was just wondering what sort of pictures you drew, Michael. I‟m right in thinking it‟s not paints, aren‟t I?” I shook my head. “No, it‟s not, you‟re right. I prefer pencil and charcoal drawings. It‟s more... I don‟t know, intense, somehow.” “Really?” Mr. Hutchinson pushed his plate to one side and leant forward. “Why is that then?” He was gazing at me with the same eyes as his son and I wanted more than anything to answer him in a way that would make sense. “It‟s what comes through the flesh,” I said, frowning to try and find the words in my head that might be closest to what I meant. “It‟s the thoughts 130

Anne Brooke I have when they flow through the skin down into my fingers. Sometimes, I think I feel them buzzing when I pick up the pencil or the length of charcoal I need and when I start putting lines on the pages. That‟s always the best part, you know, even when it‟s rubbish. Just knowing I can... you know... make something look different, change what‟s nothing to what‟s something, and then when I start, what‟s there on the page comes backwards through the pencil and my hand and my arm and into my head again. And it‟s like a circle of fire, even if I don‟t know what it will be, even if it‟s just lines that don‟t make sense then, and I can stop thinking and thinking, because thinking doesn‟t ever help, and just go the way the picture wants me to go. And the lines are strong, bold, though I might feather some a little, but that doesn‟t matter because they still contain everything I‟ve ever dreamt of in black and white and grey. You don‟t need colour, colour‟s too obvious, black and white and grey have all the shades in the world somewhere inside them, and anyway... anyway I couldn‟t take my hand away from the paper and change a colour, I couldn‟t do it, I couldn‟t use paints. You can‟t control what they might do. It would be too dangerous.” When I stopped talking, knowing I‟d said way too much, I looked away from Mr. Hutchinson‟s eyes and found everyone else had stopped talking too and was staring at me in ways I couldn‟t interpret. Hunching my shoulders, I eased my hands under my legs where they could do no harm and knew my skin was burning. “Thank you, Michael,” Mr. Hutchinson said. “That was enlightening, thank you for that; you‟re obviously a very talented young man. I look forward to seeing some of your work.” Jack‟s fingers found their way to my shoulder and squeezed, I shot him a glance of gratitude, a few murmurs came from round the table and then the conversation moved on. Still, I knew I‟d said too much. People other than me, and Jack, had some of the power now, and I had no way of knowing if I could trust them. After we‟d finished, and the dishwasher had been stacked, Kathryn and Rob raced off into the garden again, followed at a slower pace by Mrs. Hutchinson and Penny, while the rest of us found our seats on the patio, Grant and Jack‟s father still clutching their wine glasses from lunch. The

131

A Dangerous Man sun was beginning to disappear behind trailing, grey clouds and Mr. Hutchinson shivered once. “Cold, Dad?” From his position next to me, Jack stopped flipping through the Sunday papers and looked up. “Do you want a brandy after you‟ve finished that wine?” “What a good idea, I thought you‟d never ask. Grant?” Penny‟s husband shook his head. “Not for me, thanks. I‟ve got to drive this rabble back home later on, so I‟ll stick to what I‟ve got.” “Okay. Michael?” I blinked. I didn‟t think I‟d ever had brandy before, though Jack would sometimes have one at the weekend, or if work had been tough, as I preferred to stick to beer. Still no harm in trying something new, “Yes, thanks.” As Jack turned to go indoors, his mother trotted across the grass towards us in a flurry of silk and sunlight, leaving her grandchildren and daughter behind on the swings. “Honestly, Grant, those children of yours never stop, do they?” she said with a laugh. “I don‟t know where they get their energy from.” “Can‟t be me,” he said, deadpan. “I never have any energy, I blame your daughter for that, Dorothy.” Watching him and the way he dealt with her made me chuckle, but one swift look from her narrowed eyes shut me up. Jack didn‟t notice. “I‟m just getting the drinks in,” he said, “for those who would like them. Do you want something to boost your energy, Mother? Brandy? Port?” “I‟ll have a port, I think, dear. I‟ll give you a hand too. You know you can never find the right glasses.” As she swept past me, she glanced once at me and once at Jack in front of her and I knew. I didn‟t know how, but I knew. I knew right then she wasn‟t going inside to help her son with the glasses, no way. She was going inside to talk to him about me. About giving me up. Shit. My body was cold all the way through and my throat felt tight. She was going to talk to him about leaving me and I had to stop her. But how? As Jack and his mother disappeared into the dark cave of the house, I sprang up. Jack‟s discarded paper fell with a thump and a whoosh onto the paving, and the other two men gazed up at me in enquiry. “Bathroom,” I stammered. “I have to use the bathroom. Sorry.” 132

Anne Brooke “Of course, go ahead,” Mr. Hutchinson said with a wave of the hand. “Just past the kitchen and next door on the left. You can‟t miss it.” With a nod, I slipped inside, heading down the hallway. The dining room door was half-open and I could hear the murmur of voices. “I don‟t know, Jack. He‟s not what I expected.” Coming to a standstill, I eased into the shadows where I could listen without being discovered. I‟d been right then. She was going to nail me. “What do you mean?” Jack‟s voice was calm but I could hear the note of coolness in it. “He‟s very self-contained. That‟s all. Doesn‟t give a lot away. Apart from his strange thoughts on art, of course.” Jack laughed. “Wanting to keep your privacy isn‟t a crime, Mother.” “No, I‟m not saying it is. But your other friends weren‟t like that. Peter, for instance.” “That‟s history now, but what do you mean? In what way is Michael different?” “Peter was much more open, I suppose. Warmer, more pleasant. I‟m sorry to say it, dear, but Michael seems so cold.” “For goodness sake! You haven‟t exactly been very warm to him yourself, you know.” “Well, I‟m sorry, dear, but I was just surprised at your choice. I don‟t think he‟s your type, you see.” Jack was quiet. Then he said, “I don‟t think being in love has anything to do with type. I‟ve never felt like this about anyone before. Not even Peter. Besides, Michael needs me, and Peter never did.” I couldn‟t keep the grin off my face and had to hold my breath to hear his mother‟s reply. “Yes, I can see that, darling. But please be careful.” “Careful? Why?” “I don‟t trust him.” There was a moment‟s silence before Jack spoke again, and I could feel the palm of my hand sticking to the cream-patterned wallpaper. “Please don‟t say that.” “Jack, I‟m your mother and I feel I must say this. I think Michael might be a rather disturbed young man. You should take care.” “Mother! I don‟t think...” 133

A Dangerous Man I couldn‟t stay to hear the rest of my lover‟s response. My heart was beating fast and I groped my way back down the hall, terrified of stumbling or making any other noise which might give me away. How dare she say such things about me? Bitch. Don‟t try to take my lover away from me. I‟ll stop you. How dare you judge what I am? I hate you. I‟ll take your son from you, take him and keep him, even if it destroys me. On the patio, the sun made my eyes water and glinted onto the bright glass in Jack‟s father‟s hand. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the children shrieking and laughing, and the sound made all the years vanish, and my head trembled inside. Mr. Hutchinson looked up at me. I didn‟t know what I was going to do. Without saying a word, I took the wine glass from his hand, the brush of my fingers on his making my dick throb, but I couldn‟t react to that. Not now. “Michael? Is everything all right? Can I help you? Get you anything?” Mr. Hutchinson said and standing up, touched me on the arm. No. Is everything all right, Michael? No, keep away. Can I help you? Help you? Don’t touch me. Touch me. “Keep away from me!” I shouted, my mind a thousand miles away, and shook off his hand as if it had been a snake. Then struggling for breath that wouldn‟t come, I took the glass I was holding and smashed it across the table. The fragments scattered across skin and paving and grass, glittering in the sun like diamonds. Fragile. Deadly. The noise brought Jack and his mother running from the kitchen, and Penny and the children running from the garden. Grant stood up, but Jack‟s father stayed where he was and stared at the results of what I‟d done. Nobody spoke and I realised I was crying. “Jack? Jack,” I sobbed like a child, unable to stop. “I‟m sorry. Please. Take me home.”

134

Chapter Twelve June All the way home I couldn‟t stop shaking. What the hell was happening to me? The occasional harsh sob would work its way up from my belly and force itself through my throat, and I had to swallow down the bile. Struggling to regain the control I‟d lost at the Hutchinsons‟, I tried to breathe steadily and visualise the air moving into my lungs, filling my whole body with light. It stopped the shaking fit from taking everything over. Careless about Jack‟s air conditioning, I eased the window right down and stared out at fields and trees and distant people as they flashed across my sight on the drive north. Once or twice, Jack leant over and touched me on the arm, trying to say something, but each time I flinched, pulling myself closer to the passenger door, turning away from him. What was the bloody point? I knew the fall-out would come soon enough. This time it must be the end, he‟d make me leave, and then I‟d have nowhere and no-one. How could I stop what was happening? My body felt weak and I was remembering too many things too fast. Jack‟s father, his mother‟s coldness, the children, the wine glass, the way his father had looked at me—or was it the way I‟d looked at him?—the green barrier of lawn, the sound in my own head mingling with the broken fragments of glass so I couldn‟t tell where I ended and the jagged glittering edges began. When at last I took my hands away from my face, to my surprise they were wet. I‟d let Jack down. Just as I‟d feared. How could I ever have imagined I could fit in with his lifestyle, his family background? Why had I agreed to go with him? My thoughts were hidden in terrible pictures I didn‟t want to see. Jack‟s family. His family, for Christ‟s sake. It was impossible they should ever accept me. It wasn‟t their fault, it was mine. I was the stranger, the no-hoper. The one hanging onto their son‟s coat tails and dragging him down with me. That‟s what they‟d be thinking now, yes. I‟d drag him somewhere they couldn‟t save him, their precious son. How could I have thought Jack and I might be happy? One day he would figure

135

A Dangerous Man me out and leave me, because what he might discover would outweigh any sexual pleasure I could provide. I knew it. His mother was right. And so the journey went, and all the while the sickness rising. Once home, I shot out of the car, not saying a word to my boyfriend. I couldn‟t, my breathing was too ragged and I knew from experience I didn‟t have much time. Why was this happening now, after so long? At first, I couldn‟t seem to get my key in the lock, as my hands were still shaking, but eventually I managed it. Elbowing Jack to one side and ignoring whatever it was he was saying to me, I half-ran, half-stumbled up the stairs and into the bathroom, having the sense to lock the door behind me. Shoving open the toilet lid, just in time, I heaved, the pressure knifing my throat, and vomited a long stream of orange and white gunk into the pine-smelling bowl. My head swum and I couldn‟t focus. “Michael?” Jack‟s voice outside the bathroom made me shiver back into reality. “Michael? Are you all right in there? Let me in, please.” “No, no,” I gasped, the feeling of relief, of something purged, almost making me laugh. “Please, I‟m fine.” “But, Michael...?” “No.” Staggering to my feet, I spat out the remains in my mouth into the toilet and flushed it, so the clean, green liquid washed away the sense of what had happened. Then I sluiced water from the basin onto my face and, thinking I might be ready now, opened the bathroom door. But I wasn‟t. I couldn‟t face him, not yet, maybe not ever. So pushing him to one side and waving away his concern, I ran to the bedroom and slammed the door on him. After a moment, he knocked, softly as if frightened of my response. “Michael,” he said again. “Can I come in?” “No. Just leave it, can‟t you? Leave me alone.” Thumping the door between us with my fist as I spoke, I took two steps back and waited, to see what he might do. There was silence. He did nothing, he didn‟t force the issue and, after a tense few seconds, I heard the sound of his footsteps retreating down the stairs. He‟d left me. The bastard, he‟d left me here. But I‟d told him to, it was my fault, I couldn‟t blame him. Still fully-dressed, I burrowed my way under the deep-blue duvet of the bed, cutting off all sources of light and movement from my own private world. 136

Anne Brooke The sheet smelt musty, as if we‟d been away for days, and the taste of bile was in my mouth. Thinking about getting up and rinsing it away was beyond me. All I could do was lie like a frightened dog and remember. My memories of the last few hours seemed suddenly to have been dipped in red, as if I was looking back at someone else‟s life through a haze of fire. In that fire, dark shapes lurked in the corners of sight and, when I squeezed my eyes shut, there were smells of flesh and fear. My skin felt hot and it was hard to breathe. Moaning to myself, I curled my body tighter into safety and tried to ride the storm. I had no idea how much time went by then, thinking strange pictures I couldn‟t describe and feeling the red heat begin to twist in my belly. It might have been minutes, or even hours, I didn‟t know. Time stopped and when it began again, I started to shake and cry. At the door then, a gentle tapping. “Michael? Michael, can I come in?” This time I gave no answer, and after a few moments I heard the door open. What was he going to say? I‟d let him down, badly, and I knew there‟d be a price to pay for it. What the bloody hell was he going to say and why didn‟t he get it over with? But as I sensed him standing next to the bed, he continued to say nothing. I began to feel sick again, I was still crying, unable any more to stop myself or even think of doing so. Then I felt him sit down and take the combined bulk of the duvet and me into his arms. “Michael, Michael,” he whispered over and over. “It‟ll be all right, please, it‟ll be all right, whatever it is.” “No, it won‟t.” And that was all I could tell him. In answer, he pulled back the duvet, prising the edge of it out of my trembling fingers and exposing my curledup body on the bed. Through the blurring of tears I could see the outline of his Japanese pictures. The scent of his aftershave filled the room. With the advent of air and light and Jack‟s kind face into my sea-blue world, the words came streaming out, if only to stop the bloody crying. But they made no sense. “I‟m sorry, please, I‟m sorry,” I tried to clench my teeth to stop myself, but it was useless. It was as if someone else was speaking. “Christ, I hate myself. I fucking hate myself. Nothing changes, does it? It‟ll never be any different. I didn‟t mean to screw things up, I swear it.” 137

A Dangerous Man “Hush, it‟s all right. It‟s all right, Michael. I‟m here,” Jack kept on whispering in my ear, rocking me from side to side like a baby as I ranted on. Then he began to undress me. I had no strength to stop him and, in any case, it wasn‟t sexy, which was fine as I wouldn‟t have been able to cope with feeling aroused. Not then. No, he took off my clothes as if I were sick and this was his way of finding the cure. All the while, I was crying and cursing myself, trying to push him away but not hard enough. When at last I was naked, my sobs coming in harsh gulps and vibrating through the bed, he undressed himself. Taking a gentle hold of me, he covered me with his body as if he would wrap me in the safety of his arms and keep me there. Then he kissed me on every part of my flesh he could reach, all the while murmuring words of comfort, words of acceptance. Christ, I hadn‟t expected this, no way; I had no answer for this. After a while, my shaking eased a little and he made love to me. Not with passion or the desire to possess, not even to use my body to give himself pleasure. No, he made love as if he were using his own body to heal mine. No-one had ever made love to me like that before. Allowing me to take without the need to give back. It felt good and for once I didn‟t have to try. Afterwards we nestled together, his chest rising and falling against my back, one hand twisted through my hair and the other linked with mine across my belly, his knees folded up against my own. During the whole of the evening, we didn‟t move apart and it was only when night came that Jack stirred and began to move away. “No,” I whispered, “Please.” He stopped and I felt his lips on the back of my head. “I love you.” “I know. I love you.” “Michael, I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. What happened today?” “I don‟t know, I can‟t tell you.” “Why not?” His fingers stroking my arm now, trying to soothe, but already the feeling of peace had vanished. “I just can‟t. God, I don‟t know anything either, can‟t you see that?” “Hush, yes. Don‟t shut me out, Michael, I want to help, to make you happy, I‟ve told you that.”

138

Anne Brooke From nowhere, my hastily made plans of this morning flitted through my head. They seemed a lifetime ago, but something in me grabbed them as they drifted and held on. “If you want to help me,” I said, eyes open but seeing nothing, “there is something.” “Name it.” “My exhibition. Help me with it, Jack. Will you?” There was another pause, as long as the night to come and almost as dark. Jack moved away. I heard him sigh. “All right,” he said. “I‟ll help you; I can see how badly you want this. But there‟s one condition.” Wasn‟t there always? Whatever it would be, I was sure it couldn‟t hurt me. “What is it?” “You have to contribute. Then it won‟t all be me. Some of it will be from you.” ***** “Why? I don‟t have the sort of money you do. Don‟t you see?” “No, listen,” Jack said in a tone that took no argument. “I know you don‟t have savings, but I‟ve learnt from experience that it‟s no good simply giving people money. It won‟t provide them with what they want. Not really. If you contribute, even only a little, the project will then feel more like yours and you‟ll be more committed to it. Believe me.” Contribute? What with? The words slipped easily out of my boyfriend‟s mouth, as from one used to riches, but he had no idea that what he had given me with one hand he had taken away with the other. He might as well have stood me on the top of a mountain overlooking a huge valley, told me what I longed for was on the other side and then given me no way of getting to it. No bridge, no wings, no hope, no nothing. Where would I get the cash from? The amount he‟d suggested was nothing to him, but an impossibility to me, though I hadn‟t said it at the time. I‟d been too scared he might withdraw the offer if I didn‟t agree with him, because it hadn‟t felt like a lover‟s generosity, but a bargain, based on business alone. Not that I could blame him. It was my fault and I knew it. Still, I wasn‟t backing down. I‟d got this far, hadn‟t I? Once I‟d had the exhibition and I‟d proved myself, Jack would see I‟d been right to push

139

A Dangerous Man him like this. The results would show him everything. It was a question of time, and whether or not I got the money. But how? All the next morning, after Jack had gone to work, I stayed at home, letting the phone go to the answering machine and not bothering to hear who it was. I didn‟t even go out into the garden. I sat near the window in the living room and stared out at the rich greenness of landscape, wondering how I was going to solve the problem facing me now. The money, or lack of it, was a blackness in my mind. I tried to cling to it, to work it for answers, but for a long time none came. Focus on the money. I had to find a way to do what Jack wanted. I had to get the money so he could fund the rest of my exhibition. Once I had that cash, I could go to Joe and hurry him up on his advice of where to look for the right gallery space, knowing Jack would follow my lead. Without it, I would have nothing. Wherever I turned, the door seemed to be shut. Questions and possible answers were tearing me up, but I refused to give in. This time, too much was at stake and I‟d have no peace until I had the money. I wanted to draw, but was afraid of what I might produce. Sometime that afternoon, I opened my eyes from thinking and not thinking, and I knew, as I had really always known, what my answer must be. I went to Frank‟s. Every step of the way, my skin seemed to turn to ice even though the evening was sweltering. I could see people talking, drinking, laughing, spilling out of cafes and pubs, living lives I had no chance of knowing. Though with Jack, I surely came close. Hunching my shoulders, I shoved past them all, making no eye contact. There was no time, though the smell and the dark noise of them clung to my flesh. It was already the end of the working day and so whatever I did, I would have to hurry. My boyfriend would be back by 8pm, 9 at the latest. He must never find out where I‟d been. When at last I stood outside The Two Ravens, the air was quivering with the need and madness of desire. I could have stood there all night and felt how things were going to turn. Not that anything was different about the building itself: same old dusty brick and weather-beaten sign, same old sense of frustration and empty hope. Would it ever change? Even if I did what I‟d planned to do, would anything be different? For a moment, I closed my eyes and felt the taste of London flow through my veins until I 140

Anne Brooke was part of the moving circle of life and wanting and death, the circle that would take us all in the end. I could stop it if I wanted to. All I had to do was turn away, take the bus on the road north again, and then everything would be as it was before. I could tell Jack I‟d changed my mind, what I wanted didn‟t matter anymore and I could simply be with him, loving him and being loved. It was all there was or should be. We could make it work; there was still time to step back into the light. If I did so, there would never be any exhibition and all my art would come to nothing. It would never be seen. And everything I‟d ever dreamed of would be gone. I took the five steps it needed, then pushed open the door of Frank‟s pub and walked inside. The mellowness of dope hit me like the sight of water to a thirsty man. It was months since I‟d smoked anything worth smoking, as at Jack‟s I stuck to the Marlboros, or when I wanted to please him most, the Marlboro Lights. I hadn‟t known how much I‟d missed it. Pushing my way through the early evening ones and twos scattered around the tables, I leant on the bar and waited for Frank to notice me. It didn‟t take long. He gave me half a smile and a raised eyebrow as he finished serving a young blond bloke with a Mohican one of his ruddy cocktails before sauntering over as if both of us had all the time in the world. “Haven‟t seen you for a while,” he said, “during serving hours, anyhow.” “Yeah, well, I‟m here now.” “So I see. What can I get you, Michael?” “The usual, in a minute, but right now a spliff, for God‟s sake.” Frank said nothing in reply, but slid his hand below the level of the bar and brought up a roughly-rolled joint. Taking one of the matches from a nearby box, I lit the slice of heaven and took a long drag. It was like breathing in honey; it was the best thing that had happened to me all day. I hoped it would give me courage. “That‟s good shit, not like your usual rubbish,” I whispered and found myself grinning. “Where did you get hold of quality skunk like this?” “I was owed a favour by someone who knows the right people in Amsterdam.” “Nice one. What are you doing now, mixing with the London mafia?” 141

A Dangerous Man “Mind your own business.” He turned away and, frowning, began to wipe down the wet counter until it gleamed. Someone behind me laughed, a high-pitched false note like a skid in winter, but I didn‟t bother to look. The Stevie Wonder on the CD switched up a notch but I wasn‟t listening. I was too busy making the most of Frank‟s freebie, knowing a smoke like this wouldn‟t come along again any day soon. As the minutes slipped by, everything mellowed and became richer in tone. The bar was golden wood, the metal trim the brightest silver and the optics glistened in the mirror like the queen‟s jewels. Frank‟s face smoothed out its lines and his grey hairs seemed to glow. Even “Ebony and Ivory” wasn‟t making me cringe as it usually did. I almost liked it. At just the right time, a beer, frothing magically, appeared in front of me. I took a shower of coins from my pocket and watched as they flowed through my fingers onto the undulating bar. In slow motion, the landlord took what he needed and his smile was as warm and comforting as the best sex, least expected. Which reminded me. “Frank,” I whispered down the bar towards where his back was leaning over bottles and glasses and the sparkle of dust, serving another customer whose features shifted in the flickering light, making me laugh out loud. “Frank, I need to talk to you.” After what seemed a lifetime, he was opposite me again, his fingers removing the burnt-out stub from mine, though I was reluctant to let go and might have flirted with him a little. “It‟s okay, Michael, you don‟t have to shout. Good high, eh? Quality stuff, that, isn‟t it?” “Yeah, the best. Frank, I need your help.” “Why, what is it this time?” “I want a fuck.” His eyes widened until they were as huge as the Blackwall tunnel, twice. “What, now? And what about your rich-git boyfriend?” “No,” I chuckled, passing one hand over my face to try and stop the hysteria. I had to make him see how serious I was. “No, I don‟t mean like that.” “Oh, shame. Like what then?” “I need... God it‟s so funny... I need to give it to someone, anyone, I don‟t care who, because, you see, I need the cash.”

142

Anne Brooke Frank gave a short bark of laughter that was like a knife twisting in my ears. “Cash? You must be joking, you‟re rolling in it, aren‟t you? Aren‟t you and that Mr. Big Shot Financier married in all but name? Can‟t you ask him if you‟re short?” “No.” “Why not? Everything not right in the gardens of the powerful, eh? Can I say I told you so now?” “No. Everything‟s fine, I just need to make some money fast, I need to pay Jack.” “What for?” I told him. All about the update on my gallery plans, Jack‟s negotiated support and how best to get what I wanted. By the time I‟d finished, I‟d sobered up more than I would have liked. At the end of it all, he shook his head and filled up my glass. “See, all this high-living has got you nowhere, and you‟re back to where you started,” he said. “Selling sex to get what you want. Nothing changes, does it? And what are you going to tell Jack?” “Nothing.” Gripping the fraying ends of his collar, I pulled him towards me and glared right into his eyes. “I‟m going to tell him nothing. Because there‟ll be nothing to tell. All I want—and don‟t play the innocent, because it‟s how you make your business run and don‟t I know it—is to suck off enough blokes‟ dicks to give Jack the deposit he‟s asked for. I won‟t have done anything wrong; all I‟m using is my mouth, not my arse, so it doesn‟t count, does it? Not really. You stay quiet, I stay quiet, I get to have my own pictures on show at bloody last and something big to put on my CV, and then everyone‟s happy. If your luck‟s in, I might even invite you to the opening. Who knows?” He blinked at me and, still holding my gaze, his face unreadable, loosened my fingers and eased his collar. “Okay, but why not do it on the streets, like you have before? Why come here? This is small fry to you.” “Easy. I want to make damn sure Jack never knows. I trust you, but out there...” I jerked my head towards the door and all the city streets. “Well, out there anything could happen, couldn‟t it?” “So you‟re not that sure you‟ve got the high moral ground here, are you?” I knew my face was burning. “For God‟s sake, Frank.” “Okay, cool it, I‟m just teasing.” 143

A Dangerous Man “So will you help me?” “For my usual fee?” I nodded. I‟d expected as much. It would mean the whole damn plan would take that little bit longer but I was prepared to run with that to avoid the chance of discovery. “Done,” he said and shook my hand in a way that took me by surprise. “When do you want to begin?” “What do you think?” “I think now‟s a good a time as any, and if you‟re wanting a flying start, my money‟s on the Mohican.” Following Frank‟s gaze, I saw the blond bloke who‟d been at the bar when I first came. He was looking in my direction and, when he caught my eye, gave a slow wink. I was in business. Again. Taking the bus home that night and glancing at my watch every five seconds to curse the time, I wondered why I felt so dirty. I‟d done this before, hadn‟t I? In my pre-settled days. It was no big deal, just a few strokes, licks and a mouthful of salt wetness, and then the cash to make it all worthwhile, though now and again, a good-sized prick helped too. Not tonight. Mohican man was smaller than he‟d looked, and I wasn‟t a bloke who liked that. No way. He‟d taken longer than I‟d hoped to come too. Then again, I was out of practice with men I didn‟t know. I had to get back before Jack did, or he‟d be asking questions to which I had no answers. The worry of it was making me edgy, so much so that I hadn‟t been able to look at Frank when I‟d sneaked out of the pub half-an-hour earlier, passing along the first couple of streets on my way to Tottenham Court Road, where the skin at the back of my neck had prickled as if I was being watched. When I‟d swung round and peered through the laughing groups of men and women out for the night, I saw nothing suspicious. I had to stay in control, there was so much to play for and I couldn‟t afford to lose it. Focus on the exhibition to come; that was the best way. Sometimes, and in my case always, the end was worth the getting there. Still, the pack of notes twisting into my jeans pocket was as sharp as knives and closing my hot fingers round it didn‟t make it any more comfortable. More than anything, I needed a shower and a change of clothes. Would I have the time?

144

Anne Brooke Tonight, I didn‟t know so, instead of jumping off the bus and walking the last ten minutes home as I usually did, I took the ride as far as I could and then jogged the remaining two minutes back to the house. Fumbling with my keys, I dropped them on the path and cursed as I glanced again at my watch. “Mr. Hutchinson, is that you?” It was the woman next door, not one of my greatest fans, but someone Jack was kind to because her husband had walked out last month. Typical Jack, always good to the desperate, but I didn‟t need a conversation, so I just stayed silent, hoping she‟d go away. Some hope. “Is that you?” she called again, and I knew that any second now her bright and innocent face would peer over the yew hedge and she would see my guilt. She couldn‟t miss it. “No, it‟s Michael,” I yelled, trying to sound normal and not like someone who‟d just been paid for sex and not for the first time. “I‟m in a rush, but Jack‟ll be home soon. I‟ll tell him to call you.” Just as the neighbour hovered into view, I slammed the door with violence enough that she would never think of knocking. My legs had no strength but I staggered like a blind man into the downstairs bathroom where, just managing to reach the toilet in time, I threw up. Afterwards, I used one of Jack‟s mouthwashes to wipe away the taste of what I had done and swore to myself I wouldn‟t try any of Frank‟s special scores again. Best to stick with what I could handle. Thinking of Jack—as if I ever did anything else—reminded me he‟d be home soon. 8pm was his usual time these days, which left me half an hour to get back to normal again. Upstairs, I stripped off my clothes and dropped them into the linen basket. The smell of smoke and sex was bitter and seemed to fill the whole room, so on second thoughts, I grabbed hold of my things and stuffed them in my bedside cabinet instead. Jack would never think of looking there and I‟d wash them through tomorrow. Everything would be fine. The shower was the best I‟d ever had. I could have stayed there for a lifetime and let the hot jet of water strip all my sins away. The steam was almost too much to bear but it was as if every droplet was entering my skin and cleaning me from the inside out. I wished it could have taken my memories too. Afterwards, standing naked in the bedroom, hair still 145

A Dangerous Man dripping and the towel discarded, I heard the front door open. Jack was early. Tonight, hearing his usual greeting brought me no joy but made my flesh turn bleak. When he spoke, I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Hello, it‟s me. Are you in?” “Sure, I‟ll be there in a minute,” I yelled, hoping he wouldn‟t come up. Scrabbling for new clothes, my hands felt hot and everything I touched slipped out of my grasp. There was no way I could face Jack naked, not right now, but I could hear his footsteps on the stairs. Abandoning all hopes of a shirt, I stepped into an old pair of jeans and zipped them up to hide myself just as Jack walked in through the bedroom door, his face looking old. “Michael?” “Hiya,” I grinned at him, my smile an exercise in deceit. To stop him studying me any closer, I kissed him on the cheek, avoiding his mouth for fear of discovery, though by now he would have tasted nothing. He didn‟t kiss me back and when I stepped away and glanced up at him, his expression was serious and I shivered. Had he found out what I‟d been up to? Already? How? When he spoke, my worst fears came into play. “We need to talk,” he said.

146

Chapter Thirteen June to July We need to talk. Not a phrase that ever brought peace and happiness to anyone‟s life, let alone mine. Though it wasn‟t something I heard very often, if at all. And up until I met Jack that was fine by me. Who needed to talk anyway? I‟d always found it best to push aside the bad stuff and not let it get in the way of what you wanted to do. Or what kept you alive and breathing. Which in my case meant drawing and Jack. But in the here and now, with my boyfriend facing me with his serious expression that made me want to touch him and make it all okay, it was different. This I couldn‟t walk away from. Jack and I were in a relationship, whatever that meant, and the rules, whatever they were, weren‟t changeable. Without speaking, and to make the bad news wait, I turned round, picked the first tee-shirt that came to hand from the wardrobe and pulled it on. Then I sat down on the bed, rocking my hands beneath my legs. “What about?” I asked him, thinking over and over please God don‟t let him know what I‟ve done. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie, undoing the top button of his still crisp white shirt. Then he sat down next to me and the scent of his aftershave swept over me as it had so many times before. But he didn‟t make any move to touch me. I wished he could forget whatever he wanted to say and screw me right here, right now. That would make everything okay between us, it always did, and if nothing else it would take away the memory of earlier on. But with Jack I had to let him say whatever it was, where he‟d seen me, what he‟d seen me doing, whatever. I had to think. I begged a God I no longer believed in to let me have my answer ready. “Come on, Michael,” he said, still not looking at me, but down at his knees. “You know what this is about. Please don‟t pretend. I think we should talk about this now and not put it off.” My heart was thudding and I longed to be somewhere, anywhere else. Why didn‟t he just accuse me, get it over with? What did he want? Whatever it was, I couldn‟t give it; I couldn‟t. Why didn‟t he seem angrier? I couldn‟t have blamed him even if he‟d hit me, roughed me up a 147

A Dangerous Man little. Not wait to give me all these words, words, words, spinning me like a fish in a net and refusing to let me go. Wouldn‟t it be better to give me a few bruises I wouldn‟t forget and get it out of his system? Not that it would make any difference, no. Because the one thing I was sure of was I would do what I needed to in order to get my drawings in a place where they could be seen, no matter how many lies I had to tell. It was the most important thing in the world. But I knew I was wrong. Jack wasn‟t the type to give in to the heat and pleasure of violence, not him, that was never his way. Okay then, two could play at this game, I‟d get in there first, take the sting out of whatever punishment he had in mind. So, groaning, I put my head into my hands. “Sorry,” I mumbled, my voice losing itself somewhere between the teeshirt and my own cool flesh. “I‟m really sorry, okay?” “I know you are.” And he put his hand on my leg, gripping me as if I was about to fly off somewhere he couldn‟t follow. In spite of the situation and the fact I knew Jack wouldn‟t like this right now, I felt my prick stiffen in response to his touch. “But what I want to know is why. Why did you do it?” “Why?” I echoed, trying to think what I could find to tell him that he would possibly understand. “Yes, why. There must have been a reason; things were going all right, weren‟t they?” “Yes.” “So what went wrong? Why did you do... what you did? Look, if there‟s anything I can do to help, I will. But you have to talk to me. Please talk to me, Michael.” He looked as if he were going to cry and I felt sick. Sick and sorry, and not knowing what I could do to make things different. Hadn‟t he put me in this position in the first place by asking for a deposit for gallery space? “I‟m sorry,” I said again. “Maybe it was stupid, but I just wanted to... you know...” “What? You wanted to... what?” “Make sure everything worked out and make something of myself rather than being what everyone has always said I am, rather than being...” “What? What has everyone always said you are?” “Scum.”

148

Anne Brooke When I‟d said the word I hadn‟t wanted to say, I took my hands away from my face and realised they were shaking. Jack put his arm around me and drew my head down to his shoulder. Somehow that was worse than all the rest. I had to get a grip, had to keep control as I always did. It was the only way to survive. So why was I crying? Shit. “It‟s all right, it‟s all right,” Jack was saying, rocking me and kissing the top of my head between words. “You‟re not that, you‟ve never been that. Please don‟t say such things. Mixed up perhaps, but that‟s not your fault. If you talked about it, you‟d feel better, I swear it. You can trust me, I‟m on your side, please believe me. I just need to know what the hell was going on.” I tried to say something in reply, something about shame and need and how I wouldn‟t use the money I‟d earned, it didn‟t matter anymore. But it was pointless, most of my words were drowned in the silk and warmth of his shoulder, and my sobs swallowed the rest. For a moment more, I might have tried again, but he was there first. Lucky for me. “Hush, it‟s all right,” he said. “It doesn‟t matter. I‟ve spoken to my parents today, but you don‟t have to think about them, or the rest of the family. They‟re worried about you, as I am too. We all want to try to help.” His parents? The family? Was that what all this was about? His parents and that whole terrible thing of yesterday. Yes. Yes, I supposed he‟d be thinking about that. Sure he would. I must be crazy to have put it so far out of my head that I‟d had no idea what he was really talking about. And I‟d nearly told him the truth. It was almost funny, if only he knew. I choked back a laugh and managed to turn it into a sob. I was safe then. He had no idea about Frank‟s bar, the guy with the Mohican hair and the time we‟d spent in the loos getting to know each other a lot more than we should have done. I‟d come dangerously near to telling Jack everything, but it was still okay. I could keep the cash, earn more in double-quick time and get my pictures out where they needed to be. I was on a roll, oh yes. Apart from the fact that Jack was still stroking me and thinking about his parents‟ house and that moment with the smashed glass. Why the hell had I acted like that? I wasn‟t sure. What the hell was I going to tell him? Nothing. That was the only way. I had to get out of telling him anything at all without causing suspicion or making him want to talk any more about families, his or mine. 149

A Dangerous Man So I sat up straight on the bed, pulling my face away from his shoulder. “I‟m sorry,” I said, stumbling out of his arms, my heart racing. “I‟m sorry, I can‟t talk about this. Not now.” “But, I...” “No. I can‟t, maybe later. Not now, not now.” Chanting my words like a barrier, I backed away from him, running my hands through my hair, and reached out behind me for the door. Still mumbling, I found the handle and grasped it as if it was gold. Then I escaped from the bedroom, leaving him alone in the middle of the bed. The last thing I saw was the look of confusion and concern on his face. And frustration. On the landing, I made for the safety of my studio. Once inside, I locked the door, turned on the radio as loud as possible and spent the next five minutes curled up like a child on the floor, crying, hoping he couldn‟t hear me. But I gained no relief from it. That then was how I got what I wanted. By making Jack pity me. Maybe that was when the love started to fade, that and how I‟d been with his parents. I didn‟t know which it was but I knew the difference it made, but by then nothing was as important as the exhibition. After that, everything would be good, I was sure of it. I could deal with whatever would happen then. An hour and a half later, when my mind had settled, I got up from where I‟d been lying, smoothed my hair into place and made my way downstairs to the living room. As soon as he saw me, Jack turned off the TV and the air around us was silent for a moment. He got up and took a step towards me, but I glanced away and instead sat on the sofa, where after a small hesitation he joined me. “Are you all right?” he said. “Yes,” I said, and then, “Was there anything good on TV?” “I don‟t know. I wasn‟t really watching.” He began leafing through the paper and, finding nothing to his liking, shook his head. Picking up the remote control, I flicked through the channels until I found something I didn‟t have to think about and turned the sound down, even though Jack hated me doing that. I couldn‟t help it; I wanted the visual input. “Can I get you anything?” “No, thanks.” 150

Anne Brooke “Food? Beer? Coffee?” “No, really. Just leave it.” “But I...” “Jack,” I laid my hand on his leg and turned to face him. “Yes?” “I‟ve got some of that cash you wanted up-front for the exhibition. Sold some early drawings to an old friend. It‟s not all of it, not by a long way, but it‟s a start.” The lie came easily, more so because he didn‟t meet my gaze, and I took out the crumpled wad of cash from my jeans pocket, the folded notes warm from the heat of my skin, and handed it over to him. He looked at it as if he‟d never seen cash before and then unfolded my deceitful offering and counted it. I suppose it was habit, him working in finance and everything but it almost made me smile. “All right,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I can see how much you want this and I did make you a promise. What do you want me to do?” “Help me find the right kind of rooms,” I said. ***** Together, Jack and I spent hours poring over “The Artist”, “Art Review” and a table-load of other magazines, trying to find something we thought would work. We sat at cafés in Islington watching young suited men peering at laptops, as I sifted through lists of possibilities and descriptions that meant nothing until I could see them, and reject them. I knew so much what I wanted, oh yes. What seemed like every weekend of the summer was spent tramping through Lancaster Gate, Baker Street, even Westminster before we headed back to the streets of Islington and Hackney, chasing the dream. Mine not his. We walked through wide, clean streets and rich terraced houses, so like Jack‟s but without the Egyptian twist which marked his road. Nothing suited. And I was beginning to wonder what I was doing this all for, why I was being so critical anyway when Lee-Anne of all people put an end to my search for perfection. The last Friday in July, I‟d taken the bus alone from The Two Ravens, my mouth salted with the money I‟d earned, and made my way to Joe‟s gallery. I‟d wanted to see if he had any new leads he might have forgotten to tell me. After six weeks I‟d got nowhere and nothing, except a drawerfull of cash I couldn‟t spend. It was time for something to happen.

151

A Dangerous Man When I arrived, it was gone 5:30 pm and as I opened the door I could see Lee-Anne closing the blinds and tidying up loose prints into a large rack. “Hello there, Michael,” she said and smiled, the evening sunshine catching the lights in her hair. “How‟s the gallery hunt going? Any luck?” I shook my head and the door swung shut behind me. “I‟m sorry,” she said. “Did nothing suit you?” “No. Though there‟ve been loads I could have had. It‟s just... I don‟t know, I‟m waiting for it to be right. If it‟s the right place, I know I‟ll draw whatever it is I‟m capable of. I know it. Is Joe in?” “I‟m afraid not. He‟s off seeing a client, so I don‟t think he‟ll be back today. Why don‟t you ring him?” “No, I wanted to see him, face to face. I suppose it‟ll have to wait now.” I turned away but something in my expression must have caught Lee-Anne‟s attention because she took a couple of steps towards me and touched me on the arm. “Look, Michael, I...” “Yeah?” “Joe‟s very busy at the moment, as otherwise I‟m sure he‟d love to help you more than he‟s able to, but something did come in this morning which made me think of you.” I smiled as Lee-Anne hurried to her desk and opened the nearest drawer. A part of me was singing. “Here,” she said, brandishing a handful of papers as if they were gold. “What do you think of this?” This was a series of flyers advertising recent flat developments and gallery spaces in Hackney, all due to come onto the market for real in the next month or so. Most were out of the price range Jack had set but some only just so, and one in particular caught at my imagination. Pulling round a chair, I sat opposite Lee-Anne and pored over the contents. It was the corner of a Victorian building owned by a firm of solicitors but not apparently used by them. The flamed red brick wasn‟t the best look for a potential gallery but the windows were large and modern, according to the details, and best of all it had two floors. No pokey little shed, but somewhere, maybe, where I could have the chance to expand, perhaps even show different themes on different floors if I could draw them. There

152

Anne Brooke was a small kitchen and an even smaller shower-room but, apart from that, the room sizes were large enough for my liking. I grinned. “What about that one?” I pushed the paper in Lee-Anne‟s direction and watched her reaction. “Any good, or is it all a load of marketing bollocks?” She pursed her lips. “Hard to say. These new developments spring up every five minutes, and some are good, some aren‟t. But I‟ve heard okay things about the people behind this one, and there‟s no money wasted in looking, is there?” “No. There isn‟t.” “So why don‟t you give them a call? The number‟s on the back.” “I will. Thanks, Lee-Anne.” I sprang up from the chair, the fire in my gut relit all over again and, to my surprise as well as hers, planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She smelled as she always did. Roses and brightness. Brightness and roses. And as I always did, I wondered for a moment what being straight might be like. “That‟s all right, I‟m just happy to help,” she said. “Oh, and Michael?” Halfway to the door, I paused. “Yes?” “Don‟t forget marketing and PR might not be your thing, but you‟re going to have to get used to it if you‟re to go through with this project. Art alone doesn‟t attract attention, you know?” ***** I didn‟t know. The art was what was snipping away at me, and the need to get it to that mysterious next level. I had no time or energy to puzzle it out though, because more was going on in my life during those six weeks of searching for my new gallery than could be hidden. The trouble was my past. And my own need for what I‟d worked so long to have. Between those two contrasting factors, a whole explosive mix was set and ready to light. It started the second time I used Frank‟s pub. Jack was staying in Brighton overnight for a conference so I didn‟t have to go out until it was dark; a fact I knew was likely to earn me more. Frank hadn‟t even spoken to me when I‟d come in, but had simply nodded at the smokiest of his smoky corners, where a hunched bloke with a straggly beard was drinking what looked like the third on the list of the pub‟s lethal cocktails. Cocktails. Ironic, as it turned out. The bloke, whose name I never knew and never wanted to, bought me a beer—half only—flashing the notes in 153

A Dangerous Man his wallet in my direction as he did so. He let me finish my drink though, a kindness I was grateful for as my throat felt scratchy and dry from the smoke, before leading the way downstairs to the Gents and showing me the goods. I performed well enough for him to tip me more than the going rate for a blowjob. It was a fair bargain but I wished I‟d at least left a couple of swallows of beer in my glass to take the taste away. I‟d remember for next time, I promised myself. Afterwards I padded along the narrow street, hands thrust deep into dirty jean pockets, the night air making me shiver in spite of the warmth. It might even rain later, I remembered thinking. Just my luck. Above me, the orange glow of the street lights cast strange shapes, dragons, bears, wolves, onto the blackened pub walls and abandoned flats. No-one was about. Too late for workers and too early for whores. Except me, of course. Hunching my shoulders, much like the man I‟d just met, I tried not to think of what I‟d done. Another thirty minutes if I used the bus, that was all, and I‟d be home, with nothing to harm me but the memories and a healthy wad of cash in my possession to remind me of the good things to come. It would be fine, I knew it would. A sudden gust of wind caught at my throat and I coughed, a dry retching which made my eyes water. In the silence which followed, the sound was repeated, but not by me. At once I stopped, heart beating fast and fingers clenched together, nails digging into flesh. Was someone following me, as I‟d thought before? A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a bulky shadow cross one of the patches of sodium light behind me before being swallowed back into sultry darkness. Even then I knew who it would be and the urge to vomit took me but there was no time. Gagging, and with one hand clasped to my mouth, I turned and began to run. Already it was too late. “What‟re you running away for, Mikey? Scared or something?” It was Paul. His ugly voice pierced my flesh and the next second I‟d chucked up, a thin stream of yellow fluid that dripped like rotten honey over his shoes and the soft grass surrounding us. The taste of salt and terror almost made me faint. “You stupid bastard,” he grimaced and punched me in the stomach, only once but with a power that made me retch again, though this time nothing came out of me. “What did you have to go and do that for?” 154

Anne Brooke I wasn‟t capable of answering him but it didn‟t matter as he twisted my arm up behind my back and brought his face near mine so I could smell the beer on his breath. I thought he might break my elbow in two. “I know what you‟re up to,” he whispered. “I‟ve been following you. Is this how you‟re going to get the money for that poncy idea of a gallery of yours? Is it? Is it?” Breath almost under control now, I spat once onto the pavement. “I‟m not up to anything. Why don‟t you leave me alone?” “Because I think you‟re a lying bugger, and rent-boys like you should be careful about upsetting people who might do them harm.” “You‟re crazy, I don‟t know what you mean.” “Crazy, eh? Is that what you think? Maybe I am, but I‟m not as crazy as someone who thinks money grows on dicks. I‟m not as crazy as someone who doesn‟t have the sense to cover his tracks properly. And most of all I‟m not as crazy as someone who uses The Two Ravens as a knocking shop and expects to get away with it.” With each point Paul made, he wrenched my arm further up my back until I thought he would tear my shoulder out, but I wouldn‟t scream. I would never let him see me in agony. “For God’s sake,” I said between gasps. “You‟re mad. Anyway, you‟ve got no proof. Let me go.” “Proof?” he said, loosening his grip but still holding me so I couldn‟t escape. As if I had the strength or stupidity to try it. “Is that what you want? That‟s easy. Why don‟t I find some proof for you? Why don‟t I just stroll into the bar and ask for the cheapest boy they can find? I‟m sure someone in there would be happy to give me the low-down, as it were, for the right fee. Shall I do that, Mikey? Shall I?” There was a pause during which all the thoughts I‟d ever had and all the mistakes I would ever make rose before me. “No,” I whispered. Paul chuckled. “What was that? I didn‟t quite catch it.” “No,” I said again but this time louder. “That‟s more like it. Now, let‟s talk, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, he shuffled me along, his grip on my arm as firm as hate until we were buried even deeper in the shadows. Only a couple of people passed us in that time and I glanced at each of them, wondering what their lives were. When at last he stopped, pushing me 155

A Dangerous Man back against the wall of a house, he gripped my chin with his fat fingers, forced my lips open with his tongue and snogged me. He tasted of dirt and staleness, but I resisted the urge to bite. It would do me no good in the end. When he‟d finished, he laughed as I gagged. What the hell was he going to do? He had more information about me than it was safe for him to have. How would he use it? I hoped to God not in the way I feared. I had to know. “What are you going to do?” my voice shook as I wiped my free hand over my mouth, trying to wipe away the stain Paul had left there. Some hope. He gave me the look he‟d given me on the morning of the day I‟d first met Jack. Dirty turning to sly. It made me tremble. “Do?” he said. “I‟m not going to do anything. Or not what you think, Mikey. Why bother with cheap bollocks like you? In fact the question is the other way round. It‟s what you can do for me that counts.” Swallowing down bile, I managed to ask him, “What‟s that then?” “Again, easy. I don‟t know what you‟re earning—yet—but if you don‟t want that rich git lover-boy to find out exactly how you‟re earning it, then I suggest that twenty percent of it comes to me. Just think of it as protection money, Mikey, if you know what‟s best for you.” ***** Keep the charcoal pencil straight and let the wild lines breathe. It‟s the only thing that can. Smudge the shadow in and smudge again until the finger is black with the rub of it. With each indentation of my hand, the shape on the paper moves, it calls to me and there is no need left, none at all, except the need to respond, to be taken over, maybe to die. The paper I chose today is half my height, the easel stretched to capacity and butted against the wooden stop. It shimmers in the sunlight. It is the morning of the day Jack and I will visit the rooms Lee-Anne showed me. We‟re not due until 2pm so have plenty of time. My boyfriend is downstairs, patiently waiting, and knowing I am here working, but not knowing what I am thinking. How can he? It is impossible for him to know that. It doesn‟t matter though as the paper I touch knows me in a way a man never can. It takes from me all my thoughts and buries them in whiteness. Then the lines form patterns of their own interpretation of me. A sculpting more than myself. 156

Anne Brooke Pause. Breathe. The stink of Paul, his greed more piercing than his flesh. Because of him I have had to go to Frank‟s many times more than I should have done and for that I hate him. I hate him. See how the beast tears through paper, grey blood dripping from dark jaws. The body of a man, the head of a wolf. It is impossible to show Jack this, though he waits to see what I have done. Let him wait a little longer. If he doesn‟t see him, then he can‟t ask questions I can‟t answer. Not that he has, not yet, but the feeling is in the air all around me. The feeling of something about to happen. I do not know what it might be. I do not want to know. And still I draw. I have to. It almost keeps me from thinking. After a while, I get into a routine and the minutes, the hours creep by. Six steps up to each new paper, do what I want to, six steps away, pause, think and then the same steps back again. While I am there, I let my hand run free over clarity, taking in the marks it has to make. Perfection can‟t be achieved without imperfection. If I am to create something beautiful, however violent, then I have to be prepared to get dirty. As in art, so in life, don‟t they say? There would be no charcoal picture if my fingers didn‟t get grey and there will be no exhibition if I don‟t make the money I need. The equation is simple, but deadly. The two things are so nearly one. I have worked so hard since Paul found me out. Men‟s pricks merge together in my memory until I think of only one, with many owners, all faceless. Because of the percentage he takes from me, I have had to give them what I swore to Frank I wouldn‟t. Each time, I try to think of Jack. When all this is over, I will show him how much I love him. Everything will be as it was. It is what I tell myself over and over again, and I hope it will be true. I have worked so hard for this life, my exhibition and a future. Once I have it, I will walk away from Paul and Joe and all my past and be made new and different again. But now I hate Paul so much, I wish I could kill him. As I can‟t, I let the drawing do it for me. For now the wolf has Paul‟s cold eyes and in them the hint of pain to come, which makes me laugh. My laughter grows louder so I have to stifle it, pushing the back of my hand over my mouth, terrified that Jack might hear from downstairs and come to ask me what‟s wrong.

157

A Dangerous Man If he comes to see me now, I might give in, tell him all I‟ve done and beg for his forgiveness and a fresh start with him. That would be worth everything. Nearly everything, but not quite. If Jack finds out what I‟ve been doing, any chance of my drawings being shown will be over. This is my last chance to say I‟m a real artist and know it to be true, to be whole again. I can never lose that chance. No, I have to keep my mouth shut, at least when I‟m not on duty, and carry on. There will be an ending soon. So, all laughter gone, I settle down to deal with my latest work‟s background, something impressionistic and wild to offset the detail and intensity of the man-wolf. I spin the pencil outward from the eyes of the beast, dagger-sharp, so lines carve their way into the latest paper, a few I smudge into blankness but always keep the direction I draw in the same. After sweat, concentration and continual movement, I step away for the hundredth time and pause. The effect is near where I want it to be, a feeling of danger springing outwards from the wolf‟s eyes and then rebounding on itself. The twist in the body of the line mimicking the twist in the creature‟s body. You can tell it is dying, moving desperately to reach beyond the source of pain but trapped in a web of violence. The only end for what it is, the only way to draw it. Once I have the heart of it, pulsating like a threat on the paper, I feel my muscles begin to relax. Something has gone out of me to be revealed in another form and it will be there forever, no matter what I do. At least I hope it will. Time now to stand back and look, forgetting about everything ordinary like food or drink, and enjoying the aftermath of where I‟ve been. It was only when I heard a brief knock on the studio door and Jack entered, making his way round the scattered piles of wood and, today, branches, and carrying a plate of sandwiches and a glass of beer, that I remembered the last thing I wanted was for him to see what I was doing. “Jack,” I dropped the fixing spray as I swung round and tried to block his view. “I didn‟t hear you come upstairs.” “Don‟t worry. I knocked a few times, but you must have been concentrating.” Had he? I hadn‟t heard him and so there‟d been no time to prepare. It was as if he‟d caught me doing something I shouldn‟t and I at once felt in the wrong. “Yeah,” I said, picking up the can and holding it in front of me like a weapon. “Yeah, I must have been. Sorry.” 158

Anne Brooke “Nothing to be sorry for. But it‟s one-thirty and we going to have to leave soon if we going to get to this place on time. I‟ve made you some sandwiches.” He waved the plate in front of him as if he thought I might not have spotted it already, then looked round for a suitable shelf. As if it had been inevitable right from the start, he glanced at my picture. He glanced again. My heart stopped its frantic pace for a second. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, an excuse, an apology, but no sound came. “What‟s that?” Jack said, and laid the plate of sandwiches like an offering at his own feet. Stepping over them and round me, he looked again at what I‟d done. Then I found my voice. “It‟s nothing, just an idea I had, the beginning of a theme I‟m working on. I‟m sorry if it‟s... strange. It‟s what I wanted to do and...” “Michael. Shush for a minute, and let me look, will you?” I shut up. Whatever happened, I could still obey the voice of authority. As he continued to stare, I turned away and pretended to tidy up the mess I‟d made around me. I thought about eating but couldn‟t. It felt as if Jack was burrowing into my stomach with a small knife and inspecting what he found there. What did he think of it? How would he react? Even after all this time, I didn‟t know. He was always a mystery, sometimes a dangerous one. After what seemed a lifetime, he at last turned round. “It‟s incredible,” he said. “Such power, like the ones you drew for the company but not like them too. And I thought they were good. This is far beyond it. Far wilder and more universal. Violent even. It‟s beautiful. Well done.” He hugged me but for a reason I couldn‟t understand his words seemed to cut me even deeper. At a level I couldn‟t explore. He must never know where this drawing had come from. If he did, it would destroy us both. So instead of responding to his words, I shrugged and grabbed one of the sandwiches he‟d made. “Shall we make a move then?” I said.

159

Chapter Fourteen July and August We were early. Jack drove, I never knew him to take a bus, though he would have walked if there‟d been time. Somehow he found a meter that worked, a miracle on the streets of Hackney on a Saturday afternoon; the luck of the rich I supposed. I wondered if the car would still be there when we got back. The building we were to be viewing was dirtier and taller than was revealed in the paper I was clutching, but its location wasn‟t in the worst part of the area I‟d once lived in. What was more important though was that it wasn‟t too near Joe‟s gallery or my former home. Gazing at the huge windows, all I could see was what might happen. It felt like my last chance. I was running out of options, and the people trying to help me were running out of patience and I knew it. Around us were the colours and smell of the city, and everywhere the people. All races and shades of feeling. My fingers itched to draw them but all I had time for was a few hurried notes on an old envelope I cadged off Jack. “Feel the need now?” he said with a grin. “Maybe it‟s a sign. What do you think?” I swung round, taking a long, slow look in all directions from where we stood. “Not a bad position, people pass by, at least on a weekend, which is something. Love the windows.” “Thought you might, but let‟s see what the inside is like. You can‟t trust the marketing, you know.” I shrugged. Typical finance guy. All caution and no imagination. Five minutes later, as I was lighting my second cigarette and Jack was glancing at his watch again, the agent turned up, chubby features covered with a salesman‟s smile and sweat glistening on his blond hair. “Hello, hello,” he panted, stretching out his hand to Jack and pumping it up and down. “I‟m Mr. Daniels. You must be Mr. Hutchinson and Mr. Jones. Good to see you. Apologies for being late. Traffic, you know.” “Yes, I...” Jack began but didn‟t get any further.

160

Anne Brooke “I should have thought of it before I set out of course, but one can‟t always gauge it these days. This is an up-and-coming area, very popular, yes indeed.” “Which is a good thing, so we‟re glad to hear it,” Jack cut in, glancing in my direction. “Have you got the keys? My partner and I would like to look around.” Mr. Daniels searched his pockets and produced a set on which all the keys in the world must have been gathered. I snorted a laugh away and stubbed out the remains of my cigarette underfoot, watching the agent struggle to find the right one. Minutes ticked away during which he muttered under his breath, dropped the set twice as the sounds of people talking, laughing, cars hooting and braking provided a dense backdrop to my longing to see inside. If Mr. Daniels hadn‟t at last found the right key to let us in, I have no idea what I might have done. Being so near to what I was sure would be perfect but unable to see it was more than I could take. During all this, Jack showed no impatience however. Now, as always, he was the face of reason. Then the key clicked home, the door swung open, dislodging a stream of junk mail across the floorboards, and the smell of fresh paint wafted past us. “Careful there,” Mr. Daniels sang out as I slipped through and stood in the middle of the entrance room. “You don‟t want to ruin your clothes.” “I‟m okay,” I said. “I‟m just looking.” And I was. I took in the size of the room and the softness of sunlight glowing across the pale walls. Not too much though, but enough to highlight whatever I might choose to put there. Something dramatic, enticing, I thought, in the way Joe did at the Moonlight Gallery. A conversation starter, he called it. In the doorway, Jack was gazing at me, a glimmer of a smile on his mouth, and I couldn‟t help grinning back. “Good,” I nodded, ignoring Mr. Daniels‟ sales patter pounding my ears like water. “Good. I like this.” Jack loped into the room, bringing with him the added seriousness of financial clout. “Best look round the other rooms first, Michael. You can‟t build your ideas on the strength of one room.” “Oh?” the agent asked. “You‟ve already got plans for the place then?” “No...” I started to say, not wanting a stranger to know something about me, but Jack was already answering. 161

A Dangerous Man “Possible ones,” he said. “My partner would like to set up a small gallery, but it very much depends on the location and the facilities you can offer. We‟re seeing several places at the moment, taking advice. On first glance, some of them seem better than this. And, as you can imagine, there‟s a lot to think about.” Jack‟s lie almost made me laugh as there was nowhere else better than this. Couldn‟t he see how I felt? But Mr. Daniels took him seriously and I could almost see his thoughts and sales pitch realigning themselves in his head, like a drawing that begins in your fingers but is so different when it comes alive on paper. “I see, I see,” he replied. “Of course, I don‟t know what the other sites you‟ve seen have to offer, but you‟ll find the rooms here extremely spacious. Just the sort of thing you‟ll be needing, don‟t you think? And the light is magnificent.” He waved one chubby hand at the windows I‟d already noted and then seemed to be about to plunge into an improvised spiel I didn‟t want to hear. “Sure they are,” I said, catching on to my boyfriend‟s method of business dealings. “But, as Jack says, I need to see the other rooms as well.” “Yes, yes, of course. Let me show you round.” “I‟d like to see them on my own. I‟ll get a better idea that way.” “Maybe, maybe, but if you don‟t mind I‟d rather make sure that you don‟t miss any of the features, which I must say are quite magnificent.” Jack winked at me and turned to the agent. “What are the neighbours like, Mr. Daniels? Any troubles in that respect?” I didn‟t need telling twice. Taking advantage of the long speech on the saintliness of the nearby streets I was sure was about to be launched into the waiting air, I slipped away from their conversation and began to make a quick exploration of what I knew had to be mine. It just had to. The building consisted of the glorious front room and a not-quite-aslarge room to the side of it, reached by the door I‟d just come through. The wallpaper here would have to come off. The agents couldn‟t have had time to replace it. What sort of people could hang anything with a blue floral pattern? And even if I wasn‟t an artist, I could never have lived or worked with it. Suppressing a shudder, I turned left into a small kitchen and beyond that discovered the back door to what looked to be a small yard 162

Anne Brooke with some overgrown shrubs and a dustbin. Nothing special there. When I tried to get out to make sure, I found it was locked. I would have to ask Mr. Daniels for the key, but not yet. I still had the upstairs to explore. At the opposite side of the blue-wallpapered room, a set of curved stairs brought me to a small landing, a shower room and a box room I could easily convert to an office of some kind. Didn‟t galleries always need offices? Joe had one anyway. If I was going to follow his lead, I wanted to get it right. Not that all that stuff mattered right now, because when I opened the final door, I gulped twice and knew no choice existed. I had to persuade Jack this was the one. Because now more than ever during the last few minutes I was sure of it. Where I was standing was perfect. Not as high as the rooms below, but far longer, taking in a length of maybe one-and-a-half times the size of the first room I‟d seen. Two new windows divided at exactly the right point on the wall, so the light stroked your eye rather than dazzled it. Here there would be less need for battling with the strength of the sun, less need for cunning placing of the pictures so I could let my dreams run wilder in the making of the end result. “Fantastic,” I thought and then jumped as Mr. Daniels‟ voice pierced my happy imaginings. Without knowing it, I must have spoken aloud. I would have to be careful what I said in the future, especially now, and especially in front of Jack. “Quite right,” the agent said. “It‟s indeed a wonderful room. Very well realised. Exactly the sort of place for showing art, don‟t you think?” “It‟s early days,” Jack cut in, his figure looming behind Mr. Daniels, and then paused as he took in his surroundings. “But yes, it‟s one for us to consider.” “Yes, I quite understand, sir, quite see your point. But I have to tell you there are other people clamouring at my door for a place like this, and the owners have stressed first come first served. I wouldn‟t want you to lose out.” “Now, come on, Mr. Daniels. That‟s estate agent speak we‟ve all heard before and...” Before he could finish his sentence, I‟d laid my hand on my boyfriend‟s arm, gripping the skin beneath his shirt until I felt him wince. “Please, Jack,” I said, leaning towards him as if to drive my words into his heart. “Please, I want this. I need it.” 163

A Dangerous Man Dead silence, even from the agent who must have recognised a desperate buyer when he found one. Jack looked at me, his eyes revealing nothing. Then he turned back to Mr. Daniels. “Tell me again what the price includes,” he said. ***** Sometimes where one side of your life is as clear as an empty street, the dark tide spills over into the other. As the gallery I‟d dreamt of was so nearly in my grasp, the price I was paying for it grew ever more threatening. I was standing hunched against the great gaping mouth and perfumed noise of John Lewis, Oxford Street. 1pm, a Wednesday in July with the sun so hot it could almost destroy you. Jack would be focused and happy in his work, with no worry in his head for me and the line I was treading. For myself, for a dream, maybe. As I watched, people were sucked in to the huge store, money and laughter flowing around them so that if I reached out I could have grasped it, I swear. It might have made all the difference. Why couldn‟t I take that step? Where was he anyway? I needed him and I hated him too. The sweat on my face must have slid into my eyes as my focus blurred and all around me became impressionistic, hazy, with darkness and the fear of discovery. Run, I must run. What I was doing was crazy, and crazier still that I‟d only seen it now. Run. Get away. Yes. Yes, I could do it. Just one movement and I could be free, all my longing over and all my fear too. Which would I miss the most? God help me, which? I‟d taken two steps away from the place of watching when I glanced across the road, and there, as if we were the only two people in the whole of Oxford Street, London, the world, was Paul. He folded his arms and smiled as if he‟d been waiting a lifetime to make me see him. How long had he been there? How long had he been looking at me? Did he know I‟d wanted to run from him? Yes, he‟d know. Of course he would. Don‟t even bother to ask the question, Michael. He‟d know I‟d wanted to leave and might have done it too, if I hadn‟t seen him and he‟d trapped me with one look, one sneer. Which I could see even from across the street, even with the cars and the people and the smell and the noise. Bastard.

164

Anne Brooke As I stared at him, he smiled again, and then gestured at his watch, shrugging and smiling, all the while smiling until I could have run across to him, knocking people out of my way, and taken him by the throat, shaking him as a man shakes off a bad memory. And he would be grinning, still grinning until I slammed his head back against the shop window until the glass shattered and the shining shards cut into his head, letting the blood run free until there was no more pain, no more fear. And he could never harm me again. How I longed for that. If I could do it, if he didn‟t have the hold over me that no-one else had. If he could die, then I would be happy and there would be no more secrets. My breath was coming in short bursts, and I wiped the sweat from my eyes. If that was what it was. Elbowing people aside, I rammed my way through the crowds and stumbled across the street, dodging the cars, ignoring the horns and screeching of brakes. Whatever happened, if I died right there and Jack found out everything, everything, I wouldn‟t give Paul the pleasure of watching me run. When I got to him, he didn‟t speak, but instead took out a packet of cigarettes, removed one and lit it, not even glancing at me to see what I was doing. He didn‟t offer me any and anyway I would have spat on it rather than accept. My fingers twitched to do what I‟d been imagining, to cut him out of my life, to hurt, to kill. He glanced up as if I‟d spoken my dreams aloud, “Hello, Mikey. Nice meeting you away from that crap pub, isn‟t it? Doing a spot of shopping before hooking up with me, are you?” I didn‟t like his tone of voice, but thought it best to say nothing. It was the first time he‟d arranged to meet me away from The Two Ravens and for some reason the taste of semen in my mouth, residue from a morning at Frank‟s, hit me again. When I stayed silent, Paul laughed and took a puff of his smoke before blowing it coolly in my direction. I waved it away, wishing I could smack him and take the look he was wearing off his stupid face. “Yeah, whatever. Look, I‟ve got your cash.” Pulling out his blood-and-spunk money from my jeans‟ back pocket, I shoved it in the direction of his chest, pushing him back a little. He grunted. “Steady on, Mikey. There‟s plenty of time for business.” 165

A Dangerous Man “Don‟t call me Mikey, you... you...” “I think I can call you whatever I bloody well like, don‟t you, Mikey? So what have you got for me, eh? I mean really got?” And before I even had a chance to dread whatever he might mean, he took a step forward and, reaching out, ran his fingers through my hair and down my face. Right there in the middle of bloody Oxford Street in a bloody lunch-hour. A few feet away, a group of teenage girls turned to point and giggle. I stepped back, almost colliding into a passing shopper who, not looking at me, swore and hurried on. “What do you think you‟re doing?” I rubbed at my face, trying to wipe away the memory of his touch, unwelcome, sinister. “Just playing. You like playing, didn‟t you? Don‟t you miss it? You always liked it before.” “It paid the rent. That‟s all.” Finishing his cigarette, he dropped it onto the pavement and crushed it beneath his foot. The action made me shiver. “Is it? I don‟t think so. There was always more to it than that. For you. Something else was always going on in that head of yours.” This was pointless. I needed to get away, to get the whole transaction over with and get home, where I could forget any of this had taken place, get down to my real life. The drawing. I so much needed to focus on the wilder stuff I was doing now, the large scope of it, so much better than anything I‟d done before. “Look, Paul, just take the cash, will you? It‟s what we agreed. Then we can both go home.” He smiled. I didn‟t like that smile and it was one I knew I would always remember. That and what came after. “Now, Mikey, I don‟t think so, do you? On a lovely day like this? That‟s not what you say to an old friend, is it? Not if you want them to be sweet to you. And I think you do want me to be sweet to you, don‟t you? Because the less I say to certain people, the better, eh?” As he spoke, he touched me again, this time for longer, and while my stomach twisted for the endless seconds it took before he removed his hand, I realised what he meant. Fifteen minutes later, we were in a dirty little room above a Soho bar we both knew. Thank God it wasn‟t Frank‟s, as I couldn‟t have taken the 166

Anne Brooke shame. As it was, I had to put up with more than enough of that. Because I was spread-eagled on the bed, face jammed into sour-smelling pillows, while he pumped away on top of me, my mind as far away from my body as I could get it, thinking at least I took off my own clothes, I didn’t let him touch me until the last minute. It was something to be proud of, something to hang onto while he worked away with the sort of viciousness I should have remembered. It didn‟t take him long to get his rocks off, thank God. It never had. When at last he rolled off me, giving my arse a celebratory slap as he went, I lay for a few minutes in the same position, feeling the ache and soreness that was to come, breathing as deep as the sea and trying not to cry. Trying not to think about Jack. Behind me, I could hear Paul as he slunk about the room, collecting his clothes, I imagined, and putting them back on. I stayed as still as I could, hoping he would leave without saying anything. Some hope. He always was a gabbler, as well as a piss-artist. When he‟d finished doing whatever he was doing, he sat down on the bed beside me, the weight of his body making the springs creak and groan. “Not bad, Mikey babe, though maybe you‟ve lost some of your edge since going with that rich git of yours. Got out of the habit of doing the rough stuff with him, have you? Shame really, it‟s sad to see an expert lose his skills.” When I didn‟t reply, he laughed and got up, “What? Nothing to say? Maybe that‟s best, you never were much of a talker, were you? Sorry I can‟t stay and chat all afternoon, but I‟ve got to get on. Things to do, people to see, you know.” Humming something tuneless, I heard him move to the door. There he made a noise halfway between a snort and a giggle. “Bit of a laugh, isn‟t it? You paying me for the pleasure of screwing you, I mean. Better make it more of a pleasure for me next time though, Mikey, if you want to keep some of the spunk money and if you want me to keep mum about what a naughty boy you‟ve been. Mr. Jack Hutchinson wouldn‟t like the thought of you getting around like this, would he? Though you know what they say; once a rent-boy, always a rent-boy. It‟s been a pleasure doing business with you, of course, Mr. Jones. The things you‟ll do for art, eh?” He laughed again. I heard the sound of the door creaking open and then his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, followed by blessed silence. 167

A Dangerous Man Dragging my clothes back on and trying to stop trembling, I wondered if I would ever be free of him. ***** One stroke, then another and another. Keep the charcoal steady, think only about the reasons you‟re doing this. Concentrate. You‟re doing this to be free. From what? Everything that has gone before, everything I cannot say. Nothing else matters. The morning sun shines through the window and pierces my eye, even though it‟s not in the right position, but it must be the only reason why my eye should feel like this. It‟s wet. I wipe the wetness away and get charcoal on my face. I don‟t care. The mist clears and I gaze at the picture I‟m making. It‟s not based on Paul; I have too many drawings of him. This time it‟s of Jack. He‟s sitting at his grand desk at work and giving me that look. The half-laughing, half-cynical, come-on look he didn‟t have when we first met, but I came to know later. Less so now. Sometimes, even in spite of what I believe, I wish I could paint. I wish I could show his hair the way it is, and the rich sea-blue of his eyes. I wonder if he‟ll ever change. He must change, turn grey, gain weight, whatever people do when they get old, though until now I‟ve never thought of it. Will he let me stay here that long? Won‟t he find someone else? In the end. The sex we have is less intense now, quick and over too soon. How can it be otherwise when all I can think of is Paul and the other men? Stop thinking, must stop thinking like that. Can‟t imagine Jack getting old though, can‟t imagine him changing, he‟s so beautiful. As I‟m thinking these things, my grip on the pencil I‟m holding tightens and across Jack‟s beloved face it draws the hint of a gash across his cheek, which if real would tear at his eyes, his mouth. The pencil falls to the carpet. It takes a long time. Then for a moment heavy with guilt, time seems to stop. Before moving on again, the sun still shining and the picture I‟ve wanted to destroy, for a reason I don‟t know, still mocking me. Cursing, I pick up the pencil and unfix the drawing from the easel. Looking at it, Jack looks back at me. The cruel line can‟t stop his smile. I sit down on the floor, without warning, still clutching the paper. My nose hurts but I can‟t wipe it. It hurts too much from the beating Paul gave me only a few days ago. I‟d told Jack when he got home that evening that I‟d been in a fight, but I didn‟t tell him anything else, blanking him at every worried question. After a day or so he stopped asking, but his frown and 168

Anne Brooke the silence between us deepened. From where I am sitting, rocking on the floor, I stroke the carpet beneath me, as if committing the feel of it to memory. I don‟t know why. Looking at the picture of Jack, I know I‟ll have to start again. Not because it‟s ruined. You can cover over something like this by smudging or feathering the line, but here I don‟t want to. I don‟t want to look at it again. Not that it matters in terms of my exhibition, as I am spending every hour I can find in creating those large-scale impressions of men and beasts, strange rocky landscapes laced with violence, which I am doing now. With every one I finish, the urge to begin another is overpowering and I let the need take me, giving myself up to it and knowing that if my luck holds it might carry me through. Still this picture of Jack I‟d wanted to finish. No time though. I have so much to do before the date I‟ve carved on my mind for an opening night. So much thinking and framing and thinking and positioning. Not to mention the redecoration of the gallery, getting it exactly the way I want it to be. In that respect, Jack has been brilliant, organising decorators, making sure they get the look I want and chivvying them along. On the publicity side, Lee-Anne, with Joe‟s permission and even now and then his support, is helping in ways I would never have thought of asking her, suggesting contacts, putting together a flyer, talking to the local press and arranging numerous strange marketing stunts. All the things I‟ve never got round to thinking about and would never have known how to do. Between the two of them, they‟re running the show and all I have to do is concentrate on what should be in it. That was the point when I‟d realised once again that what I had was good in itself but it wasn‟t enough. It‟s all very well dreaming and longing for the moment when real people would be wandering around a series of rooms looking at what I‟d produced, maybe even buying some—the thought of it makes my mouth go numb, God, they might actually pay me—but I had to put something there for them to see. What I wanted was a theme, something to develop as they moved from one drawing to the next. A history, a meaning. That was what I was working on, taking the wildness I‟d started to produce and making it go further and further into something I couldn‟t quite control. It was as if I‟d made one small but significant step away from the almost real, smaller-scale stuff and was launching out into a wilder setting, with no idea as to where it might take me. 169

A Dangerous Man Would people like it? I didn‟t know, I had no way of telling, but that didn‟t matter. This was what I was doing. In the end, what I created I created for me and I‟d have to take my chances. Even so, occasionally I needed a break from the sense of being caught in a floodtide with no way to shore, which explained the picture of Jack. Knowable and kind. I enjoyed drawing him, even though there was no time and this one hadn‟t worked. Didn‟t know why. Folding the picture up to impossible smallness, I dropped it on the table. I could look at it again later, if I felt able to. And in looking, forget about the bad things going on too. So many bad things. Now Paul had got an easy supply of money and an even easier screw sorted out, I knew the bastard would never give up on it. He called me at different times, to keep the pressure up. Of course I‟d refused to give him the number, but it couldn‟t have been hard to get hold of. Jack was too trusting ever to think about the advantages of exdirectory, a fact I cursed him for over and over again during those weeks. If he was there and if I couldn‟t get to the phone first, Paul always put the receiver down and the couple of times Jack bothered with the dial-back code he must have blocked the number. If I answered, then he‟d string me along for minutes at an end before making the demand for yet another meeting and asking me how much money I‟d made since he last saw me. I was working harder than he thought, and faster too, so he didn‟t get it all. Now I made sure I handed it over to Jack first for the gallery and made up some lie about Lee-Anne finding the odd customer for my old pieces. I hoped he believed me. Then, in the middle of all these things and before I knew it, before I was even really ready, it was the day before the gallery opening.

170

Chapter Fifteen September Some days should never happen, each minute stretching to a pain so sharp it may never leave you. As it has never left me. If I had known how it would be, and what would come of it, I would have given my soul to jump the waiting time between knowing that all I had was ready for the final placement, and that moment of opening at last. The thought of it was what got me through, and what made me lash out, that final time Paul fucked me, the last time I gave him money. We were in the Gents‟ not far from Villiers Street, mid morning with— thank God—not many people about. He‟d taken the cash I offered him in silence, stuffed it into his pockets and then pushed me into the nearest cubicle. No more than I‟d expected and no less. The floor was wet and the acrid smell of shit and piss made me want to gag, so bending over the seat, I pulled the lid down so I wouldn‟t have to look at whatever was in there. Paul laughed. Then he dragged my jeans to my ankles, fumbled with a condom and started grunting away in me like the pig he was. In the middle of it all, my mind as far away as I could get it to go, I heard someone come into the loos and then the sound of pissing in the urinals. Paul grunted again, and the pissing stopped, followed at once by a snort of laughter, the quick sound of a zip and footsteps heading out, away from danger. Lucky them. I thought about groaning, but I didn‟t want Paul to think he was turning me on. No real chance of that, not bloody likely. Maybe I should have cried out for help, but what could any stranger have done? Nothing that could have helped me, not then and not ever. For the first time, I began to think I‟d had enough. I wanted out. But it was only when Paul had pushed himself away from me and was removing his condom, throwing it down onto the cold floor, not even looking for a bin, that I chanced my luck. “You know what I think?” I croaked, rolling off the toilet seat and halfkneeling in the gap between loo and wall. “I think all this is just because you‟re not getting any from Joe, are you? Is he starting to see sense at last?”

171

A Dangerous Man “Shut the fuck up,” Paul aimed a kick in my direction, just grazing my leg. “Ain‟t nothing to do with you.” He turned aside so I couldn‟t see his face and fumbled with the lock on the loo door, but I knew I‟d hit home. “I‟m right, aren‟t I?” I laughed. “Can‟t say I‟m surprised, Christ knows why he hung on to a bastard like you for so long anyway. He‟s probably getting his bollocks off with some sexy toy-boy right now, for all you know.” Paul turned quicker than I‟d imagined he would and I could have sworn his face was wet. Before I could hit back or wriggle away, jeans or no jeans, he‟d grabbed my head and, shoving the toilet seat up, rammed me inside the rim. I scrabbled against his legs to try to fight back but he‟d already started flushing the loo. The next second stinking water was pouring over my head and I could taste dirt and Christ knows what on my tongue. Trying not to swallow, I spat the taste away, but he was banging my head again and again onto the side of the toilet, all the time shouting, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” I tried to beg him to stop but I couldn‟t get the words out, couldn‟t breathe, couldn‟t think. All I‟d been expecting was a few punches for my daring, which would have been worth it simply to rile the bastard, but not this. Not. Ever. This. This was beyond terror. I wanted to die. I thought I might but, after what seemed an age, he at last let go and kicked me in the arse where I was straddled stretched across loo and floor. Everything was sore and I could smell blood, taste it in my mouth. “Don‟t ever say anything about Joe again, understand?” he said in a voice I didn‟t recognise. “Do you understand? Do you?” I managed to nod but the action seemed to make my head explode and I spewed up into the bowl, starting to shake and cry like a stupid child. Paul swore, kicked me again and left, slamming the door against its hinges, which only made my head pound even more. “Good luck with the exhibition,” he said. ***** “Just sit still and let me see to that, would you?” Whatever it was Lee-Anne had put on the cotton wool she was using to dab at the bruises on my head made me wince and she shook her head at me again. “I‟m sorry, but this will help with the swelling, Michael.”

172

Anne Brooke Closing my eyes, I tried to be still and bury myself as deep inside my body as I could, forget the aching, even the gentleness of Lee-Anne‟s fingers. It didn‟t work, so instead I tried to concentrate on my surroundings, the smell of the new carpets, the scent of coffee from the open jar on the kitchen work surface, the faint noise of the early afternoon traffic outside. The gallery—my gallery—was all so perfect, just how I‟d imagined it would be. All I had to do now was hang the drawings in the way I wanted them from the plans in my head. Everything was okay; everything except me. At last Lee-Anne finished, but when I opened my eyes again, I realised they were wet. I hated the fact she‟d seen me crying and wondered what she would say, but she didn‟t mention it, turning her long back away and slipping the cotton wool and iodine into the first-aid box where she‟d found them, while I wiped my hands carefully over my face. The sharp medicinal thrust of the iodine seemed to pierce my skin. I wished it could make the rest of me clean too. “You‟re lucky the bruising isn‟t going to show, what with it being more on your head than your face. It won‟t frighten the viewers. And I won‟t ask what you‟ve been doing,” she said, with her back towards me. “But I think you ought to be more careful.” “I‟m okay.” “Really? “Okay” doesn‟t include bruises you‟re going to know about very soon, at least not in my vocabulary. Are you going to tell Jack?” Hands on hips, she stared at me, her rich auburn hair almost fizzing with the depth of her concern. Once again, I wished things could have been different, but it was impossible. “No need for him to know. I‟m fine, Lee-Anne. Just leave it. Please.” Her face closed up, and for a few moments she clattered round the kitchen, tidying away mugs and humming something I couldn‟t recognise. “Sorry,” I said in the end. The last thing I wanted to do was drive her away, she‟d been more of a friend than I‟d known before. “That‟s all right.” “No. I mean it. I am sorry. And I‟m grateful for all you‟ve done, honest I am.” “I know.” At last she gave half a smile and I felt my muscles relax. Too soon. “But helping you isn‟t going to do any good if you‟re going to get

173

A Dangerous Man involved in these “fights”, Michael. Is it going to happen on a regular basis?” Taking the last packet of cigarettes from the side, I lit one and took a long drag of it before offering my companion one, which she refused. I didn‟t ask how she‟d known. “No,” I said as the smoke kicked in. “It won‟t. Not anymore.” A pause in which all the lies in the world drifted between us unacknowledged. Then, “Good,” she said. “So we‟d best get this gallery of yours sorted out or there‟ll be nothing for anyone to see when they turn up tomorrow.” That wasn‟t quite true but it got me up and doing, and not brooding. Most of the larger drawings were in place, in the upstairs room where the light caught them just at the point of exposure, making the dark lines darker and more ominous, and the brighter spaces a net to catch your dreams in. At least that‟s what I hoped they‟d do and when I‟d first started lining them up for positioning a few days earlier, Lee-Anne had gazed at my work for a long time before speaking. “You‟ve changed,” she‟d said. “Your work‟s changed. These are far more expressive than anything I‟ve seen before.” “How?” I asked her, wanting more, almost drowning in the need for her approval. In answer, she‟d strolled round what I‟d laid out already and picked up one or two as yet unframed pieces whilst I watched her and tried to wipe away the sweat on my forehead. Finally, finally she‟d spoken. “They‟re wilder. More frightening, as if you‟ve tapped into something you can‟t control—something disturbing. To be honest with you, I don‟t know if they‟ll sell because they might not be something people will feel comfortable with, but they‟re very good. No, they‟re brilliant.” Then she‟d paused and added, “Are you all right, Michael, in yourself?” Dismissing her concern as meaningless, I‟d grinned at her response like a child and hadn‟t stopped grinning inwardly for a full half-hour afterwards. It was the affirmation I‟d needed, and soon, so soon, it would be shared by others, people I hadn‟t yet met, but which Lee-Anne had been sweet-talking to turn up for weeks. I couldn‟t wait. We spent the next couple of hours getting the last of the pictures where they would make the most impact. Lee-Anne was turning out to be a genius at this, suggesting groups and ways of hanging my work where the 174

Anne Brooke light would catch it best and when we‟d finished I swear I would have done anything for her. Her ideas made everything it had taken me to get to this point worthwhile and I knew the debt could never be repaid. So I did the next best thing. I poured two glasses of wine and smiled as we toasted my success. At least I hoped that was what it would turn out to be. It was nearing 6pm and we were finishing off the cleaning together when a sharp rap came at the front door and Jack strode in, bearing a large wooden box and an expression of determination. “Hiya,” I said, dropping the polish and duster onto the nearest chair. “I didn‟t think you could make it.” “Neither did I,” he replied. “But the office can do without me for one evening. Good to see you, Lee-Anne.” Lee-Anne nodded a greeting and waved the wine bottle in Jack‟s direction, but he shook his head. “Better not, the car‟s outside, but thanks. How‟s it going?” “Take a look,” I said. “Tell me what you think.” Putting the box down on the floor, he gave me a quick uncertain smile and then, without speaking, strolled round the front room. He took his time, as he always did, pausing for a few moments in front of each picture before moving on. I gulped at my wine like a drowning man. Then he disappeared into the smaller downstairs room and I waited. And waited. After what seemed like a lifetime of terror later, but what must have been in reality only a few minutes, Lee-Anne stepped through the doorway, holding the remains of the bottle of wine we‟d opened. She poured the rest of it into my glass, thank God. “Where is he now?” I whispered. Arranging her skirts, she sat down cross-legged on the carpet beside me, like a Buddha. “Jack‟s opinion matters a lot to you, doesn‟t it?” “Yeah, sure it does. He‟s paying. But where is he?” “Upstairs. I think I can hear him in the large room now.” As if we were of one mind, we both looked up as if our eyes might pierce through paintwork and plaster and wood to catch the echo of my boyfriend‟s reaction. And I could swear we both held our breath. The soft creak of floorboards gave him away, it was true. I sprang up, wanting to be as far away as I could be from what he might have to say.

175

A Dangerous Man “Hey there, watch it,” Lee-Anne caught the wine glass just as it tipped up. “The last thing you want for tomorrow is stains on the carpet.” “Sorry.” “No harm done. Just try not to worry. Jack‟ll be pleased, I‟m sure. He certainly ought to be.” “I hope so, Lee-Anne. Honestly I hope so.” Something in my expression must have made her pause as she frowned and then stood up, placing her hand on my arm. Her cool fingers were a touch of bright water to my hot flesh. “Is there something else?” she said. “I mean, beyond the usual nerves you‟re bound to get?” I almost told her then. The words were crowding at the back of my throat, clamouring for expression and I wanted so much to say them. I would have told her everything, I think, all about Paul and how I was getting the money Jack had demanded for the exhibition, all about what I‟d done and what I longed for, perhaps even all about my past. But I didn‟t. Because as the thought shimmered between us like hope and as the touch of her hand built me a bridge to the normal world, it was already too late. A movement at the edge of my eye‟s vision and I turned. Jack was standing in the doorway, a smile transforming his face. “They‟re good, Michael, really good. Just as I knew they would be. Well done,” and then more shyly, stepping towards me as if I were a stranger and picking up the box he‟d left, “I bought something for you, a gift for your gallery.” I opened it, trying to breathe steadily and not to look at Lee-Anne. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper was a gleaming wooden sign edged in a gold frame. On it the words, “M J Gallery”. It took me a while to understand and I‟m not sure I ever would have understood if Lee-Anne hadn‟t taken the sign from my nerveless hands and grinned as if she was rejoicing in a secret only she knew. “A proper name for the gallery. Goodness, Jack, I was beginning to worry that you‟d forgotten it. Our artist seemed to have done, so I‟m pleased you didn‟t. And it‟s a good name too, isn‟t it, Michael?” “Yes. Yes it is,” I said. “Thank you.” Reaching up and for once not worrying about the presence of LeeAnne, I kissed him on the cheek before moving away and gazing once more at his unexpected but fantastic gift. 176

Anne Brooke “Thank you,” I said again. He sighed as if gearing himself to give bad news. “It‟s the least I could do,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “You‟ve worked so hard to get this far and I asked Lee-Anne if this could be my project. I‟m glad it suits. And also, I hoped that giving it to you now might help with my other news.” “Which is...?” I prompted him, sure that nothing he said could take away the pure pleasure I was feeling. “Which is that my parents and Penny are more than eager to come to the opening and see your work. So they‟re travelling up tomorrow and plan on staying until the weekend. I hope that will be all right.”

177

Chapter Sixteen September There was nothing I could say. Though I should have realised he‟d ask them and that it was the right thing to do, I didn‟t want Jack‟s family to come. Somehow it hurt too much, and there was nothing I could do to make it easier. Everything was crowding in. So many memories and so many reasons not to remember them. Opening my eyes I stared at the blackness outside my studio and wondered when the morning would come. It was 3am. No time to be awake and no time to feel sick with the exhaustion of it. Tomorrow—no, today—was the day when people I didn‟t know would be taking in my art, commenting on it, maybe even buying it. I couldn‟t afford to be anything less than my best—whatever that was—but since Jack had told me the news yesterday, I hadn‟t been able to settle, and sleep had proved impossible. Yes, I‟d listened to his arguments and reassurances all evening, while he was cooking, while we were eating, then later when we‟d finished watching TV and were well on our way towards sex—good sex too, which surprised me. Under the circumstances. Jack had kept on telling me it would be all right. It was short notice for him too so in that respect we were in it together and would be able to help each other. No mention of the delight in his eye as compared to the dullness in mine at the thought of seeing his family. I was on my own home ground, he‟d said, not realising that what he meant was I was on his. It was natural his family would want to share in the excitement of what I was doing but there would be no pressure for me to have to face them on my own. And so on and so on. All of it true, but none of it reached me. It was as if he were talking from a great distance in space and time, and there was no hope of understanding him in a way that mattered, though I wished I could have told him that the only place his family could be and expect me still to have peace was if they were somewhere far away from here. Not their fault, but mine. All mine. I hadn‟t said any of this, as all I‟d wanted to do was see Jack smile. And when at last he‟d fallen asleep after we‟d made love, the steady 178

Anne Brooke rhythm of his breathing a contrast to the wildfire beating of my heart, I‟d crept out of bed, taken his dressing-gown from the back of the bedroom door and padded along the landing and into the studio. I knew I wouldn‟t sleep and the only way to safety was to draw. And now it was 3am and the angry charcoal sketches I‟d produced would come to nothing even though I‟d felt some release as they bled from my fingers. Half-finished buildings, faces at windows staring out at a world shifting even as the eye would move from left to right over the page, fires and heat and terror. Again I wished I knew how to use colour as today it might have helped. It wasn‟t what I did though. I‟d lived so long with the knowledge of black and white and the times when it drifted into grey that any change now was a choice I no longer had the power to make. Still it didn‟t matter. I would be fine and everything I‟d dreamed of and planned for so long would happen. The exhibition would go ahead and I would be happy in it, and it didn‟t matter about Jack‟s mother or his father or anyone else he wanted to bring along. I would have to cope with it whatever. For Jack‟s sake. Putting my fingers up to my face, I realised my skin was wet and I was crying with no clear idea why. God, I had to stop it. Too much was at stake for me to give up. So shaking my head until the multi-coloured jumble of thoughts in it slunk back to their hiding place, I took a clean sheet of paper and placed it on the easel before all but attacking it with the strength the solid charcoal stick could give me. After a few minutes I ripped it away and let it drop to the floor, where it landed on my collection of wood and pipes and broken brick. Then I took more paper, another piece of charcoal, and then, after each was done, another and another and another, not even looking at any of the results. When at last, sometime after 6:30, Jack eased open the door, I was clean of any emotion, or so I imagined. “I didn‟t hear you get up,” he said. “Is everything all right?” “Sure.” “Can I get you anything?” “No, I‟m fine. It‟s just...” “Just what?” “Nothing. Just leave it, Jack. Thanks.” He made a movement as if to go, but instead remained poised in the doorway. I waited. 179

A Dangerous Man Clearing his throat as if about to make a speech, he said, “I know you won‟t believe me, but I do want you to have a great evening tonight and I‟m sure it will be a success. I know the thought of today‟s lunch is upsetting you but I‟ll help you all I can, I swear it, Michael. My parents, Penny, everyone, we‟re on your side. If you‟ll let us be. If you‟ll let us.” I managed to stifle the urge to laugh which threatened to overwhelm me at the idea of Jack‟s mother ever wanting to be on my side, and shrugged. “Sure.” In answer, my boyfriend took half a step into the studio, but the look on my face must have made him change his mind. I couldn‟t bear him to see the drawings I‟d been producing before I had a full understanding of what they might be. “All right, all right,” he said, one hand stretched out as if to calm a wild animal. “I don‟t want to interfere, I see you‟re busy. I‟ll go downstairs and make breakfast. If you want any, just come down.” When the door clicked shut behind him, I found myself unable to stand and the next minute I was crouching on the carpet, head in hands and taking great gulps of air that seemed so slow in coming. This evening and all the dreams hanging on it like butterflies on the wind was surely a lifetime away. How was I going to deal with Jack‟s family? ***** “Are those paintings all ready now, dear?” Mrs. Hutchinson‟s question, posed after she‟d finished hugging Jack, was addressed not to me but to her son, who raised one fair eyebrow before replying, “They‟re not paintings, Mother, they‟re drawings. There‟s a world of difference.” “That‟s right, Mum,” Penny said, grinning from behind her mother‟s shoulders and making it seem as if they were some strange two-headed monster. “Don‟t you remember what Michael told us before, at lunch?” Then she blushed her way to silence as she remembered what else had happened on that occasion. Jack‟s father broke the awkwardness first. “Terrible journey, you know,” he said, gripping his son‟s hand for a moment and starting a further cross-fire of greetings in various degrees of warmth and sincerity. “I have no idea why you choose to live in this city.” “My job?” Jack replied. “Location? Islington‟s a good place to own property. Habit? Culture? Art galleries being part of that one. Lots of reasons, you see.” 180

Anne Brooke “But the country has so much to offer.” “I know that too. And who knows? I might move out one day, if my luck‟s in.” Would he? Move out of London? I had no idea he felt like that, even though he‟d said countless times that he wanted to work less hard. He‟d never said anything about moving out. If he did, would he take me? Would he want me to come? Would I be able to? London was where I felt most hidden, a small speck in the layers and layers of grime and noise and dirt. I couldn‟t leave. Snapping back into the conversation from the place of panic I‟d been in, I found Penny was providing unexpected support. “Nonsense, big brother,” she said. “You and London are moulded together like bricks and mortar. You‟ll never leave. Now, are you going to offer us a much-needed drink, or are you going to dehydrate us to death?” Jack laughed and waved the whole group of us through into the living room, where we found seats, ranged like scattered targets across the carpet, and watched as my boyfriend poured the drinks. They were all complete, a unit, except for the absence of Penny‟s husband, Grant, and the children. They were still at school, so he was looking after them, intending to bring them to see my pictures at the weekend, an event which seemed a thousand years away. Was what I drew suitable for children? I couldn‟t tell. Whatever, I wished Grant could have been here. He was okay. So I was grateful for Jack‟s presence, especially on a day he should have been at work, but of course if he hadn‟t been here, his family wouldn‟t have come. “So how is it all coming along then, Michael?” Mr. Hutchinson asked me, his eyes radiating warmth. “Everything ready for tonight?” The fact that one of them had spoken to me made my flesh quiver and I knew I was blushing. With all my being, I wanted to apologise for what had happened when we‟d last met, but when I opened my mouth to reply, nothing of that came out. “Sure. I mean yes, thanks, it is. Thank you.” “Good. We‟re all looking forward to your exhibition very much, aren‟t we?” He beamed around the room and received a mirrored smile from his son, a quick grin from Penny and a shrug from his wife. Much as I‟d expected, to be honest. “When do we have to be there?” he went on. “I don‟t recall you telling us, Jack.”

181

A Dangerous Man “That‟s because I wasn‟t sure myself, Dad, never having helped open an art gallery before. Everything starts at eight, and Michael wants to be there around six, don‟t you?” I nodded agreement, but like him I had no idea for myself. For me, it had been a guess as to when the caterers needed to be there, but Lee-Anne had taken charge and drawn up a timetable in which everything was allocated a precise number of minutes up until the magical hour. After that, I supposed, anything could happen. “I see,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, entering the conversation for what seemed like the first time. “So what would you like us to do this afternoon, dear?” “Mum!” Penny laughed, almost choking on her Martini. “We don‟t have to do anything. This is a holiday. Or sort of, anyway.” “Yes, I know, but I‟m your mother. I like to be useful.” “And you are,” Jack said. “Always. But as far as I can see, we‟ve done everything, and all we need do is enjoy Michael‟s pictures tonight. Perhaps even buy one?” His last comment was made with a gleam in his eye directed at his father, but Mrs. Hutchinson looked for a moment as if she might choke on her dry sherry. That possibility didn‟t bother me. I was more aware of the complete conviction that the last thing I wanted was for any of Jack‟s family to own any of my pictures. They might learn too much. And up until then, I‟d never even thought that they might want to. Would they? With a swift movement I drained my beer and looked around for another one. I could do with it. By lunch, I was on my third and even I thought that was enough. I had to maintain a clear mind for tonight. Nobody wanted an out-of-his-head artist. I ate Jack‟s perfect chicken pasta and salad as if it were the last meal I would ever eat, tasting each forkful on my tongue. Smoky chicken, the subtlety of my boyfriend‟s home-made pasta, which had always been my favourite since our first night together, and the crisp acid bite of the salad. Concentrating on the food meant I took little or no part in the conversation around the table. It wasn‟t something I was used to anyway, not before Jack. Where I‟d come from, there‟d been no need for talking. Sometimes words are too dangerous. Here and now, though, Jack‟s family talked to each other as if words were what connected them, a link to the land of the everyday, and I kept myself occupied by looking at them as if I were

182

Anne Brooke sitting at a great distance from them, watching the way they worked together, and envying it too. His mother, I thought, should be drawn with the sharpness of pencil, something in the H range that could indent the line, channelling her own sharpness into paper and skin, and scoring blood out of whiteness. I would make her into a wolf, a little like Paul, bringing the harsh marks upwards from the outline of flesh and bone and into the sky‟s dark wildness. She would be on her own, no companions, and her teeth would be long and white and cruel, tearing wood from the trees she roamed in. The surge of redness in my stomach rose to my throat, but I swallowed it down, feeling it empower my body. Hatred makes you strong. It is best to keep hold of it. Without warning, the woman glanced across the table at me and I wondered what she saw in my head and if she were afraid of it. Her eyes hardened and then she skirted her look away, as if I were not worth the noticing. Jack poured more wine and I sipped at the remains of my beer, the taste of it a world of golden warmth on my tongue. As Mr. Hutchinson raised his glass to his lips, he smiled at me and I thought for one moment he might speak, but his daughter stole his attention from me with a story of something one of his grandchildren had done. His face glowed as he listened and I knew if I had the chance, for him I would use charcoal, something where touching brings out the best and where I could be as spontaneous as possible. Something I could change with the movement of my fingers. Perhaps I would draw him standing, though it wasn‟t a pose I often used, and gazing at something out of sight of the viewer. People needed to use their imaginations for the best subjects and Jack‟s father would be one of the best, I knew it. I would draw him large-scale, in a way that would take my whole attention, take me over, if I knew how to let it. Could I let it? I wanted to but I was afraid. So instead I turned my attention, without her knowing it, to Penny and I almost regretted the fact I never used colour. Because for her, the colour, the subtle use of yellows and golds, browns and ochres might mean something of the sun would dance in her portrait. She meant a lot to Jack, I knew, even without him having to say anything. She was his closest friend in the family, closer even than his mother. Jack had said, laughing, that there was always someone in a family who was on your side and Penny was his. God knows who mine had been. No-one, I think. 183

A Dangerous Man Did Jack love his family more than me? Watching him as he served the marmalade bread and butter pudding he‟d made early this morning, the question struck me as something I needed to know. Where would he put me in his value list? What was I to him? A passing lover before someone better came along or the “real thing”, whatever that meant? He‟d said he loved me. Had he meant it? He had to have done. All those drawings I‟d done of his face, his body, the way he walked, they had to mean something to him. He‟d only seen a small selection of them, but in seeing them he had to know what he meant to me, and that had to count for something. Didn‟t it? But what would he say if he ever knew what I‟d done to get this exhibition? How would he react? The fear of it made darkness wash through my body and for a moment I could hear nothing but the surge of my own blood. Jack. I would draw Jack in blood if I could, my own. I would draw him naked, my breath salting the paper beneath my hands, willing the picture to life, and watching the soul of him unfold. If I could draw men’s souls, then everything I’d ever done or that had been done to me would have been worth it. And Jack, Jack more than anyone. His crooked smile, the way his eyes protected me from the devils of the night, his touch, his scent, his being. Him I would draw over and over, each pencil stroke a symbol of my heart, a symbol of pain. I loved him. How I wish I hadn‟t had to do what I had. Slamming my chair away from the table, I found four pairs of eyes staring up at me in much the same way as they had before. When I looked down, away from them, I saw I hadn‟t even touched my pudding. “I‟m sorry,” I said, though somehow the voice that spoke was no longer mine. “I don‟t feel well; I have to... go for a walk.” And then, without another word said by them or me, I whirled round and headed out of the dining room. Jack caught up with me as I was opening the front door. “Michael, wait, please.” From instinct his voice made me stop, even though my head was telling me it would be better not to. “Jack, I have to go.” “But why? We‟re doing all right, aren‟t we?” His warm fingers grasped my arm and turned me towards him. Now our heads were almost touching and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Is something wrong?” Only me. Only me, if you knew it. 184

Anne Brooke “No, nothing‟s wrong, I swear it. I just feel...” “What, Michael? Is it this evening? You mustn‟t worry. You‟re a good artist, a wonderful one, and everything will be fine. You shouldn‟t be nervous.” “I‟m not,” I said, and I wasn‟t. It was other stuff entirely, stuff I could never tell him. “I‟m sorry and, please, say sorry to your family, I don‟t mean to walk out on them again, but, Jack, please, I need to get away for a while. Let me go.” With my last words, I looked up, straight into his blue eyes and could have plunged myself into the dark shadows I could see in them. Neither of us spoke. After a few moments, during which I didn‟t breathe once, he blinked and released me. Slowly as if trying to imprint the shape of his hand on my arm. Without taking my gaze from his face, I pulled my jacket from the coat hook and put it on. “When will you be back?” he said. I swallowed. “I don‟t know. Before we need to go, I suppose.” Another small silence, then I opened the door and was free. ***** The air was autumn crisp and the whole of Islington bathed in the golden light of afternoon. Regretting the lack of sketchpad and knowing I couldn‟t go back for it, I hunched my shoulders and started to walk. The smell of money hung on the breeze and soon I was past the Business Centre with its expanse of glass and through the deep intricacies of Camden Passage. Every time I looked up, either to avoid someone or to let my body choose where to go next, all I could see were angles and edges. Sharp corners of buildings or the way someone‟s hand jutted out in a conversation I couldn‟t hear, the sun glinting up from the dirty pavement like a dagger in the flesh, the jumble of words on the skin, the anger, the richness, the fear. It‟s a funny thing about London. So many people and some you could even talk to if you knew where to go, but in the middle of it all you‟re alone. No community here, not now. Though at home, where I‟d only been a few minutes ago, there was a community, one I could never belong to. Jack‟s family. I had to keep walking. The more I walked, the freer I would be from whatever it was that slithered through my mind and took over my blood when I thought of his family. Something I couldn‟t name and which I couldn‟t control. Shaking my head, I walked on, passing pubs and gardens, scrubland, 185

A Dangerous Man narrow streets and more and more shops, not even knowing where I was heading. The sky grew darker, threatening rain that didn‟t come. I would have welcomed it then, letting it drench my skin and clean me from the outside in, but already it was too late. What we can feel or see is only on the surface of things, like the lines I drew on paper. It can‟t change what‟s true or what‟s underneath, though it might, like my drawings, make you think differently. I didn‟t know if I wanted to change the way I thought, but being with Jack had started the whole process and I had no idea if I could turn things round to the way they had been. Even what I‟d done to get this exhibition, the sex for money, the blokes I couldn‟t name, even that had become something I couldn‟t ignore once it was over, like I always had before. Wasn‟t that how people lived now? The constant moving on, the never looking back because looking back did no good and would mean you could never escape from it. All my life I‟d believed in only looking ahead, but now it wasn‟t enough. Jack had taught me that. Looking at him, the way he‟d talked about his childhood, remembered it with pleasure, and now seeing again how he dealt so easily and simply with his family, even loved them, made memory tighten my skin. No. Pushing past a crowd of late Japanese tourists, their cameras glinting in the few remaining rays of sunlight, I swung onto the nearest bus, its number echoing a familiar route at the edges of my mind. That was okay, I told myself, as I squeezed onto the back seat between an old woman surrounded by shopping bags and a teenager gabbling forever into her mobile. I might as well go there as anywhere. The bus edged its slow way south, not fast enough to leave my thoughts behind, and I watched the rain begin, first a drop, then another and another on the grimy window to my left, until together they became a steady drizzle and then a downpour. I wanted to be out in it, not caring about anything that might happen after, to be at the mercy of something greater than me. When the bus jerked to a stop on the corner of a street, waiting for a taxi to drop its load of human flesh, I sprang up, leant my finger on the bell and, to the sound of grumbling and the driver‟s shouts, stumbled off away from the cooped-up smell of people and out into the wildness of weather. I was nearer my seized-on destination than I‟d realised but that didn‟t matter. Tearing off my jacket, I stretched out my arms and felt the rain 186

Anne Brooke soak through cotton and onto my skin. Umbrellas on legs veered away from me or stopped and laughed. I laughed too but not with them. In seconds my hair was plastered against my scalp and the rain took me over, but I kept on walking. I was nothing but a walking shower, the shape of me flowing into something else like charcoal lines flow into shapes, smudges on whiteness that mean an idea not yet formed. I didn‟t have to be Michael Jones, artist, hooker, scum, not any more, no not that. The rain would wash me away and I would be anything I wanted. I could be free. How I wanted to be free of it all. Except Jack. Except Jack. Except Jack. And what I draw. Ten minutes later, I was standing across the street from The Two Ravens, the rain eased to a drizzle carried by the wind, and my clothes clinging to my body. I stared at the dirty brickwork, the new damage on the sign caused by weather or violence. It felt like I was staring at my past, without knowing what sort of future I wanted to have. I wouldn‟t go in, not today, maybe I wouldn‟t ever go in, but it would always be there, it wasn‟t something I could shrug off. Like so much of my life. Gazing at the lines of the building until my eyes became sore with their own focus, I remembered I‟d once thought of Frank‟s pub as having a look of something stumbling home, uncertain of its welcome. Soon I would have to do the same. ***** The gallery greeted me with the sparkle of a new date. It was no more than half an hour since I‟d turned up at home, shivering from the after-effects of rain and memory. Jack had opened the door before I‟d even been able to fumble for my key. “Where have you been?” he‟d said. “You‟re soaked.” I hadn‟t replied and, together, the two of us had coped with the combined welcome of the Hutchinsons though I‟d let my boyfriend take the brunt of my temporary flight that afternoon. There‟d been no time for the explanations they seemed to want. Jack had walked me to the bedroom, taken off my freezing clothes and made me shower while he rummaged through the wardrobe finding something for me to wear. Five minutes later, I‟d been downstairs, smiling at Jack‟s father, who‟d patted me on the arm and frowned, and hardly glancing at his mother or Penny, who‟d tried her best to do what she called “rallying of the troops”. It felt like a war indeed. 187

A Dangerous Man A few minutes after that, we were all in Jack‟s BMW, and now we were here. The scene of my success or my failure, depending on what might happen tonight. It was indeed like a new date and the appearance of Lee-Anne cemented the thought. “Good afternoon to you,” she said, shaking hands in the middle of a flurry of introductions. “I thought I ought to come early, give Michael a hand. The caterers should arrive soon.” Giving her a brief, and insincere, smile, I glanced at my watch. It was six-thirty and I cursed my own stupidity. I should have been here earlier; there was only an hour and a half to go before people might start turning up, less than that maybe. My throat felt dry. No time for weakness, no time. I had to be in control, look like an artist at least. After the introductions to Lee-Anne, we stood about in silence like doomed prisoners as Jack opened the door. He let me in before the others. As I‟d done the first time I‟d seen the place, I stood in the middle of the front room, gazing round to take in what was there, so very different to the blankness of before. Now it was mine. All of it: the wood, the glass, the plasterwork, the pain, but above and beyond everything else, the drawings, which seemed to sing out their clarity of black and white into the listening air. It should maybe have been my greatest moment but to my surprise, I felt no expected surge of delight. Nothing but a dark void I couldn‟t understand. What was wrong with me? From behind, a woman‟s voice gave a low whistle. It was Penny. “Hey,” she said, eyes widening in the soft light. “Nice stuff. Can we explore?” I nodded once and didn‟t wait to watch as she led her parents around the walls I‟d hung my soul on. Not wanting them to see, but knowing I could do nothing. Arms folded around my body, I headed through the inner room, past the stairs and into the kitchen, where I leant against the sink, coughing and trying not to shake. My flesh felt cold. “You all right?” Jack touched me and pulled me round into his chest. It almost felt like home. “It‟ll be great tonight, Michael, I promise you. Just wait and see.” Any answer I gave was muffled against the warmth of his skin and for a while he rocked me like a child until the shaking stopped. When we could hear voices, he released his grip and stepped away from me.

188

Anne Brooke Outside the kitchen, Lee-Anne was doing a first-class job in selling my abilities to Jack‟s family. I should have given her some of the cash I‟d earned, if I‟d had any to spare. “You see, Michael is quite unique in his approach to drawing. His work is exciting, dramatic. Freed from colour, it concentrates purely on tonal values, movement and energy, yet somehow there is colour at the heart of it, in those shades of black and grey and the sparkling glimpses of white. What do you think?” An affirmative from Jack‟s father and what sounded like a grunt from his mother. In front of me, my boyfriend smiled but I only shrugged as Lee-Anne continued, “His work has been freer since he met Jack—did you see those pieces in the upstairs gallery? The paper is expanding to fit his new vision and he‟s finding his voice in these larger drawings. I think Michael is an artist to watch.” “These pictures are rather frightening too,” we heard Mrs. Hutchinson say. “Not something I‟d like to have in the house.” “Mother!” Penny‟s voice chipped in, low as if she were trying to muffle it. “Don‟t forget this is a celebration, you know. You shouldn‟t say such things.” And then they had moved out of earshot, away from the stairs and back into the display rooms. “She thinks that? Lee-Anne really thinks that?” I couldn‟t stop the grin from spreading over my face as I stared at Jack. He smiled back. “Sure she does. And she‟s right. Now come on, back into the thick of it.” Everyone turned to face us as Jack and I opened the door to the entrance room gallery but no-one thought to ask us where we‟d been or even what we‟d overheard. I contented myself with smiling at Mr. Hutchinson who shook my hand and said, “Fascinating work you have, very fascinating indeed,” and let one cold glance stray in the direction of Mrs. Hutchinson. No point in getting into any argument, not now. Tonight I wasn‟t going to let anything get to me. Not long after, the caterers turned up and began a flurry of piling minipizzas, Indian snacks and bite-sized quiches on plain white plates, arranging row on row of glasses on the tables in the downstairs inner gallery along the wall I‟d left blank for the purpose. Champagne and wine were stacked in the kitchen in coolers. And all the while, waves of dislike, 189

A Dangerous Man hot and red, flowed between Mrs. Hutchinson and me like blood but nobody seemed to notice, or at least they said nothing. I couldn‟t settle, but kept wandering round and round my rooms, straightening a frame here, wiping away imaginary dust from glass there, heart beating and blood pounding faster and ever faster. Each time I mooched round the walls, my art looked more ridiculous. How did I ever think I could compete? In the end, Jack rescued me. “Here,” he said, taking me into the kitchen and handing me a meanlooking knife. “Don‟t do this. Come and cut bread instead and think of something else. I know the caterers are in charge, but you need a displacement activity.” Opening my mouth to object, I realised he was right. I couldn‟t make things better now, whatever I did. So I tried to blank my mind off and cut up the few warm baguettes the caterers allowed me to have while I sweated out the wait for the specially invited guests to arrive. At 7:25 it was all finished and Lee-Anne bundled us in strict rota, with me first and Jack second, up to the shower room to freshen up in the sink with the new towels and soap she‟d provided. I would never be able to repay her for any of this, I thought once again, as I combed my hair and tried to look like a professional. But a professional what? I didn‟t dare answer. At 7:45, Joe arrived. I didn‟t know what to say, but he did. “Well done, Michael,” he gazed round the first room, ginger eyebrows raised and his voice softening into northern. “I‟m pleased for you, you‟ve done better than I ever...” “… thought I would?” Looking directly at me, he gave a slight smile. “No, just differently. Lee-Anne told me your later stuff is something to see. I knew it would be and I‟m glad for it. Sorry Paul can‟t be here, by the way. He‟s out this evening. There is just one thing though.” “What?” “When tonight is over, let me have my receptionist back. I can‟t spare her forever.” I never had the chance to reply as other people began to arrive at that moment, so I never knew whether he meant it for real or as a joke, but whichever way the message was clear. It didn‟t matter as right then I was 190

Anne Brooke plunged into an intense round of meeting, smiling and nodding. The last thing I remember before the show began and I stepped out, trembling, onto the bright, unfamiliar stage was how pleased I was that Paul hadn‟t showed up. I‟d come so far and now, at last, I was free. God help me, I thought that was the end of it. People, lots of people, in a series of rooms, create lines and shadows you could never imagine by just closing your eyes and wondering what they might be like. Something in the flow of them invites the eager eye. Better still when they are strangers, as knowing someone dulls the sharpness of thought and the more distant you become the better the understanding of the fleeting shapes and desires they form. In my flesh, I would always remember that evening, no matter what came after. Each group clustered round a drawing, each pointing hand, each overheard comment sent a thrill through my blood and wiped out a small piece of history. It didn‟t matter if the comments weren‟t all positive, though to my surprise, many were. All that mattered was that I‟d done it. In spite of the words in my head and what they meant to me, I‟d done what no-one who counted had ever thought I could. Except Jack, except Jack. Who, through this, was smooching from group to group, offering wine, food, suggesting pictures to look at again and being the sort of friend I‟d never thought I‟d have. It made me wish I‟d never had to do what I‟d done to get what I‟d wanted for so many years. Forget it, I thought, it was stupid and dangerous to think like that. Whatever I‟d done, in the recent or more distant past, was worth everything for this feeling. Nothing could spoil that. I‟d won. I’d won. ***** I had just over two hours to enjoy the victory I‟d paid for. Two hours and then, without me knowing it or being able to stop what happened, the victory began to turn sour. It started, as many of the worst things do, so simply and I couldn‟t even pinpoint the exact time as he arrived without me hearing him. In fact he may have been there for several minutes before I even saw him, I never knew for sure. All I knew is I‟d been laughing in the upstairs gallery with a tall woman with bright orange lipstick whose name I never caught, and at the edge of my vision I noticed a sudden moment and when I turned towards it, my skin went cold. It was Paul.

191

A Dangerous Man At once I stopped laughing. He was staring at me, swaying slightly and holding a half-empty glass of champagne. As I watched he slurped down the rest of the creamy fizzing liquid, reached out and took another from a waiter passing with a tray full of drinks. “Thanks, love,” he said, and then, “Hello, Mikey. Great party.”

192

Chapter Seventeen September Certain people in life, whatever you do, will make you feel like a failure and will spin you helpless into the dark. For me, Paul was one of those people and, as he leered across the jagged air between us that night, it was as if my whole history came rushing up to greet me once again. Pictures crowded into my head in all the colours I refused ever to paint; dagger points of crimson, purple pools of remembrance and the harsh dryness of white, and always, always the unremembered faces. As I took a step back, the woman next to me forgotten now, to try and break the circle closing in on me, Paul half-sauntered, half-staggered towards the first drawing. Behind him, a trail of droplets arced from his glass. “So what‟s this one about?” he said, his voice rising and falling with his drunkenness. “What‟s it mean then, eh?” If there‟d been a hundred people in the room, we would still have been the only two in it. Hours and hours of time limped by while I came to stand beside him though it could only have been a few seconds as I waited for the colours in my eyes to fade, though still the glint of red hovered at the end of my lashes. It was as if I had no will to escape. I had nowhere to go and I‟d always been here. “It‟s how I see people,” I said as, together, he and I looked at the lines I‟d committed to paper. “It‟s what I think they are.” I had no idea what he thought of that and to my own ears the reason I‟d given seemed childish, stupid. After a moment, he began to laugh and the sound of it filled my head until it left room for nothing else but the knowledge of how dangerous he might be to me here and how much I hated him for the power he had. My skin prickled with heat and my vision blurred as I continued to gaze at the picture. Without focusing, I knew what was there as if it were written under my skin. A harsh desert and an empty landscape, the size of it large enough to plunge into and lose yourself. I remembered each stroke of the pencil and charcoal mix I‟d used as if it had been torn out of my own body. And maybe it had. When first you looked at it, you might think nothing was there, but as your eye 193

A Dangerous Man focused on the way the lines came together and wrenched themselves apart, gradually you would see people were present too. Or animals, two of them, half-man, half-tiger, hidden in the way the wind drifted the sand and scattered plants together. They were twisted round each other, fighting almost, but it was impossible to be sure. One held the other‟s neck between sharp teeth, as if in the middle of shaking it, and from the attack something was dripping onto the earth. Even when the scene was in focus, it drifted away upwards and backwards into the sky‟s clouds and emptiness so you could never be sure. Your eye could not stay with the feeling for too long. It was how I experienced it; the way it was drawn. All this I thought of in a moment and I knew Paul would understand nothing. Because already he was draining his second glass, and turning to me with that familiar sneer on his face. “You know what I think, Mikey babe?” he said, leaning even closer to me so I could smell his breath, a sickening blend of beer and good champagne. “I think they‟re crap. But you know what‟s more crap than this?” Not wanting to reply, my voice said the words anyway. “What?” “What you had to do to get this gallery, that‟s more crap than anything.” Without realising it, I was trapped, like the beast in my picture, and though I tried to move away from him, he grabbed me by the wrist and wouldn‟t let go. “What will happen if I tell lover boy how you got your cash?” he whispered. “What will he do, do you think?” I didn‟t know. Wrenching myself away from him at last and not caring how it looked to anyone else in the room, I lurched two steps to the side and suddenly Joe was there, with Jack behind him. “What‟s wrong?” Jack said and over his shoulder I imagined the searching eyes of his family, although I couldn‟t be sure they were there. I didn‟t answer and at the same time, Joe said, “Hey, Paul. I didn‟t think you were coming.” “Can if I want to, can‟t I?” His words were slurred and I sensed, rather than saw, the sudden grimace on Jack‟s face, though I was sure it would be as quickly gone. The kindness was so branded into him it could never be removed.

194

Anne Brooke “Sure.” Even though he was whispering, Joe‟s voice carried a deeper touch of his accent than before but it wasn‟t the alcohol. He‟d barely touched his glass. “But you don‟t have to be drunk. This is Michael‟s show. Let‟s not spoil it for him.” Paul laughed but for me the sound held no humour. “Michael‟s show?” he repeated. “I bet you can‟t imagine what he had to do to...” He was going to tell it all. Now. In a room full of faces I didn‟t know, with tongues to turn and lash me. I had to do something. “Downstairs,” I said, shaking Joe to get his attention. “Has Paul seen downstairs? He might like that better.” “You don‟t have to ask what I like, Mikey, you know I...” “Please. Please do it, Joe.” I held Joe‟s eyes with mine, cutting across Paul‟s dangerous words and trying to convey to my former landlord the truths we‟d never spoken. About him, about me, about Paul. And all the time praying that Jack would ask no questions. Whatever happened, I had to keep the two of them apart. I would kill for that. It worked. Joe looked away from me and swallowed once, but it worked. Taking Paul‟s arm, he steered him out of the danger we‟d created between us and towards the landing and stairs. The tension seeped away. Around me the noises of laughter, talking, the clinking of glasses rushed in to fill the emptiness. Jack ran one elegant hand through his blond hair. “What was all that about? Too much drink, I suppose.” “Yeah,” I said. “That‟s it. So how do you think I‟m doing?” I was doing okay. Jack‟s sharp eyes and business sense had even spotted a buyer or two and already Lee-Anne was in the small groundfloor gallery putting the finishing touches to the sale of two smaller works. Loping downstairs to see the miracle and smile at my first ever purchaser, I felt as if life could never be this good again. Even with the threat of Paul in the background. Who surely I would be able to handle. Somehow. All I had to do was keep Jack and Paul apart and nothing could go wrong. After that, the evening sparkled onwards. No more purchases were made, but it didn‟t worry me. It was a start and more than I thought would ever happen on my opening night. This had silenced forever the voices of my past. In spite of everything, I could make it happen for me. And with the list of publicity actions Lee-Anne had organised over the next few weeks, it would happen, I knew it. Over two hours later, and the solid 195

A Dangerous Man mass of guests was thinning. Most of the food had been eaten and the champagne drunk. I hadn‟t seen Paul for at least forty minutes, and Joe had disappeared too, after pleading a long day and the need for an early night. Maybe they‟d gone together, but somehow it didn‟t seem quite their style. Paul had probably decided on more clubbing. Why concern myself anyway? It didn‟t matter to me, just as long as he‟d gone. The last few stragglers had trailed their way into the front room where I was smiling and shaking hands as they left, when Jack appeared at my side. After the door was closed, he hugged me. “It was great, wasn‟t it? Did you enjoy it?” I was hardly able to speak, so nodded instead. Giving me one more squeeze, he let go. “We can have a post-mortem in the morning,” he said. “Then get on with capitalising on this success. Thank goodness for Lee-Anne; she‟s an expert. Which reminds me, she‟s with my family in the kitchen, tidying up. Not that there‟s much need to, the caterers have done a good job. I don‟t want her to have to get a bus at this time of night, and there‟s not room for six of us in the car. She doesn‟t live that far away, so if I drop Lee-Anne off, take the rest of the troops home and then come back for you, is that all right?” “Sure,” I said. And it was. The last thing I wanted was to have to make yet more conversation in the car. Being here for a while would be great as I could wander round my drawings and think, chill out even. It would calm me down before I got home. Five minutes later, I was kissing Lee-Anne on the cheek and trying to thank her, an action she shrugged off as the least she could do for a friend. Reeling like a man who‟s been slapped in the face at this assumption, I almost missed Jack‟s family getting into the car, although Mr. Hutchinson leant out of the window and shook me firmly by the hand. “Well done, Michael,” he said. “We‟re all very proud.” As Jack held open the car door for Lee-Anne, he looked over at me and, for the first time in a long while, gave that crooked grin which always made me want him. Even more so now. “See you later,” he said. Then the car was gliding out into the road and turning left towards home. Wishing I was with them, I strolled back towards the gallery, 196

Anne Brooke admiring the street lights picking up the “M” on the sign, like a man with all the time in the world. And for a moment I was. Only a moment though, for as I stepped back into the soft exhibition lights, a hand gripped my shoulder and shoved me inside, so I almost fell. As I recovered my balance, behind me the gallery door clicked shut. ***** We are in the kitchen now, the two of us. He wants to talk and I have led him here. I didn‟t want to take him anywhere near my drawings. It wouldn‟t have been right. They are separate now from who I am and I do not want them to be part of this, whatever he decides to do. In the two minutes we have been here he hasn‟t touched me and I am glad of it. “What do you want?” I ask, aware of the racing of my heart and wondering why he doesn‟t seem to hear. “Coffee,” he says. “That will help, don‟t you think?” I walk from cupboard to work surface and back again like a robot, switching on the kettle, fetching the coffee, cups, milk and sugar. Anything to avoid looking at my visitor. Nobody speaks, then I say, “It‟s over. It‟s in the past now. And I‟m sorry but you can‟t change anything.” Brave words. Foolish words. Rightly he ignores them. “Aren‟t you going to ask me what I‟m going to do?” I shake my head, not because I don‟t care but because I don‟t trust myself to speak. “You should. I think you need to know.” Before I can respond, he takes two steps towards me and, with a movement too quick to focus on, slaps me round the face. Hard. It isn‟t what I‟ve been expecting and I gasp once, with the shock of it. Then he moves away and stares at me. Slowly, not taking my eyes from his, I reach my hand up to my cheek and feel the heat beginning to set fire to my skin. I do not know what he will do next. “Where‟s that coffee then?” he asks. Saying nothing, I turn round and try to shake my head to clear my vision. He shouldn‟t be here. Not now. My hands tremble as I spoon the coffee into the cups in front of me. “What are you going to do?” I say at last. “What do you think?” 197

A Dangerous Man His answer comes from somewhere close to my shoulder and I stiffen and step to one side, treading on his feet as I do so. Something in him explodes and he shoves me up against the worktop. “You little shit. I should have got rid of you a long time ago and never bothered myself with you. God knows why I did.” With each word, he pushes me down onto the worktop and I can feel the waves of his hatred drowning me, pulling me under. I‟ve got to do something to stop him but I don‟t know what. “Please, please...” I whimper. “Shut up!” He lets me go as if he can‟t stand touching me any longer and I stumble round to face him. “I haven‟t finished yet. I‟m going to tell that upper-class rich-boy of yours exactly how you got the money for this whole show, and then we‟ll see what happens to your precious gallery.” I‟m still reeling from this when he hits me hard across the mouth again, drawing blood now. Staggering backwards at the force of the blow, I reach out and my fingers close round a knife which has been left lying next to the bread-bin, maybe the one I used earlier, I don‟t know. He doesn‟t notice but carries on talking. “You can‟t mess with people like you do,” he‟s saying, though I don‟t remember his words until later. “Don‟t you see that? I bloody hate you; right now I hate everything about you. The art, the lies, the fucking. Well, it stops here, I tell you. Everything comes out in the end and I‟m going to make bloody sure that this comes out tonight. I‟ll screw you, Michael Jones, just as...” “Shut the fuck up.” Leaping forward and holding the knife in both hands, I thrust the blade deep into the top of his waistline and up, up towards his heart, as deep as I can go. I push once, twice, until I can see I‟ve got him. Then I step away. Everything then seems to slow down, even though it‟s happening so fast, as if we are in a film or trapped in time, somewhere we can never escape from. There‟s a jet of blood which catches me on the chest and I cry out. “… you‟ve—screwed—me.” His eyes widen as somehow he ends the sentence. Looking down at the knife, he touches it as if in astonishment and stares at the blood on his fingers. Then slowly, so slowly I think it will never finish, he slumps down onto the floor. And still the blood flows on. His last word, whispered so I almost don‟t catch it, is “Paul.” 198

Anne Brooke Then, after a few shudders, he is still. I don‟t know what to do. Gulping once, I turn and vomit into the sink, straining as if I‟m spewing up my whole guts. It‟s hard to breathe. The smell of stale food and blood and shit makes me vomit again. When it‟s over I let the water run and run until there‟s nothing left. I don‟t know what to do. I’ve killed Joe, I’ve killed a man. It should have been Paul. I had no choice. I had to do it; no-one had the right to take this success away from me. What was I going to do? One hand clenched on the corner of the stainless steel sink to keep myself upright and not daring to look at the man lying crumpled on the floor behind me, I did the only thing I could think of. Easing my mobile from my pocket, I phoned Frank. It rang and rang. Please, pick it up, I kept on thinking. Pick it up. At last when it seemed as if all time would be only this one moment, the ringing and the waiting, the ringing and the waiting, he answered it. “Hello, The Two Ravens, Frank speaking.” I had no words. Opening my mouth, nothing came out that made any sense and all I could manage was half a groan. “Hello, who is this?” In the background I could hear the rhythmic pulse of music, laughter, people talking, all the sounds of the familiar life I‟d once been part of which I didn‟t know if I could reach again. And all the time, Frank‟s interest fading away to a place where I might not be able to bring it back. “Look, matey, I don’t know who you are but...” “Frank, it‟s me.” I squeezed the words out of my throat and was left empty or filled only with shit, one of the two. “It‟s Michael.” Before I could stop myself, I‟d landed onto the floor, knees and legs buckled as if they had no bone in them. My free hand, flung out to balance myself, touched Joe‟s shirt and my fingers came away sticky and warm. “God.” A silence. “Michael? Is that you? You okay?” “Please, please help me.” I wanted to sob but I knew if I gave in to the need I would never stop crying again. “He‟s dead and I can‟t... I didn‟t... want to and he‟s dead... he‟s dead... he‟s dead.” 199

A Dangerous Man “What do you mean? Who’s dead, Michael, sweetie, who’s dead?” In all the time I‟d known him, Frank had never called me anything other than my name and the fact he‟d done so now punched me back into a kind of reality. It gave me my reason. “Joe,” I said, my words panted into the phone as if I‟d never catch my breath again. “Joe‟s dead. I killed him, Frank. At the gallery. I took a knife and I killed him.” “Fucking hell.” “You‟ve got to help me, Frank, please, I don‟t know what to do, I... oh Christ.” “What is it? What’s going on?” A tidal wave of ice sheered my skin as I remembered what else might be about to happen. “Christ, Christ, I...” “For fuck’s sake, Michael, breathe. Cool it, you need to breathe. What is it?” “It‟s Jack, he‟s going to come back, give me a lift home. He‟ll find me, find this and I don‟t know what he‟ll do. Please, Frank, please, help me.” In answer, he swore, a stream of muttered abuse that echoed through my head. The background noise faded away and I realised he must have moved somewhere more private. “Help me. Please, come and help me,” I whispered when he was quiet. “All right, all right. Now listen to me. Are you listening, Michael?” “Yes.” “Good, that’s good. Your breathing sounds better too, that’s great. Now, here’s what you do. You’ll need to ring Jack. Do you think you can do that? Good. Tell him you won’t be needing a lift, say you’re going for a walk, you’ll find your own way home, make something up, anything. Then wait for me. You’re at this gallery of yours, aren’t you? I’ll need to fix stuff up before I can shifty out of here, but I’ll be with you in an hour. Is that all right? Do you think you can manage that?” “Yes.” “Great. One hour then. Give me the address.” I stammered it out and the next second he‟d hung up. “Thank you,” I breathed but there was no-one to listen. Then, my fingers struggling to make contact with the buttons, I rang Jack‟s number. His voice, when he answered, was distant, as if he were a 200

Anne Brooke thousand miles away. I told him something, anything to stop him coming for me. The words I used to deceive him were all Frank‟s and involved walking and taking time to think, maybe even making my own way home. Afterwards I couldn‟t remember any of it. All that was left was the surprise in Jack‟s tone and the beginnings of suspicion, but I couldn‟t care about that. I thought, God help me, there would be time enough for explanations. Then I waited. I knew that when the bell rang—please God, when it does let it be Frank—I would have to get up, let him in, but that might be a lifetime away. For now, I was still huddled, trapped between the body and the sink unit, unable to move. The iron stink of blood and shit and death tore at my gut and from instinct I put my hand against my mouth to stifle the need to vomit again. My tongue lapped blood and I retched the horror away but there was no substance to it. When I could breathe again, I smeared the trail of it over my face and through my hair. For some reason this action calmed me for a while. This was where I was, this was happening, and I could do nothing but sit and take it and wait for the flood to stop. So many memories, so much of what I‟d wanted to forget, crowding in over me like accusing fingers, pointing, cursing. No. Mustn‟t think, only breathe, through the mouth not the nose, that way I had less danger of losing it again. Worst of all, mustn‟t think of Joe and what I‟d done to him. God, Joe, I... I... Think of nothing, Michael. It‟s the way I‟ve survived for so long and it‟s never let me down. Focus instead on my body, how it feels. Doing that will make everything safe, it‟s the only thing I have any power over. My skin is cold, colder than forgotten ash, though I can‟t shiver. I can feel my heart pumping blood round, making me live, I can rely on it. Some things carry on even though everything else has changed. For Joe and for me, for Joe and for me, for Joe... It’s no good. I am surrounded by a wall of fear and memory and I will never get out. Everything that has ever mattered to me or made me think I could ever be worth something has changed. I am trapped in the night I have killed a man and something inside me will always be here. There is nowhere to run from myself. I cease to think and instead make my mind and body a blank darkness that no-one can see, and the seconds tick by as I wait for the bell to ring and release me from this length of moments. 201

A Dangerous Man Great canvases of time drift through the air but I have no strength to grasp them. I dream in pictures and my bloodied, crying victim travels with me and will not leave my side. I am nobody. Time has no hold on me. I will be eternal. I wish it is true. When the bell rings, at first I don‟t know what it is or what is happening. My eyes open on dead flesh and from where I have been, outside time, I am again here now. In the gallery kitchen, my gallery kitchen, in the cold heart of the night. Almost alone. Again the shrill demand of the bell. It must be Frank, it had to be Frank. Anything or anyone else and all I had known up to this point would be over. I had to get up. Dragging my legs underneath me, I forced myself to a shuddering stand. Without looking at the thing on the floor, I crept round the edges of the room, concentrating on wall and paint and cupboard. The door arrived at last and I was free, out into the second gallery, then the main room where the bell wailed through the air for the third time. This was it. The moment when I would know whether I was saved or lost tonight, but when I reached for the handle, the door was already opening. All the time I had crouched like a hunted dog in the kitchen and the door had never been locked. I couldn‟t help it, I closed my eyes. A man‟s voice said, “Michael? Are you okay?” When I opened my eyes, I already knew it was Frank. ***** He said nothing to me. When he entered the kitchen, with me trailing behind like a frightened child, he stopped and put his hand out to steady himself against the wall. The bag he‟d been carrying dropped to the floor. I moved to touch him but he flinched once before propelling himself toward Joe‟s body. Hunkering down next to it, he reached for the knife and I looked away, my fingernails scouring my palms. I heard a soft curse and a clatter, and when I looked back, he was standing over the sink, turning the taps full on and rubbing his hands over and over again under the stream of clear water that flowed red as it left his fingers. I tried to say something, but he shook his head as if shaking away an insect and I fell silent.

202

Anne Brooke After five minutes, he wiped his hands on his trousers and began opening all the cupboards until he‟d found what he was looking for. Bin liners. The preparation took longer than I‟d imagined. Together Frank and I stripped Joe‟s body and wrapped it in four bin liners, double strength, which he cut up using scissors. I put the legs in the first bin liner and, as if I was stroking a kitten, drew it up to his waist. Frank watched me and then, as I began to sob, helped me bury the head and body in the second plastic sheet. In places, the skin was turning purple. Then when all that was left of Joe was a mound of black wrapping on the floor, we repeated the whole process. All the time, Frank said nothing. When we‟d finished and my tears had dried up, I whispered, “What are we going to do? Please, tell me. What are we going to do?” Then at last, Frank spoke. “You wash yourself,” he said, his voice gritty like stone and his eyes tearing into me. “Get that stuff off your face and hair. And wear those.” He nodded in the direction of the bag he‟d dropped and when I opened it, I could see a white tee-shirt, jeans and a faded blue jumper. The sight of them made me gag. “Do it then,” Frank said. Legs shaking, I made my way up the stairs, staggering once, and into the shower room. Stripping everything off and wanting to take my skin off too if I could, I stepped under the hot blast of water and waited for the strength of it to drive all thought away. Only a small amount of soap remained but I scrubbed myself with what little there was until it was gone, while the drain gurgled crimson, then a faint pink and then at last ran clear. I stayed under as long as I could until my flesh burnt with the heat of it, then I turned it off, gasping in the sudden contrast of cold. Hot to cold, black to white with no softer shades between. Still shivering, I dried myself and put on what Frank had brought for me. The tee-shirt was too small but it didn‟t matter. Then I picked up the bag, now stuffed with my ruined clothes. Downstairs, I thought about running, out into the harsh angles and lines of the city, to lose myself with no hope of discovery, to be free and away from this, but my feet couldn‟t find the will to do it. Not with Frank still here. Instead I pushed open the kitchen door and saw the black mound of

203

A Dangerous Man plastic wedged against the far wall. Next to it, my companion was cleaning. “God, Frank, I‟m sorry, I didn‟t think... I... I should have...” “Shut up. It‟s got to be done, so just let me do it, will you?” I swallowed, watching as he wiped blood and crap from the floor and dowsed his efforts with soapy water. After a while, I helped him, refilling the bucket with suds that steamed their heat upwards into my skin, and together the two of us went over every surface we could find in the kitchen until it was as clean as we could make it. When we‟d finished, I saw he was trembling, his thin face clamped down on itself with the effort not to cry. I took one step towards him, then another and another, until my hands were gripping his shoulders, testing the lightness of them beneath his shirt, and our heads were pressed together, each of us struggling for air as if we‟d been running a long, long time. Without knowing it was what I wanted to do, I touched my lips to his and, as his tongue slipped inside, opened my mouth wide, as wide as I could, while the sourness of his breath filled my head. “For fuck‟s sake, Michael,” he pushed me away and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You can have it,” I said, looking at the shining floor. “Anything you want you can have. Please. I‟ve nothing else to give you.” He smiled but kept his distance. “Little whore,” he said, with something like admiration. “Murderous little whore.” “Please, I...” “Forget it. There are other things to do. We have to dump the body, the knife and the stuff you were wearing.” The weight between us was almost beyond what we could carry but somehow we managed to get it outside. I‟d assumed Frank would have transport but hadn‟t expected the battered old Ford Capri he directed us to. Nobody was about but from somewhere I heard the faint echo of laughter, a shout, then more laughter. As Frank struggled with the boot, keys glinting in one hand and his end of the black rustling parcel balanced in the other, my eyes kept darting left and right, left and right, my body poised to run if anyone appeared. A coward, I was nothing but a coward. When I thought I had no more strength to stay, the boot creaked open and

204

Anne Brooke we shoved forwards and up. A sickening thud sounded as cooling flesh hit carpet and then Frank slammed the boot shut. “Get in,” he said. “I‟ll drive.” He drove for miles, out through Hackney and the grimy, dark streets of Stratford, and then on and on until I had no idea where we were. I‟d never been this far east before and never wanted to again. Street lights flickered towards us like lost stars and then were suddenly gone, and when I wound my window down, the smell of poverty and despair prickled my skin. All the time, I never asked Frank where we were going, but sat, hunched on my seat, the bag of vomit-stained clothes on my lap and the knife, clean now and wrapped in kitchen towel, balanced above it. Beneath me, my feet pressed against the other bag, containing the dead man‟s clothes and belongings, a wallet, a comb, a driving licence. At last, when I thought we‟d be travelling forever, he turned left into a narrow street where the houses thinned away into railings and scrubland with here and there a tree picked out by the lights of the car. A few minutes later and he turned right, past a sign on which I was able to make out the words, “Household Waste Site”. “Frank,” I said, shattering the silence that had hovered for so long between us. “It‟ll be closed. It‟s the middle of the night.” He said nothing, but brought the car to a halt in front of a set of tall iron gates. Getting out, so I caught the smell of rotting plastic and old wood, and leaving the engine ticking over, he took something from his pocket and fiddled at the padlock. It fell away as if it were made of butter. “How did you...?” I started to say as he got back in beside me and rammed the gear into first. “Shut up, won‟t you, for Christsake? I was owed a few favours. I said it would be sorted, didn‟t I?” It was true, he had. I hadn‟t realised he knew the kind of people who could do this. It struck me for the first time how little I knew Frank at all. I supposed you could screw someone and never know what they were really like, never know what they were thinking. Just as Jack had with me. He‟d never known and I hoped to God never would. By this time, Frank had backed the car against the dump furthest away from the gates, as close as he could get. He switched off the engine and heavy darkness came flooding in around us. “We‟ll use a torch,” he said. “Come on.” 205

A Dangerous Man It took us thirty minutes. Only thirty minutes to dispose of a life. Frank and I hauled the bin liners up to the top of the dumping area and then scrambled down into the muck and waste. He watched me, giving directions as I struggled to bury the evidence under whatever I could find as camouflage. It made me want to vomit again but I managed to hold it in. I couldn‟t break down here. Afterwards, I headed for the car, but Frank dragged me back. “Not so fast. We‟re not finished yet.” I stood, panting and watching him, wondering what the hell he was up to as he reached into his back pocket before stretching his hand out towards me. A shaft of moonlight made whatever he held in his fingers glitter. Then I understood. Making a fire with Frank‟s lighter wasn‟t as easy as I‟d thought and in the end he had to help me, gathering up splintered wood and odd pieces of material and placing them behind the panels of the dump, out of sight of the road. It took an age to be strong enough, faint wisps of smoke curling upwards and vanishing until at last the flame caught and grew. When it was enough, I threw Joe‟s and my own stained clothes onto it, then his licence and the contents of his wallet. The power of the flames almost scalded my skin. The cash and the wallet I kept. It made no sense to throw away what could be used. At last it was over. Frank kicked away the remains of the fire as it burnt out and covered it up with soil. The remaining pieces of cloth or paper he threw into one of the other dumps, cursing at the heat of it as he did so, and gestured at the car. “Get in,” he said. Opening the passenger door, I cried out and slammed it shut again, backing away. “What the hell...?” From behind Frank grabbed me and shook me silent. “What do you think you‟re doing? And stop your noise, would you?” “The knife. The knife. It‟s still there.” Beneath Frank‟s grip, my shoulders were trembling. “Of course it‟s still there. Don‟t be so stupid. Where did you think it was? We can‟t burn it, can we?” “What are we going to do with it?” 206

Anne Brooke “Chuck it in the river. What else?” “How? Where? I don‟t see how we can...” “For fuck‟s sake, Michael, just shut it and get in the fucking car.” “I can‟t, I tell you. I can’t. Not while that bloody knife is there.” Burying my face in my hands, I felt Frank‟s fingers give me one last squeeze and then a push, but a gentle one. “What if I put it in the back, out of sight?” I swallowed and tried to make out his expression in the gloom but it was impossible. All I could see was his shape, the wiriness, the unexpected strength of him. “Okay,” I said. “I can get in the car then.” For a while we drove but not in the direction we‟d come from. Thinking of it later, I suppose he‟d gone south in order to finish the night‟s business. When he slowed to a halt and through the open window I could taste the clarity of water, I knew what to do. “For God‟s sake, don‟t be long,” he said. “And really chuck it. Nobody will see you here.” The weight of metal in my hands as I stood in the slight chill of breeze was as heavy as a man, and I wondered if it would ever leave me. I closed my eyes and remembered the things I knew about Joe. His accent, the hint of northern that would roughen with anger or drink, the colour of his hair, his attempts at kindness and the times he‟d done more for me than I deserved. And, finally, his anger at what Paul must have told him about me, and his need for revenge. But in the end I‟d won. Arcing the knife backwards, I shot it out in front of me into nothingness. In the gloom of the approaching morning, it turned twice, no three times, and was gone. A faint splash, then silence. In the car, Frank said nothing, but simply started the engine and plunged the gears into action. At five am, he stopped two roads away from home and sighed as if all the weight of the evening was resting on his shoulders alone. I wished it had been true, but only for a moment. “Why did you do it?” he said. Staring straight ahead and focusing on the point of the window where a tiny curved scratch was barely visible, the words blended like the best charcoal into perfect shapes that would never be spoken. “He threatened me.” 207

A Dangerous Man Frank swore once. “In your line of business, you should be used to that.” “You don‟t understand. He was furious, out of his head. He said he‟d tell Jack what I‟d been doing, how I‟d got the cash for the gallery.” “How did he find out?” “I don‟t have to answer any questions; you‟ve no right to...” “Shut up,” Frank turned in his seat, grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. “After tonight, I‟ve got every right to ask you anything in the world and get an answer, a truthful one. So tell me, how did Joe find out?” I struggled in his grip, but he held on. “Paul told him.” “Paul? What‟s he got to do with it?” “He followed me, found out what I was up to. Then he started taking some of the cash I earned.” “Bloody hell, bad luck on you, but why on earth would that bother Joe so much he‟d...?” He stopped in the middle of the sentence and pushed me away so hard my head almost hit the passenger window. “Bloody hell,” he said again. “You were screwing him, weren‟t you?” “I didn‟t have a choice; Paul said he‟d tell Jack.” “But he didn‟t. He told Joe instead and just when the poor bugger thought he‟d got rid of you at last, there you were again, like a bloody germ or something waiting to tear him up. No wonder he was furious. You‟re lucky you’re not the one who ended up dead.” “You can‟t know that.” “I know a hell of a lot more than you think.” Frank slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and the blast of the horn made me jump. “Or I can guess it anyway. You‟re not the only homo in London who drinks at my pub, you know. Or used to.” Something in his voice made me keep quiet. In the silence that followed, the harsh sound of my gulping filled my ears. “Tell me one thing though,” he said. “Anything, Frank, anything, I swear it.” “Why is your bloody art, this whole exhibition thing so important to you? What is it that drives you like this?” Anything but that. I can’t tell you that, Frank, so please don’t ask me to. “I can‟t tell you,” I said. “It‟s nobody‟s business but mine.”

208

Anne Brooke Darkness. And another silence. Then he leant towards me so suddenly I flinched away, but he didn‟t touch me. He just released the catch on my seat-belt. “Get out,” he said. I obeyed. Leaning in at the car, I tried to catch his gaze with the concentration of my own. I want him so much to understand. “Frank, I‟m really sorry, but thanks. For everything. If there‟s anything I can do for you, ever, I swear I‟ll do it.” “There is one thing and it‟s important, so listen.” “Name it.” He spoke clearly, as if I were a child who would need extra attention to take in what he was saying. “I don‟t want to see you again, either personally or at the pub. If I even catch a glimpse of you in the street, then I‟ll go straight to the police. You‟re a dangerous man, Michael Jones, and I don‟t want you around.” Then without a second glance or even giving me the chance to argue him back to friendship, of whatever sort, he started to drive off. “No, Frank, please, I... don‟t leave me.” My fingers scrabbling at the window and the car slipped over glass and metal and plastic, finding no grip and leaving no trace. “No!” As I fell, he didn‟t even slow down. The last glimpse I had of him was the spin of the wheels accelerating away. I was alone.

209

Chapter Eighteen September to October I still had Jack, but the house was full of strangers. Slipping back that early autumn morning with the scent of mud and murder on my flesh and the honeyed sting of Frank‟s kindness and rejection on my skin, I wondered if my face would show my guilt when people looked at me. Downstairs, I lunged for the alarm before it could get to full voice, and waited, not daring to breathe, in the darkness while the silence crept back. Nothing happened, nobody came running to ask what I‟d been doing or why I‟d woken them up so early, and after a few minutes, my heartbeat began to slow. I had to get to bed, but there was something I needed to do first. Padding into the kitchen like a burglar in my own home—though it didn‟t feel like home any more—I stripped all my clothes off with hands that wouldn‟t stop shaking and stuffed them into a plastic carrier bag. Then, not caring who might see me, and making as little noise as I could, I unlocked the back door and buried Frank‟s clothes in the deepest part of the bin. Frank, I wish you’d... No, mustn‟t think that. Don’t think of Frank, think of the clothes instead. Yes. With any luck, nobody would find them and if they did, God if they did, I‟d just have to think of something, anything, it didn‟t matter. On my way upstairs, I wondered what would happen if one of Jack‟s parents or Penny came out and saw me as I was, and the thought almost made me laugh. If it had happened, I might even have been glad. It would have been a release from the knots in my blood, but the landing was as still and dark as hell, and I crept into the bedroom unseen. As I folded my body under the duvet, Jack stirred once and murmured something I couldn‟t catch before his breath eased back into the slow rhythm of sleep. In contrast, I stared at the ceiling, watching its shapes swirl into focus, until the real beginning of the day. ***** I wait for as long as I can before getting up. Jack has already showered, dressed and even—God knows why—planted a light kiss on my hair before the sound of his feet disappears downstairs. In the rooms along the 210

Anne Brooke landing, I can hear the rising hum of movement, a whispered conversation between Jack‟s mother and Penny, the heavy tread of Mr. Hutchinson. With each new noise I burrow deeper under the duvet, trying to shut out the light that pierces the glass and uncovers the room. If I stay where I am, delay the start of another morning, then perhaps I can somehow remain in the day before, forever frozen in a moment when the knife hasn‟t slashed through air and skin and blood, and changed everything. So much shit, so much... mustn‟t think of it, can‟t remember it, can‟t handle it. Without warning, the safe haven of the bed becomes a place where pictures shatter into a hundred bloodied fragments, the rich silk of the sheets a net to catch my heart in, and nowhere is safe. Stumbling out and away from the bed, I run, panting, to the shower and turn the water on to full. Again. The bursting torrent drowns the worst of my thoughts and for a while my mind is empty. But peace, when it comes, never thinks to stay for long. Getting dressed, my mind is already churning over the things I will have to say to Jack, and the things I must never say. Soon I will have to face them all, and the mask I wear must never be allowed to slip. With each second, the need to be downstairs with my boyfriend‟s family as if everything is normal grows more pressing. If I stay here where time is fixed in charcoal and cannot hurt me, then they will come looking. A choking sob forces my hands up to cover my mouth until the beat of my heart slows to its usual pace and I can breathe again. I have to go downstairs. Now. Yes, one step towards the bedroom door and another and another, and everything is still fine. I can do this. Something that happened yesterday can be left in yesterday to fade to nothing. There is no need for what I did then to affect today or tomorrow or any of the days that come after. I know all about leaving my past behind, don‟t I? This is no different, no different at all. Once again, my skin and memories can be sloughed off and I will walk free, a new person. I open the door and the air in the landing is fresh with other people‟s innocence. For a moment, my pace falters but there is no room for doubt. Once I have faced them downstairs and they have seen nothing of what I have done, then each moment will bring freedom from the pointing finger, the muttered words, the cruelty.

211

A Dangerous Man I have no choice. I must shut out the picture of Joe‟s eyes as he looked at me, and think only of what I have won. My drawings where people can see them, a gallery named after me, the affection of Jack. For any of those, I would kill, and kill again. The knowledge of this makes me stronger. Downstairs, the salt smell of bacon mingles with the headiness of coffee. So ordinary, so perfect that I almost run, but I have nowhere to go. I must carry this through. Please God, or anyone out there, don‟t let them see the dirt on my hands or the fear on my skin. When I push open the kitchen door, Jack looks up. “And now we‟re complete,” he says. ***** Jack has set the dining room for breakfast even though usually we would eat it in the kitchen. The switch in our routine makes my clutching after what is familiar a useless task. I must endure his understanding of family and hope that next week, when they are gone, I can gather together the pieces of our lives again, a life he doesn‟t even know has been ripped open by what I have done, leaving nothing but blood and bone and... “Michael, what a wonderful exhibition that was. Thank you so much for allowing us to come. It was inspirational. Did you enjoy it?” It is Mr. Hutchinson. He is speaking to me as if nothing is wrong and there is no judgement in his eyes. Jack glances over at me and smiles encouragement for a second before frowning. The women fuss over cutlery and napkins. Something in my throat is stopping me speaking, and I croak a reply, but Jack‟s father waits. “Sure, it was... fine,” I manage at last and he nods. “Dad bought one of your drawings, you know,” Penny says, buttering a croissant. “He‟s very impressed.” Mrs. Hutchinson‟s lips tighten and she fiddles with her fork, tearing away the bacon rind from the rasher and laying it in strips on the side of her plate. “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Hutchinson continues. “One of the smaller ones only, I‟m afraid. I thought it would be a fascinating piece for the sitting room. And I liked it very much indeed.” For a flash-point second, I want to tell him everything. I want to lean across the table, pushing aside toast and jam and coffee, and take his hands in mine, feel the roughness of his fingers, the stain and glimmer of his garden, and tell him... tell him what? Tell him everything, about Jack 212

Anne Brooke and me, about Paul and what I‟ve done and what I‟ve had to do to Joe in order to be free, maybe even about the things that have been done to me, once, if I can find the words for it. I might even have done it then. I might have done, because Mr. Hutchinson‟s eyes are kind and he looks like he might listen and listen and listen and not turn away. But I don‟t. Jack says something, coughs, says it again and I realise he is speaking to me. “There you go, Michael. A fan for your work, and paying for it too. One of many, I hope.” “Thanks,” I say, and then again. “Thanks.” I survive breakfast, just, but I know, as Jack and I clear the table and stack the dishwasher, that I don‟t have much time left. I am stretched tight across the morning and the slightest movement will tear me. Hoping there‟ll be the chance to speak to him alone soon but not knowing what to say, I hesitate until we‟re putting the last of the cups and plates on the tray. I‟ll say something when we‟re in the kitchen, I think. It‟ll be fine then. But Jack has other plans and in the dining room, he makes his move. “So,” he says, gaining the attention of his father, who is flicking through the FT, and Penny and Mrs. Hutchinson, who have their heads together across the clean dark lines of the table. “So, what‟s the plan of action for today? Grant and the children are coming tonight, aren‟t they? We can take them to the gallery tomorrow, though I know Michael will want to go in today.” The china cup with its border of gold drops to the table before it reaches the safety of the tray and shatters, making everyone jump. “No,” I say and Jack‟s eyes widen as he walks towards me. “No, I don‟t want to go.” “Why ever not? Here, let me look at your hand. Are you all right?” “I‟m fine. Just leave it.” “No, let me...” “Leave it, Jack. I said, didn‟t I?” In the room everyone is silent as I pick up the broken pieces of crockery and place them one by one on Jack‟s tray. Mr. Hutchinson folds the paper up and lays it on the floor. “All right, Michael,” Jack says. “I know you must be tired, but you have to spend an hour or so in the gallery to settle the new receptionist in.

213

A Dangerous Man And of course to continue with Lee-Anne‟s marketing campaign. It was a great success last night, but you and I both know there‟s still a lot to do.” He‟s right, I know he is. He has done everything for me, even down to hiring staff I hardly knew I needed, and now I am spitting his kindness back, but I have no choice. I can‟t go back to the gallery again and I can‟t tell him why. “It‟s nothing to do with being too tired. I‟m just saying I won‟t go.” I try to sound calm but my skin prickles and I can feel the sweat on my face. “There‟s nothing odd about it, okay?” “As you wish, but you‟ll have to go tomorrow. When the children come.” “Yes, they‟re so looking forward to it,” Penny chips in with a giggle that doesn‟t sound right. “I know some of your work is more for adults than children, Michael, but I‟m sure...” “There‟s nothing I do that children shouldn‟t see, they‟re not as stupid as you think,” I snap and Mrs. Hutchinson looks up at me for the first time. “Yes, of course, but...” “And the sooner they know some stuff, maybe the better for them, you know. You know?” Somehow the conversation has gone where I didn‟t mean it to go, but I don‟t know how to bring it back to safety. “There I must disagree, Michael,” Mrs. Hutchinson speaks and the sound of her voice cuts into my flesh like a winter morning. “Children should be protected for as long as possible and, as Penny has mentioned it, I would say that perhaps the exhibition isn‟t quite suitable for Kathryn and Rob. What do you think, dear?” Jack‟s father rubs his legs and frowns. “I think perhaps we should leave that to their parents. Penny and Grant are more than capable of knowing what our grandchildren can see and what they can‟t.” “Quite right, Dad, but now Mother has said it, perhaps I might ring Grant and find out what he...” “Okay, okay,” I thump my fist on the table and spit out my words before they poison me. “I‟m sorry I‟m not suitable for you, but it‟s what I do and I can‟t change it.” “Look, Michael, I...”

214

Anne Brooke “Just let me finish, Jack, okay? I know this is your family and you love them, but I don‟t know why you have to talk things over and over like I‟m not here. It‟s not up to anyone but me to say if what I do is good or bad, should be seen by children or not, and anyway I don‟t even know why they‟re coming. I didn‟t ask them to come and yes I know you‟re being good to me and I owe you everything but maybe it’s not what I want. Have you ever thought of that? I don‟t mean the gallery. That‟s what I want, I swear it, but I can‟t go back. Not right now and maybe not ever. I don‟t know and don‟t ask me. I can‟t handle it, don‟t you see? It‟s just... not possible.” My voice, which in the middle of my words has risen to a shout loud enough to fill the room with its own emptiness, now falls into pleading. I close my eyes and around me the air drifts back like a forgotten song. When Jack speaks, his voice is cold. We might have been the only two people in the world. “So then what is it that you do want, Michael?” he says. I open my eyes and the room shudders into focus. There is a silence that seems to stretch into eternity and then Mrs. Hutchinson stands up. “I think, dear,” she says to her son, “I think it‟s best that we go.” Later that afternoon, I am in my studio. The family has gone, carried out of Jack‟s home and our lives in a wave of words that meant nothing then and still means nothing now. There will be no visit by Grant or the children, no return to the exhibition, though I don‟t think Jack has understood it yet, and no accusations or suspicion to face. But still I can‟t settle. They are gone so why can‟t I breathe? Why does the air arrive in my lungs thick with memory and sparked with panic? It should be okay now but it isn‟t. Jack is downstairs. I left him there hours ago, running out of the living room, up the stairs and throwing my body into the comfort of the place I think of as mine. Not the actions of an innocent man with nothing to tell, not the actions of a man at all, God no, I think as I stand against my easel, hands gripping both sides of the top and my forehead sunk deep against the thin warmth of wood and the coolness of paper. I left him there and I don‟t think he has moved, or at least I have heard no sound of movement. He is trapped downstairs with his unanswerable questions and I am trapped here with my drawings. Today they terrify me and I cannot look. 215

A Dangerous Man It doesn‟t matter. I don‟t have to look. What‟s gone before is all blackness and I can create something new again, make myself new in the only way I know. If I don‟t do it soon, I don‟t know where I will vanish to. My life has always been buried here in the paper and pencils, the grey smudged mystery of charcoal and if I leave it too long, I may never find it again. Isn‟t that what my drawings have always meant? A way of digging out what‟s inside and reworking it, again and again until it‟s perfect or as near to perfection as I can get. Until the sharp scarlet and orange inside are faded to pastel. Even, on a good day, to grey and white. I don‟t know, I don‟t know. I stub out the cigarette I‟m only half aware I‟m smoking and reach for my sketchpad but today it isn‟t enough. As if it were burning me, I toss the pad into the corner of the room where it skitters along the carpet until it comes to rest against the solidness of wall. From behind, I bring my case of pencils and charcoals to the side of the easel where I can see them. They glow with possibilities. The paper before me is large and blank, a dream of whiteness I long to fill. Six steps back, six forward and the moment is here now. The charcoal melts into my skin as I lift it high, arcing in sunlight like a knife, and bring it down in a series of small, delicate punches onto creamy softness. I almost wonder why the lines are not dripping with red, but they are not lines yet. Simply smoky dots, shadows of meaning and possibility that my hand will link into something I can‟t see. Why is it always this way? When I start to draw, the idea in my mind is a mystery, more so now, and if I chase after it, I know it will vanish and leave only an ache I have no hope of calming. Even if the result fails, I can‟t change the way I have always worked. To do that, I would have to be a different person which is, maybe, what I‟ve wanted all along. All this I sense as my fingers flow and jump across the page, as lines blend into shadow and depth, lightness and movement. If Jack could see me when I‟m like this... but he won‟t, he won‟t. He‟s sitting in silence, and I can‟t reach him. Is he thinking about me, wondering what to do? Maybe he‟s missing his family, wishing they hadn‟t gone and left him with a partner he doesn‟t know how to handle. Because that is what I am, isn‟t it? If he could see me now, as I really am, then perhaps... but it‟s impossible. I can never let him. Some things are too private.

216

Anne Brooke And this time it‟s different. Something is happening that I can‟t control as my hands carve their meaning onto paper. As I draw, the blankness is changing, swapping identity with me as charcoal and pencil, spit and smudging form a gateway a life can travel through. The pictures swirling through my blood are being pulled out of my skin and onto the white, welcoming page. I miss them. They are so much of my past, driven into that one moment with Joe. It is what I have longed to do always, but you will never know it. I can‟t... I can‟t... The emptiness is what the page is giving me and it makes the pain vanish, along with what I am. I am making myself into nothing and instead the drawing will be the only memory of what I have been. Clear light dazzles the window for a moment, picking out the bare walls and stacked rows of different papers, and I see how everything can be lost, and what‟s gained might be a kind of peace in which I can start again, today, and nobody will know it. If I try hard enough to draw what can never be seen, then somehow I can walk through that tunnel, I can become the picture, the idea, and it can become me. The minutes and seconds pass by and though now I can tell what this drawing will be, it doesn‟t matter. It‟s only a way of escaping, the only road to freedom. It has to work; I mustn‟t fail it, or let it fail me. But perhaps it‟s already too late, because the flow of the lines falters, my hand is too tired and my throat and tongue hot with the need for a smoke. All these things letting me down, meaning I can never reach the other side of the road I‟m walking. No, running, but no matter how fast I go, the idea fades and I‟ll never get there, never finish what I‟ve started. No. Sweat soaks through my shirt and my collar is sticky. I drop the charcoal and when I pick it up, my hand is shaking and will not be still. I must stop, I need to rest; it‟s no good. Slumping on the floor, it takes me several minutes to come back to where my body is, to feel the outlines of my bone and skin and flesh, and how the parts of me cut into the air, easing my shape into the unknown. When at last I‟m able to gaze at what I have done, nothing has changed. Except my life, and Joe‟s. I have drawn a picture of Joe. Not in the style I have been growing into over these last few weeks. There is no hint of the sinister and when I look at the outline, the blending and shadowing is not so demanding to the eye. Instead, he is almost a ghost, seen through a soft light that spills from the 217

A Dangerous Man white edges of the paper into the centre. He has no context, but is standing against pure air, his face gazing to the left and looking downwards beyond the frame, but something about the swirl of the charcoal, the direction of the blend, tells of a turning to come. It is as if he is about to move, speak, turn to the watcher, me, and I want him to, though the thought of it makes my blood pulse faster. Before I know it, my fingers are reaching out, touching the smoothness of paper and smearing the grey and black depths deeper in. I could be touching Joe himself, though it isn‟t something I have ever done in life, or maybe I am wiping him away, scattering the atoms that make up a person, bone and skin and dreaming, into the wind. When my fingers are black with the past, I wipe them, taking my time, over my face, from the top of my forehead, down the side of my cheek and over my lips. It is like blood or weeping. It is like blood, but it doesn‟t save me. As it can‟t save Joe. Don’t think of it, think of the lines, the space, the meaning. Tearing the page away from the easel, I drop it to the floor, take another sheet, position it, crouch back onto my heels, cough once, stand up, take a pencil this time, at least to start with, and begin again. I do this over and over, each drawing more and more frantic, and more and more quickly abandoned, until the sun has gone and the blackness outside my window sings of the fullness of night. Now and then I hear a knocking on my door and on one occasion I think I smell the distant trail of cooking, something spicy and hot, but it makes no difference. Jack won‟t come in. He will wait and wait until the reasons for waiting are gone. And then maybe I will have done all the drawings my body wants and we can start again, as if none of this has happened. At last, somewhere in the still centre of night, when the previous day vanishes in memory and the new one slips into being, I come to an end. Eyes prickling and lips heavy with spit, I slump cross-legged on the carpet, take each new picture scattered around me and place them into order. They are all of Joe, as if they could be of anything else. Each one shows a progression he might have wondered at, if he were here to see. The first one in which he is trapped in emptiness, looking down, makes a way in for impressions of Joe sitting in his gallery office, intent on his work, then as I remember him in the flat, cooking, and later as I saw him on the day I left for Jack‟s, nervous and clutching his hidden gift of champagne. In each of these, and picture by picture, his face becomes 218

Anne Brooke thinner, his eyes more accusing, more marked by fear. On his flesh, faint scarring begins to appear, taking over the starkness of his body until all that is left are wild lines flying, fighting against each other, never winning but always in motion. No-one must ever see them. Together, they create a voice to taunt me with, and none of them more dangerous to the future I cling to than the last. I must look at it; face what I have done in the only way I know. It’s so hard. Whimpering like a whipped dog, I struggle to my feet, wipe my eyes once with smeared fingers and force myself to gaze without blinking. Joe is lying on his side, his hands pressed to his heart where a smoking hole is carved. A hole as large and as deep as hell. I have feathered the charcoal to give the impression of movement and of heavy liquid spilling from his wound and you can see the knife, though it no longer glitters. There is no whiteness left on its blade. I have made sure of that. Joe‟s face is hidden in shadow but everything about him is spiked with grief, even his hair, his skin and his fingers which are grasping at the knife as it spins to the floor. A whole life and the closeness of death flashes to view in the seconds it takes to understand. We are for the dark. Jack has quoted that to me once or twice but I don‟t remember where it comes from. I stare and stare for a long time and when at last the cold makes me shiver into half a life again, I stoop, gather my drawings, including the final one of Joe and the murder, and hide them in the corner behind where I keep my sketchpads and unused pencils. Nobody will see them there and tomorrow I will spray them so they remain fixed on the paper as much as they are fixed in my blood. Then there will be no more drawings of what I have done. It would be too dangerous. ***** In the morning, Jack has gone from the bed when I wake. It is late, nearly 11am and everything is quiet. Outside the sun glitters with the last of the autumn warmth and I see he is working in the garden, head bowed, intent on one or other of his beloved shrubs. I want to catch his attention, to wave and smile at him, but something I can‟t name stops me, and I think I am afraid of him, of what he might do and say, and of what he might think. So instead of going to him at once, which even then might somehow have saved me, I shower off the memories of the night and in the kitchen 219

A Dangerous Man hunt for a meagre breakfast of toast and a scraping of butter which I eat standing at the sink, tap turned on so the flow of water drowns the life of my thoughts. Colour. I mustn’t let the colours take over. They will only hurt me. Remember the blacks and greys are there to keep me whole. Still, all the reason in the world won‟t stop the wild swirl of them pricking my body with heat. God, God help me, I can‟t escape from any of it. It is so much stronger, it‟s ramming the breath from me, it‟s... It is only when I realise I‟m not alone any more that I wonder if I have spoken aloud. “Michael?” The last few crumbs of toast and grease crumble into the sink and are washed away. Trying to steady my heart, I turn off the tap and turn round to see Jack facing me, silent after saying my name, though not in the way he used to say it. Where has that gone? I never knew until this moment how you could miss the tone of something being said. The lines between us are thin and stretched as far as winter. “Yes?” “What the hell is going on and what do you want to do about it?” His voice is full of something I can‟t name. “What do you mean?” “For God‟s sake,” he gestures once towards me and then beyond as if pulling the air towards us. “All this. I don‟t understand. Everything was going well, wasn‟t it? The opening night was a success, so why act like it was the worst thing that ever happened? And I know you have issues with my family but do you have to be quite so rude, making them leave like that? They‟ve seen your pictures, my father even bought one, though I noticed you never asked him about it, so I can‟t understand why you‟re acting like this. You and I, not to mention Lee-Anne, put a lot of effort, as well as money, into this exhibition. We don‟t want to lose the momentum.” “So that‟s it, is it? It‟s all about the money.” “Don‟t be stupid. Of course it‟s not.” “Isn‟t it? You older guys are all the same, you get what you want and you don‟t mind paying for it. Let me tell you something. Just because you‟ve got the cash doesn‟t mean you have the power and...” “Michael, for God‟s sake let‟s be calm about this.”

220

Anne Brooke “Why? What‟s the point in being calm? Why do I have to do what you want me to? You may have bought me but I can say no if I want to. How does that feel, eh? I can say no.” When I finish speaking, I find myself only centimetres away from my boyfriend, though I can‟t remember stepping away from the sink. My hand is raised and I‟m almost jabbing him in the chest. He doesn‟t flinch. Seconds tick by. I lower my hand. In silence, he turns and heads for the door. I would cry out for him, beg him to stay, but I have no words. They‟re all used up. Just before he walks out, he says, “Yes, you can say no. And so can I.” I spend that weekend in the studio. Jack and I avoid each other as much as we can and for the first time I am glad. It is better this way. Cleaner. Even though I can‟t go to the gallery, I can still draw. After fixing the pictures of Joe and placing them in a cabinet, out of sight, I start on another series, different from anything I have dared begin before. I know it is right, as when I think of it the colours that threaten me are muted and I can see the edges of black flickering beyond the frame. They will come. It may take time but they will come. And afterwards Jack will forgive me and I will breathe again. I only have to be strong. That‟s all. So for two days I draw, creating shapes and meaning from a time in my life I haven‟t dared think of for so long, but now the edge of it is blunted because I have killed a man. There is nothing more powerful than that. Each time I complete a piece, a little of the complexity of colours I keep hidden is allowed to vanish. The sun sets and rises and sets again, Jack no longer leaves plates of food outside the studio and doesn‟t try to talk to me. The whole of London sleeps and wakes and sleeps, and it is as if I am the motionless centre of all its wild dreaming. More than that, the world creeps in around me and every move I make is heavy both with memory and the destruction of it, and always the collection of paper grows larger. When night comes, I think about sharing Jack‟s bed and wonder if he‟ll let me, but each time I know that sleep won‟t come. The need to draw and keep on drawing is so strong that all I can do is snatch a nap on the floor when I can. All the time, my fingers stiffen and my arm aches. I ignore them. At last Monday comes and I hear Jack get up, and then the sounds of movement in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes after that, the front door clicks shut and the low purr of his car fades into the day. It‟s 6am. I am alone. 221

A Dangerous Man I stagger along the landing, legs trembling, push open the bedroom door and collapse on Jack‟s bed. Not mine now, not mine, I remember thinking and then nothing. It‟s the bedside phone that wakes me. For a while it‟s an alarm in my dreams, a call to action I can‟t complete, and then on and on until it pulls me up into reality, and I discover the silk softness of the bed against my skin, the coolness of the air, the taste of two days‟ starvation in my mouth. Reaching towards the sound, I knock over the clock and see it‟s past midday. “Hello?” “Michael, is that you?” I recognise the voice at once and everything I‟ve tried to wipe away with charcoal and the blankness of days comes spinning back. “L... LeeAnne. Yes, yes it‟s me.” “Good, I was hoping I’d catch you. The opening night was great, wasn’t it? Well done, you. I presume you’ll be off to the gallery some time? There’s a lot to think about. The receptionist says you haven’t been in yet, but before you do I just wanted to find out if you’d heard anything from Joe.” The noise in my head sweeps through every pulse of my blood and for a moment I think I might vomit. “Michael? Can you hear me?” “Sure, sure I can. What makes you think I would have heard from him? He wouldn‟t speak to me, not normally. Why should he?” I‟m talking too fast, the lies spilling over my tongue in a search for acceptance and I try to slow down. “I mean no, I haven‟t seen him since then. I don‟t know where he is, I‟m sorry.” In the pause that follows, I would give up all my skills for ever to know what the woman on the other end of the line is thinking. “All right,” she says, but I detect a soft curl of suspicion in her voice, or is it my own fear? I can‟t tell. “But if you see or hear from him, give me a ring, won‟t you? There are clients queuing up over here for him.” “Sure. No problem. I‟ll do that, Lee-Anne.” She says goodbye. As I drop the phone back on its base, I‟m already laughing, great gulps of it twisting my body into a shaking heap on the duvet, fists stuffed into my mouth, and teeth biting into my tongue to try to stop the fit, but nothing works. I’ll never see or hear from Joe again, 222

Anne Brooke never, and neither will she. And then just as suddenly as the wild laughter came, I‟m sobbing, hot tears staining the pillow, and no hope remains. When I‟ve finished, I go downstairs and eat whatever I find there, taking great mouthfuls and swallowing as fast as I can, like a hungry dog. By the time Jack returns, at sometime past 9pm, I‟m safe in my studio once more, thinking of nothing but paper and line and feathering. And then, God help me, it‟s Tuesday.

223

Chapter Nineteen October Again I work all day. Everything I commit to the paper‟s teeth moves me a little further forward in my journey, as if I am reliving all that has ever happened to me. I‟m surprised I feel no pain. In me, I mean. Because there is more pain than I have ever imagined but none of it touches my flesh. It is all on the paper, carved out in black and white, the hidden store of colours, where everything merges and twists into shapes which show that which words cannot. It‟s funny how when the last drawing is complete and the charcoal crumbles to dark and sticky dust in my fingers, I know somehow that it‟s over. My whole life up to this point is no longer something only I remember. Instead, it is in the memory of paper and pencil and spit. No-one must see it. Why have I done this? For so many years, I kept what I don‟t want to remember locked inside in a place no-one can visit. Why do this now? It‟s stupid. I should destroy every drawing in this room, those of Joe and this new series also. I must be mad to think these last two days would help make what is wrong right again. They can never do that. Nobody can do that. Someone is whimpering, and that someone is me. Tearing the final picture from the easel, I drop it on the floor, not bothering to fix it, and stare round at what I have done. From every corner of the room, lines scream and I cover my ears with my hands. No. I can hear the voices even from so long ago and there is no stopping the bloodred smear of them. I must run, get away. The studio has become a pit of danger I am falling into, falling... falling... My back slams against the solid wood of the door. There‟s no way out. No, it‟s the way out. Must leave, go, run. Fingers twisting hot around metal, the door handle, I scrabble for safety, my head drowning in images woven with unbearable noise. And then I‟m out, shaking and sobbing, sprawled across the floor like a beggar or a tramp. Must get away, I can‟t stay here. So many months of trying and there‟s no way of pretending anything else. I cannot stay in a place where I have no choice but to remember I have killed a man. 224

Anne Brooke I have to go. Now. In the bedroom, I drag out my holdall, the one I used when I first moved in with Jack. Opening the drawers, I pull free tee-shirts, poloshirts, jeans, and drop everything onto the bed. It doesn‟t take up much space. Later, I think, and soon, when I‟m calmer, I‟ll deal with my pictures. I haven‟t noticed the night creeping round the house while I was drawing, and glancing at the window it spins my own reflection back onto my eyes and I dart forward to pull the curtains against it. As I whirl back round, meaning to cram the stuff Jack has bought me into the holdall, something in the quality of the air changes. For a moment it sparkles, a shimmer, a shift in the atmosphere that murmurs a signal, a warning. Maybe. I forget to breathe. When I remember, the sound that still echoes in my mind is the piercing buzz of the doorbell. The bell rings again, this time more insistent. Whoever it is isn‟t going to leave. I should answer it. Maybe it‟s the neighbour, the woman from next door. Yes, it‟s bound to be her. No-one else would visit at this time of night, not without an invitation, not in Jack‟s world. I‟ll open the door, get rid of her, say Jack will deal with whatever it is when he gets home, which must be soon. Then I‟ll go, get out before my boyfriend returns. These thoughts propel me down the stairs into the hallway where the clock tells me it‟s 8:30 pm and where my hand is on the front door, clicking the lock free. The right words are on my tongue, words to protect me from the woman out there, and when I open the door the night air teases the hairs on my arm and the back of my neck, and all the words are lost. Because it isn‟t the neighbour. I would have given all the work I have ever done for it to be her. It‟s Paul. He‟s leaning against the door frame, thinning hair uncombed and chin unshaven. For the first time I can remember, he looks hungry or that he might never eat again and before I can say anything or slam the door shut against him, he‟s pushed past me and is standing, legs planted wide, in the hallway. A piece of dirt in Jack‟s moneyed perfection, a wolf where no wolf should be. “What do you want?” I start to say but the stinging slap to my cheek shuts me up quick enough.

225

A Dangerous Man “Cut the crap, you stupid little shit. Where the fuck is Joe? Where is he, eh? Where is he?” With each phrase, he‟s shoving me back against the wall, fat fingers gripping my throat so my head thuds against the paintwork, making the noise in my skull sing. His breath rages round me, a sea of old whisky and stale spices. “I don‟t know. I don‟t know,” I gasp. “What‟s it got to do with me? For Christ‟s sake, leave me alone.” “I don‟t believe you, you‟re a lying shit. He‟s here, isn‟t he? Somewhere. With you. Ain‟t that what you meant before when you said he‟d found someone else? Ain’t it? You little bastard.” Before I can answer him, he‟s let me go with a final push that shakes out every thought I have, leaving me blank as untouched paper. I sink down on my haunches against the wall and retch away the emptiness. “Joe? Joe,” he yells as if there can ever be a reply. And then he‟s gone, running through the rooms downstairs and howling the dead man‟s name like a chant. Must stop him, I have to stop him, he mustn‟t see the studio. I have to stand up but when I do my legs won‟t hold me and I gag again, the world in which I find myself swimming away from my grasp. Without warning I am hauled to my feet and another slap brings me into sharp reality. “Where is he? Upstairs? In your bed?” “No, I...” But he doesn‟t stay for an answer. He‟s taking the stairs two at a time and the fire in my gut sends me scrabbling after him, all nausea forgotten. I must stop him. Above me doors are flung open and still Paul is screaming. When I reach the landing, I can see he has abandoned the bathroom, leaving its rich colours open to view in a way Jack never likes, and has just finished opening the doors to the other bedrooms. Of course he finds nothing and the next second he is striding to the studio, his hand reaching out, the warmness of wood glistening a treacherous welcome. “No!” I launch myself at his legs and together the two of us roll like lovers across the landing carpet, scrabbling and biting, tearing at clothes and flesh and hair. Books fall from the shelves on top of us but Paul brushes

226

Anne Brooke them away. I can‟t breathe. He is stronger than me and I don‟t know how long I can keep him from seeing what I have done. I don‟t know how. But I don‟t have to. Because before I can realise the meaning of what I‟m hearing, my name is called by a familiar voice, there‟s the sound of quick feet up the stairs and then Paul‟s hands are dragged away from my neck and my breath shudders back through my body in great raw gulps. “What the hell is going on? Who are you and...?” Jack says and then pauses. “It‟s Paul, isn‟t it?” Our intruder doesn‟t answer. He looks at Jack and then turns away, bending his frame into a crumpled question mark and for a moment I think he is crying, but that can‟t be true. “What the hell is this about? Michael?” “He attacked me.” It‟s the first thing I can think of to say and even I know it‟s not enough. “Why?” Jack asks, and now he is crouched in front of me, one hand touching my face and the other searching inside the long coat he is still wearing. When he brings out the phone, it‟s as if he‟s punched me. “I‟ll call the police,” he says. “No.” I knock it out of his hand and only just register his surprise before Paul interrupts. “Yeah,” he snarls, eyes rimmed in red and glaring at the both of us. “Call the police, rich boy. Ask them where Joe is. And then ask them what your little queen knows about it.” Paul looks as if he‟s about to go for me again, but Jack springs to his feet and stands between us. “What do you mean? Joe Garmon? What‟s happened to him?” “Dunno. Except that he‟s little Mikey‟s lover now. Then again, these days who ain‟t?” “Shut the fuck up, you‟re a fucking liar.” “Oh yeah? Don‟t think I won‟t...” “For God’s sake.” Jack‟s voice pierces through the dark red mist spinning its web around Paul and me. “Michael, what does he mean? What‟s been going on?” “He‟s a liar,” I repeat but I can‟t meet Jack‟s eyes. Instead I hug my knees and say it again, “He‟s a liar.” “All right,” he says but I think he doesn‟t believe me. “So what‟s all this about Joe? What‟s been going on?” 227

A Dangerous Man “He ain‟t been home since your bloody show. Ask Mikey where he is—ask him.” “That is what I‟m trying to do, if you‟ll give me a chance.” He waits for a moment but I stay silent and he changes tack. In the middle of all this, I admire his calm. “All right. Paul, where do you think Joe might be?” “How should I know? Why would he go anywhere without telling me? Or Lee-Anne? No matter what, he wouldn‟t screw his precious gallery. Unless something happened, something Mikey knows,” Paul makes a sound halfway between a sob and a groan and something in his expression clears. “It‟s more than a good weekend fuck, isn‟t it? Something else has happened. Where is he? Where is he, Mikey? Why didn‟t you speak to Lee-Anne yesterday? Why didn‟t you tell her anything? And what do you know?” Dodging Jack, Paul lunges at me, kicks my legs out from underneath and then slams my head once onto the carpet. “Where‟s Joe? Where‟s Joe, you little bastard?” “Get out,” Strong hands lift my attacker away once more, and I gag for breath. “Get out now or I‟ll ask the police to do it for me.” Paul looks as if he might grapple us all, me, Jack, the world, but then something inside him crumples the way it did before. “Okay, okay, I‟m going. But it‟s not over, I swear it. I‟ll find out what you‟ve done, if I have to beat it out of you, Mikey. I swear.” Jack moves towards him and he backs off, stumbling down the stairs, still muttering threats. My boyfriend follows him and I hear the sound of the front door being clicked shut, then silence, and footsteps returning. I stagger, bent over with my hand pressed to my mouth, to the safety of the bathroom, where I manage to lock the door before spewing a thin colourless stream of liquid into the toilet. I know it is colourless as I have eaten nothing, but my eyes see a haze of red and green and yellow, and when I have finished nothing is left, not even black or white. I sit slumped against the cold enamel of the toilet for what seems like hours, though it‟s probably only twenty minutes, maybe thirty. There‟s a niggling anxiety in my head but I don‟t want to focus on it. I thought there‟d be more time. Time for getting rid of the memory of murder, easing it out in the lines I draw on paper so it can‟t take me over any more. Time for putting more space between me and the people who mattered to Joe, time for thinking of what to tell Jack. None of this has happened. Lee228

Anne Brooke Anne and Paul have seen to that and instead of being in a place where I can begin to hide, I‟m open to the cold air and judgement. I should’ve killed Paul. But it might have been worse then, as Joe would have come asking and he was someone Jack would have been more willing to listen to. As it is, the confrontation just now has left a shitful of explaining to do. What should I say? What lies will be easiest for Jack to believe? That is, if he still wants to believe me. Should I say Joe and I had been lovers, though that had never been true? No, that would only lead back to the question of where Joe was now, and I could never tell him that. I would have to lie and keep on lying. No proof remains, everything that could screw me is buried on the other side of London and might as well be a thousand miles away. If my luck holds and keeps on holding. Shaking my head brings a fizz of darkness and colour to my eyes and I pull myself up, breathing away the tide of anxiety. At the basin, I wash my face and swill my mouth round with water to deaden the taste of bile, and still that anxiety I can‟t place. Then I realise. God. My body doesn‟t respond fast enough to the warning in my blood and I stumble over the discarded books on the landing, banging my shoulder against the wall. “Jack?” But I‟m met with silence and the half-open door of the studio. At the threshold, I catch my breath and time eases to a stillness I‟ve never known. The flow of air stops its journey through my mouth and lungs, and if I was an animal, perhaps a wolf like Paul, I might be howling. Jack too is motionless. He stands next to the scattered remains of my art objects, brick, wood, iron, and in front of the easel with my one last drawing, which he must have picked up and placed there himself. It is as if he will never move again. In his arms are bundles of papers filled with my guilt. “Jack?” He shivers. The papers drop like dirty snowflakes onto the carpet and he holds up one hand as if to stop me trying to say anything else. Not that I am able to. His eyes are great holes of darkness. “These pictures?” he says at last, though his voice is unrecognisable. “Joe? And... this other? Who is he? What have you done, Michael?”

229

A Dangerous Man The room glows a shade of red it has never been before and when I look at him, he seems a lifetime away. I tell him. Everything he doesn‟t want to know. About Joe and about... the other man too. Standing there in the room Jack has made into my studio, I start to talk and keep on talking, and with each word that burns itself out in the atmosphere, another colour inside me slips into place. Red, always red, I can never get rid of it, and also green, orange as bright as the eyes of a cat, and yellow, blue, gold. I long for the black and the grey but don‟t know how to find them again, and it‟s amazing how I don‟t feel anything. I think if I keep on talking, then the day and the moment might never end, the night won‟t pass, the sun won‟t rise tomorrow and Jack and I will be here forever, trapped in the unforgiving truth. It‟s a dream worth dying for. At last, the words fade away into silver and silence, and I have no more to replace them. Instead, those that have been said hang their flavour in the studio‟s cooling air, turning the glitter to dust and sourness. Jack‟s eyes seem to shrink into themselves and their light clouds over, or at least goes some place I can‟t reach. “Michael.” Only one word breathed so soft I have to strain to hear. But it says goodbye in ways nothing else can, and when it has gone, it takes with it the best of me. “Jack, please.” But he isn‟t listening and his next words show me how little he‟s heard. “I don‟t know what to believe, not any more. You killed him? I have to ring the police. Don‟t you see? I have to. Because of this.” He gestures at the pictures on the floor, and at the one on the easel. The one which looks so much like me but isn‟t. It can never be me. Never. In that moment I see what I must do. “No.” The iron bar I have only ever drawn once slams down on my boyfriend‟s head and he falls to his knees. It happens again, and then a third time, and then on and on until I no longer see Jack‟s face and it‟s no longer him I‟m hurting but someone else, the man from the picture, the man who deserves all the shit in the world as long as I can give it. I go on and on until I have no strength left and Jack—if it‟s still Jack—lies

230

Anne Brooke choking on blood and sick. Whoever it is groans once and is silent. In the quietness that creeps back to fill the room, one word is spoken. Daddy. I have to leave now. Don‟t want to be in this room, it‟s evil. God, it feels good though, having done it, having got rid of all the colours in the world, but I‟m so cold that if I stay still I‟ll freeze to death. Must leave, get away. Wasn‟t I packing, a long time ago? No good, can‟t remember, can‟t stay still, got to keep moving. Don‟t stay upstairs. Got to keep moving, putting as much distance as I can between me and... what? Doesn‟t matter, here I am anyway in the kitchen, opening cupboards and shifting plates and mugs and cups from one cabinet to the other, as if I‟m searching for something. What is it? I don‟t know what. Now the downstairs bathroom, steam on the mirror from where I‟m breathing. I‟m still breathing. That‟s good, that‟s good, Michael. Mikey. Don’t call me Mikey. Piss in the loo, flush it away, wash my hands. Wash them again. Then out into the hallway, the sight of Jack‟s coat making me struggle to breathe once more. Jack, where‟s Jack? Don‟t know, he‟s not here. The living room, switching the television on and off and on again, the noise of it drowning out the noise in my head. It doesn‟t mean anything, turn it off. Jack loves the garden, don‟t look at it, don‟t look. Striding out into the dining room, the table‟s bare wood gleaming soft in the side light. It smells of meals eaten in peace years ago, the memory of meat salted with talk that doesn‟t wound, plans for pleasure not pain. Meals I won‟t have again. Why not? Stop it stop it stop it. Have to go upstairs, the bedroom, Jack‟s bedroom, and my clothes are on his bed, next to them a holdall. Am I leaving? Where will I go? Everything changes, nothing lasts, not even this. The air stifles me. Why can‟t I breathe? Open the window. But no, the outside mustn‟t get in. Go to the studio, I need to. All the pictures I should never have drawn are there. But I can‟t face it. So I swerve away and instead I find myself in the upstairs bathroom. Four paces bring me to the mirror which shows me the lines on my skin, the paleness of it, and four paces back. My breath is coming in short bursts. Raise the toilet seat and falling, falling to the cold tiles, retch and try to retch again. Have I done this before? Today? But nothing is there and all I can produce is a thin clinging line of spit which forms a globule of fizzing creaminess in the icy blue of the toilet water. I flush it away. But my mouth and chin are still damp. 231

A Dangerous Man Bloody hell, Christ. I have nowhere else left to go, no room I can find. No hiding place. I have to go back in. To where the man is. Not Jack, not him, but someone else who shouldn‟t be here. Wiping my face dry with the towel, I drop it to the floor and go out into the hallway. The light isn‟t on. I don‟t need it, I know my way. And if I didn‟t then it‟s almost as if a haze of something is floating round the studio door. As if behind it lie all sorts of shapes and fantasies I‟m not brave enough to look at. The sound of something whimpering: an animal. It‟s me. And I can‟t stop the noise, no matter how much I want to. I have to go inside. Look at what‟s there. Deal with it, Mikey, deal with it. I am calm now. Aren‟t I? Unable to stop shivering, I open the door. It‟s dark inside, and I sense the metallic smell of blood or fear. The sound of someone taking a harsh breath makes my body tingle and I turn to run before realising it‟s me. When I open my eyes, the man is lying face down, his body spread-eagled, and a long line of rusting blood stretches towards the window. I have no idea what time it is and it no longer matters. I am glad he is dead. He has always been bigger than me, though with no excess flesh on him, not someone I could push around. Not before tonight anyway. A weight of muscle, bone, skin, blood and veins. A weight almost more than my hands, my mind could bear. Then and now. But I did it. It nearly finished me, but I did it. I can be proud of what I‟ve done. I should always have been proud of what I‟ve done, but until now I‟ve never had the chance. This at last is all my own. Something to remember. The sight of the man on the floor stirs my interest. I kneel beside him and run my fingers along his flung-out arm, at near-right angles to his body like part of a crucifixion I saw in a gallery once. Touching his hair, the soft strands of it are like butter between my fingers. It‟s funny as I remember his hair as dark. Someone sighs. I think it‟s me. For a while, all is quiet. The room smells of sweat and old memories, and I do nothing. I wait. Outside, I hear the murmur of voices, then someone laughs. Next door, I think, though it doesn‟t matter. I get up and stroll across to the window. I don‟t look at the garden, not that I can see much in the dark anyway. No, I gaze beyond, over trees, the backs of houses, up into the sky where the stars are hidden by city lights and cloud. 232

Anne Brooke “It‟s dark,” I say. And then I‟m somewhere else, someone else. Not here with Jack. And I can no longer stop myself from remembering. ***** He never leaves me alone. And it doesn‟t take me long to realise that the more I fight him beforehand or tease him, as he calls it, then the more satisfied he is. This, I learn, is good. His satisfaction means more nights on my own before he needs to visit me again. Sometimes, as I grow more experienced, I find I can play him so well that I manage to stretch out his fulfilment until the next night. I fight him off, promising pleasures to come and then, during the following day, I tease him more. Flash him secret smiles when no-one is looking, run my fingers over my groin, even touch him when I can and if I can bear it. It drives him to such excitement that when he finally comes to my bed in the night, he has me at once, satisfies himself and then leaves. That way, both nights are easier. Mikey, Mikey. I love you. This is just how I show you my love. It’s special, don’t you know? Really special. No-one will ever find out. No, please, I don‟t want to hear this. Please. My hands pushing away, scrabbling to draw the bedclothes tighter over my body. You don’t mean that. You’re a little tease, aren’t you? A prick tease. See what you’re doing to me. Look. Look at me, Mikey. Jesus, no, must get a drink. Pour myself a brandy, but there‟s none here and I don‟t have the strength to go downstairs. I can‟t leave what I‟ve done. Jack? Jack? But the voice doesn‟t go and in it I taste all the colours I have always hated. I don‟t want to hear it. I don‟t want... I don‟t want... not this time. Come on. Once more won’t make any difference. At least let me look at you. Pulling down the sheets and blankets, exposing me. You’re so beautiful. Just so beautiful. And so young. It’s not my fault this happens. It’s you. You make me do this. I can’t help it. Leave me alone, please. Don‟t hurt me. Scratching and biting now. Hey, stop that. It won’t help you anyway. I’m stronger than you. But I tell you what. This time, I’ll be nice. I’ll just touch you and then I’ll go. I promise. How’s that then? Yes, yes. If you promise. Sure I do, sure. Look, I’ll just stroke you between the legs for a while. That’s all. Will you let me? Will you let me do that to you, Mikey? 233

A Dangerous Man And then you‟ll go? Do I want to stop this? Do I? Christ. Yes. Yes, I’ll go. Opening my legs. Slow, reluctant. Closing my eyes when his hand begins to stroke me there. Firm, regular strokes and becoming faster. I try to keep calm, think of something else. This time, I won‟t be happy, I won‟t let him win. I‟ll show him. If once I can resist him, then he‟ll leave me alone forever, I think to myself. But already my prick is hardening. Look, look, Mikey. You’re enjoying it. After all the fuss you made. I knew you would. See how good I am to you. You should believe me for once. I’ll just go a bit faster and... there you are. Happy now? Gasping, shaking, wet, dirty. I can‟t speak, can‟t find the words. God, you’re so easy, aren’t you? Never put up much of a fight, do you? What are you, Mikey? What are you? Easy. What else? I am crying now. I don‟t know. Whatever you want. A whore. You’re a whore. What are you? A whore. That’s right, that’s what you are. You’re a whore. That’s a bad person, isn’t it? And bad people need punishment, don’t they? Don’t they? Yes. Louder. Yes. Good. That’s good. And that’s what I’m going to do to you now. Punish you. To teach you a lesson for your own benefit. But the voice isn‟t from then, it‟s from now. I‟m still sobbing, rolled up near the window, though I don‟t remember moving, my head covered by my arms, curled around myself. I am a child again. The voices have left my head and formed words beyond myself. Before they seemed so much a part of my own mind, trapped in swirling circles of yellow and green and red. “No.” And with one great effort, I open my eyes. They‟re wet. “No.” Taking the pictures and pieces of wood from the floor, I hurl them round at the walls, the shelves, onto the body where it lies, unable to fight back. Just like me, just like me. Then I run out of the room, onto the landing. I have no idea what I‟m doing or where I want to go, but I have to 234

Anne Brooke get away from the darkness in the room that clouds the things I should know and makes them into things I can‟t control. It comes with me. The darkness, the night terror. My body knocks into the wall, doors, I trip over carpet and for a moment lie sobbing sprawled between bathroom and corridor. I have to do something. Get away from the noise, the sounds in my head. But I have nowhere to go. Must run. Now. In the bathroom, I turn on the taps in the bath, put the shower on full blast. Stripping off my clothes and standing underneath it doesn‟t help me. The water can‟t drive away what‟s inside, can‟t make it vanish. When I step out of the shower, I drip water over the tiles, but I no longer care. The bath taps are still running and leaning over I put the plug in. The water rises. It rises. It will wash everything away. Will it? Smashing my fists against the cabinet shatters the glass and shards of bright light fall like dust or rain. My arm is bleeding. Like the blood on the body. The dead man. Joe? Jack? No, not Jack. The other man, the one I can‟t name. I hate you. Hate who? I don‟t know. I should clean up, make it all right again, put things back under control. That‟s the way I‟ve always done it, but I can‟t. The steam from the water nuzzles my flesh. It charges me up. And for the first time, I don‟t want to keep everything wrapped tight in my body, so tight that every movement twists my heart. Instead I want to wound and damage and kill. Again. For if nothing is left, how can it hurt? I destroy all I can. In each room I come to I look around once, so I can remember, though why I don‟t know. Because the one thing I have decided is that after today I will remember nothing. Somehow there will be a stopping point. When I reach it, I will know. After looking, I take all I can move and overturn it, rip it apart, scatter it to the floor, smash it. Every ornament, every glass, every book. I take the life I‟ve tried to live and make it nothing. What I can‟t move I piss on. Downstairs, I pour out bottles and bottles of whisky, brandy, wine onto the sofa, the chairs, everything I can find. With each action, the pulse in my head beats louder and the noise inside grows less. Is it deadened with 235

A Dangerous Man activity, or let loose to roam through the chilled air? I don‟t know, I don‟t know. In the kitchen, when I have finished, I look up and see the dampness of the ceiling where the bath is overflowing. Let it. I won‟t stop it. Let it come and drown me, if that‟s what has to happen. I don‟t see a future because there has never been a past. Not for me. Not for... Jack? Where is Jack? No, stupid, stupid, stupid. He isn‟t here, not any more. The only thing here apart from me is the body upstairs, and it‟s good he is dead. Is it? Why? I should go to him. Why? To end what I‟ve begun. That‟s why. My gut churns and I can‟t swallow. It doesn‟t matter as there‟s nothing to swallow. My mouth is dry but I feel no more pain. Do it. I have to do it. Feet weighted down by all my unremembered memories, I stumble upstairs.

236

Chapter Twenty October A long time goes by. I think it‟s a long time. And inside me only emptiness. From somewhere I hear the telephone ring and ring but then it too stops. I crouch like a wolf in my studio, staring at the body on the floor. He— it—is naked now. I have unclothed him, and he is still sleeping though sometimes I try and shake him awake. Whisper in his ear or shout or nudge him with my foot. Anything to wake him. He‟s only sleeping. Isn‟t he? I have to think so. He sleeps but even so he‟s beyond my calling or any words I can think of to say. Around me faces drift in a mist of grey. Lee-Anne, Paul, Joe, Lee-Anne again, and then always at the centre, the man I call Jack. He hides the other, buries him inside where I cannot tear him out. There will be no more drawings. I want to leave and it is impossible. Something I cannot understand holds me and to move is more than I can do. I have been happiest here, for a while. Why has it gone? I am wearing his clothes. They still have the smell of him and if I close my eyes I can see his smile. I cannot see it any other way as when my eyes are open, the mist hangs in the air and the faces float in it. When I lie down next to him and stroke his face and his unmoving arm, it helps to mask the stench of grieving. It is the fourth time of crying when the knocking starts. I stand up. From where I am, I can see the garden. It glimmers in the small light of dawn. Has it been that long? The longest night I have known. The knocking comes again, more urgent now. The neighbour? Someone else? Maybe even the police. A lifetime ago, this evening, yesterday, someone wanted to call them but the reason flutters on the edge of my mind and is lost. I can walk away. But something of me will always be here. The man has taken that from me so it will always be his. But Jack, Jack will be fine. He is not here and when I am gone he will not remember me. More knocking. Will it ever stop? I turn back to the window. 237

A Dangerous Man Beyond the garden, the path. And then a road. And another road. And from there, though I can‟t see them, are other streets, other houses, people about to get up for the morning and walk into their lives as if nothing else is important. And beyond the houses, the whole city. London and all it contains merging outward, outward into countryside, and then sky and sea and other lands which I have never seen. Maybe I never will. The knocking stops. And then the sound of banging, something heavy applied to solid wood. Shouting. I can go out there to a place only I can hide in, I can leave, walk down the stairs, through this flooded and broken house where the water will wash everything clean again, and away where no-one will ever find me. London is a city for the lost and for those who don‟t want to be found. Or don‟t want to find themselves. I still have time. All it will take is one step forward and then another and another and another. Such a little thing. No danger in it. So easy to do. I stand up. Surely I am ready now. ~End~

238

About the Author Anne Brooke is the author of seven novels, as well as many short stories and poems. She was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Novel Award in 2006, the Royal Literary Fund Awards in 2004 and the Asham Award for Women Writers in 2003. Living in Surrey in the UK, she is proud to be an Essex Girl and, in her other life, works in student care services at the local university. She plays bad golf and would love to learn how to dance. She also keeps a terrifyingly honest journal at http://annebrooke.blogspot.com. More information can be found at: http://www.annebrooke.com or at http://www.myspace.com/annebrooke. Other books by Anne Brooke published by Bristlecone Pine Press: Thorn in the Flesh Pink Champagne and Apple Juice

About the Cover Artist Scot D. Ryersson is the co-author of the internationally best-selling biography, Infinite Variety: The Life and Legend of the Marchesa Casati, a play based upon it, The Princess of Wax: A Cruel Tale, and, most recently, The Marchesa Casati: Portraits of a Muse, as well as numerous critiques and essays on film and literature. He is also an award-winning illustrator and graphic artist who has lived and worked in London, Toronto, Sydney and New York City.