Honest (19 page)

On the walls,
Jimi, Keith Richards and Slash looked down on me, all relics of Peter’s drowned
dreams of stardom; no, not relics,
gods
.

Downstairs,
the record player boomed music through two large surround-sound speakers, loud
enough to make the floor vibrate where I was lying.

The records
played to my living room filled with new chairs still in their plastic; a table
scattered with Ray Bans and a studio recording system shunted up against the
wall, beside a row of Fender Strats in Ash, Sonic Blue, Shell Pink, Foam Green
and Olympic White.

I closed my
eyes and listened to the long, complicated guitar riffs that I had no desire to
learn, while guitarists I hardly admired watched me from above. None of it was
for me, none of it; it was all for him. This was Peter’s flat.

I took a deep
breath and pictured myself at the cottage, alone in my bed with the door firmly
closed, just waiting for Peter to come to me. I thought of the cold, shivering
feeling in my bones just before he entered; then the numb, alien motions of my
body rising of its own accord, alive and fizzing, a vessel for him to
manipulate.

I willed it to
happen again as I laid on the bright purple rug, surrounded by all the cool
things I imagined a sixteen year old musician would love to have. Outside, an
ambulance screamed by and a sudden gust of wind knocked dust and debris against
my window pane. Nothing stirred inside me; nothing at all. Despite all my
efforts, he still wasn’t coming. I was still alone.

I got up and
paced the room, balling my fists, before shrieking loud enough to breach the
volume of the record playing below. Storming from the room, I took the stairs
two at a time and hurried to the living room, where I pulled the record
player’s plug from the wall. The silence frightened me. I stood alone,
surrounded by the gifts and possessions of the boy who never grew up; the
forever-adolescent love of my life.

A pipe groaned
in the kitchen; the kitchen I hadn’t really used. On its greasy lino floor were
boxes piled high; more speakers and guitar stands and figurines of rock stars I
didn’t even know the names of. I hugged my wasted frame and was suddenly very
afraid of the silence, afraid of being alone with all this...stuff. If Peter
wasn’t with me, and he wasn’t here, then where was he?

Where did
ghosts go?

I grabbed my
coat and took the tube into central London, where the streets were still
bustling with people on nights out; groups of flabby divorcees and
bleach-blondes on hen nights; drunken lads and football louts and every kind of
going-out group of people you could think of.

Between them
meandered all the fillers; the people like me who just wanted to be out, to be
free; to find a place to go. At least, I liked to think so. I passed them all
and their faces told me nothing.

Nobody knew
me, and there was nobody I knew. I had been released into the world to find my
way alone, and this was my way of doing it— me against the world, or something.

 I’d read in
my magazines many times that love could be just around the corner. I’d read
that 42% of individuals aged between18-25 went out on the weekends, and found
their partners in a night club.

One caught my
eye. A place called
Eight
near the corner of Shaftsbury Avenue, where
people were huddled outside in their ripped jeans and fishnets, either smoking,
or throwing up, or spilling their beer. What intrigued me the most was the
great chalk board outside, glistening wetly from a light shower of rain earlier
on. It said “Live music tonight!”

Inside, I
didn’t bother ordering a drink; I wouldn’t know how to. Besides, it wasn’t as
if I was carrying any change. In an angry kind of daze I searched the crowds,
squeezing between bodies and becoming mesmerised by the dim lights.

Part of me
knew what I was looking for; another part was lost, probably still wandering
around the cliffs in Mevagissey, searching for
him
.

There was a
stage where another band was preparing to play, though the audience were too
drunk to give them a proper welcome. Most of them looked to be in their
thirties, though their clothes — American baseball caps, Converse sneakers and
low-slung jeans— were all that of a teenager. I liked that.

The air was
thick with the smells of spilled beer and too much deodorant, but I held my
breath and braved it. I scanned the crowds, searching the faces, looking and
looking.

I took a place
by one of the loud speakers and didn’t even flinch when the music began; I was
numb, drunk on determination. I watched for the next hour, my knee throbbing,
and waited for someone’s face to jump out at me.

 Then, my
heart stopping, I found who I was looking for.

There was a
man sitting at a table at the far end of the room, where the crowd thinned out
to just a few onlookers sipping their drinks while the others went nuts at the
front. He was with a couple of others, seated around a small table sharing a
pitcher of beer. I paid no mind to them.

I waited half
hour or so for them to leave and go to the gents. When they did, I made my
move.

I wiped my
sweating forehead on my jacket and watched as his smooth mouth pinched the rim
of his beer glass, his eyes flicking up at me, wary. Something about him told
me this was fate; something told me this man
needed
me.

He was tall,
with long muscular arms in a striped vest and a pair of baggy jeans. His skin
was a creamy brown, his eyes an eerie, glistening green. He had a short crop of
afro hair, and a battered leather jacket was hung over the back of his chair.
My quick eyes took in the tell-tale signs; dirty fingernails, unwashed jeans,
tattered shoes. My heart thumped.

I took a seat
next to him and came in close enough to whisper. ‘Do you need somewhere to
stay?’ I asked, sniffing. I caught a whiff of the sweat on his skin; salty and
warm.

‘What’s it to
you?’ he said. His accent was typically east-end, and by his tone of voice I
could already tell he was desperate. It was an instinct.

There was an
incline at the end of his sentence; bold, territorial, yes; but not without
intrigue. This guy was perhaps couch hopping with friends — maybe bed-hopping—
but he was homeless. I made it my crusade, there and then, to bring this man
home with me — and keep him.

I thought of
all the flirty conversations I’d imagined in my head after reading all the
agony aunt sections in my magazines. I put on my best smile. Something changed
in his glittering green eyes; was it fear?

67% of men we
asked said they like a dominant woman.

‘Don’t be
scared,’ I said. ‘I was just looking at you and—and—’

‘And what?’ he
said, swallowing another mouthful of beer. His top lip was glistening, and I
could see a hint of stubble.

Bravely, I
reached out and put my hand on his knee. ‘It’s just I was hoping you would come
back with me tonight.’ I smiled again, widely. A friendly smile.

He left my
hand on his knee, cool and sweating. He put down his glass, considering.
‘You’re not some whacko?’ he put a hand across his mouth and sniggered. On his
wrist was a twisted leather bracelet. ‘Stupid question.’

‘I’ve got a
flat. I’ve got money. You could stay.’

His smile
dropped. He looked around the room, then clasped his hands together under his
chin in thought. ‘Just for one night?’

‘Of course,’ I
said. ‘Or...Or however long you need.’

‘I’ve had
offers like this before,’ he said.

My heart
thumped so hard I thought I’d burst. ‘Whatever you want, you can have it. Just
please come back with me tonight.’ I felt tears prickling my eyes.

‘Give me one
good reason other than money,’ he said.

I gripped his
knee tighter, panicking. He pushed my hand off. ‘Come on,’ he urged.

I could tell
he thought he was calling the shots, but men liked that too. They liked to
think they were in control, when really I —the woman— was doing the
controlling. I’d read somewhere that all men were babies, just looking to
suckle the next teat.

‘A hot shower,
and some new clothes, and...do you like music? Do you like records or play
guitar?’

Please, please
say you do, Peter.

‘I play a
little bit. So one night, yeah?’

‘Yes, of
course,’ I said, secretly hoping for longer. Of course he’ll want to stay, I
told myself. Of course he will.

He nodded his
head slowly, looking around the bar again. He leaned in closer and said, in a
low voice, ‘How much?’

‘Money?
Uh...Oh, I don’t know, how much do you want?’ I reached out for his hand, but
he snatched it away.

‘How much are
you offering? Come on, hurry up.’

‘A thousand,’
I blurted out. His eyes bulged — he wasn’t expecting that much. He quickly
recovered and did his slow, thoughtful nod again.

‘In cash?’

I nodded
eagerly. I put my hand on his knee and this time, he didn’t flinch away. ‘Of
course. Can we go now?’

He looked me
over, paying particular attention to my eyes, just as I did to his. ‘Where do
you people come from?’

I shrugged,
smiling ear to ear. I didn’t understand the question, but I didn’t need to. I
had him.

He rolled his
eyes and swallowed the last dregs of bear. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.
Just don’t be too crazy, all right?’

We left
together, and I felt like a queen. Every face we passed looked in awe of the
man on my arm and I, looking up at him, knew I could keep him for my very own.

Magazines
couldn’t teach you that.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

In the
bedroom, I stuffed the five hundred pounds I had in cash down the front of his
jeans. ‘The rest,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you tomorrow.’

He looked
around the room, confused, his eyes narrowing. I could see his hand shaking.
‘Where did you get all this stuff? Rob a fucking bank, or what?’

I was relieved
he hadn’t heard of me. That made everything easier. ‘Don’t worry about where it
came from.’

He shook his
head and, muttering to himself, took the money from his front and counted. Then
he stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You’re fucking weird. I don’t
know about this. It’s just sex, right?’

No, Peter,
this is love. Love, love, love.

I smiled up at
him, admiring his lean physique and strong arms. He made no effort to join me
on the bed; just stood there, nervous, unsure. He was just a baby, I reminded
myself; a beautiful baby. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Stephen,’ he
said.

I nodded. ‘I’m
Ellen. Just one thing, if you don’t mind, before we...you know.’ I giggled. I
shrugged off my coat and dumped it on the floor, before plucking the Ray Bans
from my head and dumping them there too. He watched them fall with a clatter,
his face becoming more confused.

‘What is it?’
he asked.

I moistened my
lip and looked up at him from beneath my eyelashes. ‘I want to call you Peter.
Is that OK?’

‘For a
thousand quid you want to fuck and call me Peter?’ He started laughing,
covering his mouth again and closing his eyes. ‘Whatever,’ he said eventually.
‘This is the weirdest fucking night of my life.’

While he
slept, my head in the nook of his shoulder, I thought about stuffing a pillow
over his face.

In the
morning, he would collect the rest of his payment and leave; abandoning me
forever. And besides, he wasn’t even the real thing; not nearly. He was half
has handsome and twice as old, and he was alive, for Christ’s sake. It just
wasn’t fair.

I grabbed my
pillow with one hand, slowly eased myself up, and held it up above his face.
His breaths came soft and slow, his naked torso rising and falling. Every fibre
of my being urged me to do it; make him mine completely, surrendered, dead.

I gripped the
pillow with both hands and hovered, fighting against myself. ‘You deserve
this,’ I whispered, my arms shaking.

I remained
that way for a few minutes, battling with myself. No shivering came, no
numbness, no signs at all; Peter made no intervention. I was alone, cold.

I threw the
pillow across the room, hitting the poster of Slash. I slipped back into the
bed sheets and watched him sleep, while my hand softly stroked his cheek. For
the rest of the night he was still living, at least, and all mine.

Peter said
nothing when he woke and saw me there, still watching, my eyes red and
sleepless. He made his way from the room, naked, and sought out the bathroom. I
heard the pipes surge and the shower start up.

Sighing, I
pulled on my clothes and left a note telling him I was going to the bank for
the rest of his money, and that he was to make himself comfortable.

On the way, as
the cold wind whipped my face, I dreamed up all the ways I could convince him
to stay or, if that wouldn’t work, to
make
him stay.

I meant that
in the nicest possible way, of course; I wasn’t a bitch. It’s just that people
had a way of complicating things, when it was easier to just comply; take the
easy way out and give in. We needed each other, after all; he needed a home,
and I needed someone.

And I was not
going to be left alone.

The bank was a
couple of miles walk away, but I was grateful for the exercise. Being
wheelchair-bound for so long had made it difficult for me to keep my weight in
check, but now, I had no excuse. Even my sore knee, which swelled from time to
time, was no excuse for not losing more weight.
All
women could do with
losing more weight.

I went inside
to the counter and drew out £1500, which made the cashier cock an eyebrow. She
was a woman of about thirty with bad roots and a pencil skirt; no threat. I
smiled and said, ‘My boyfriend has expensive taste.’ Then I left, stuffing the
envelope into the inside pocket of my coat.

I felt almost
drunk as I made the walk back to my flat. Drunk, or out of this world, or
something; the way it felt when I’d woken up in hospital after the fire. I was
drifting in and out of consciousness, though my feet just kept moving on.

 Several
times, whilst stooping to stroke a dog or glance in a shop window, I remembered
there was a strange man in my flat. Something about that made a warmth rise
inside me, like the feeling of coming home.

There was a
large red car parked by a garage on the service road as I approached my flat, the
daylight glinting off its roof. Its boot was wide open, like a large yawning
mouth. As I passed by, I noticed something familiar on the back seat. Lots of
familiar things.

I stopped and
my heart stopped too, my fists balling. There was my bright purple rug, rolled
up neatly; two glossy black chairs laid down on the back seat; and, when I
peered inside, I saw there was a pillow case filled with Ray Ban sunglasses. I
bit my lip so hard it nearly bled.

  I half–ran,
half–hobbled up the stairs to my flat and found the door was already open. When
I burst in, my man was helping two others haul the recording system through the
hallway.

‘What the hell
are you doing?’ I screamed. Three faces looked up. In the light of day, in my
drab hallway, it dawned on me that I didn’t recognise any one of them — not
even the one I’d brought home.

The man I
thought resembled Peter was much, much older than I’d thought, and his eyes
were red in the corners, his body starved and dotted with red scabs. Needle
marks, I realised. A drug addict.

‘I’m gonna
call...I’ll...’ I stuttered, feeling afraid for the first time in a year. It
was the first time I’d felt
anything
in a year.

Peter — no,
Stephen, was it? — looked at the other two, and they looked back at him. Both
were gaunt and rancid and pock–marked; all filthy addicts.  He shrugged and let
go of the system, but they kept a hold of it, pensive.

 I blocked the
door, but that didn’t stop them. Hurriedly, they came at me and shot by,
carrying the system with them. I was shoved against the wall, my head smacking
it, while they carried it away.

I rubbed my
head, seething, yet weakened. I realised I had no idea where I was, or who
these people were, or who I was either.

‘Why are you
doing this?’ I said, looking at the pocky man with the matted afro hair and
smeary jeans. When he didn’t answer, I screamed and made for his face with my
hands clawed. He grabbed my wrists, my wasted bones, and threw me aside. I came
back at him and was faced with the butt of a lamp; cold, hard metal impacting
my temple.

I was muted
mid–howl as my head collided with it, my neck snapping back and my crown
meeting the banister. I was knocked out of the light and into darkness.

When I awoke,
they were all gone.

My head sore
and bleeding, I crawled to the stairs, helped myself to my feet, and stumbled
into the living room. Everything was gone; they’d taken the lot, even the stuff
still wrapped up in plastic. The kitchen contained empty boxes, their contents
hastily snatched and dumped in pillow cases just like the glasses.

I made my way
back to the sofa and rested my oozing head. I’d never been robbed before, and
yet somehow I felt as though I hadn’t lost anything. None of it mattered.

Within moments
I was crying, clawing my face in anguish. All the while I was thinking,
I
should have killed you. I should have stuffed that pillow over your face.

Just the
thought of it excited me, but the feeling was snuffed out as quickly as it
came. I had missed my chance to
own
him and, now, he’d run away. I laid
there for hours, buzzing, imagining all the things I should have done if only
I’d been strong enough to kill the bastard.

 He wouldn’t
have been Peter, but he would have been something of my own; flesh, blood, a
life taken for my own use. I could wrap him in plastic and he would be
priceless; it would be as if his heart had never been beating at all.

I wondered if
I should go out and find somebody else.

Through my
tears, I gazed about the empty room and asked myself what I was doing here,
when I didn’t belong? I’d had so much passion back home, even wheelchair bound.
I was safe, a volcano confined to wheels and a seat; a pot boiling over, a bomb
waiting to go off.

Now I was the
fuse, limp and unlit, and the fuel had drained away from me.

97% of
women say they cannot live without a spark in their lives; something to drive
them forward.

Cathy, a PA
from Hemel Hempstead, said, ‘When a relationship goes bad, I spend a bit of
time being me, and then I go out and find the next big adventure. I’m always
dating new men. Life without passion would be boring.’

I checked my
coat pocket and found the money was gone, envelope and all. Never mind, I
thought; there was always more where that came from. Other things, though;
other things weren’t so replaceable.

My old life,
for instance; the simplicity was something I still longed for, even if I’d
hated my father.

Back at the
halfway house, we had discussed my father. Julie once told me that most victims
of abuse blame themselves, and that’s why they don’t ask for help. She said
this is because the victim has participated in the events, and therefore feels
partly responsible.

I’d never
understood that in my case, though I didn’t tell Julie that. How could I ever
explain it to her?

How could I
explain that I was a victim who relied on those events occurring — those
disgusting, vile, intrusive events in my bedroom since I was a child — in order
to feel safe in the world?

How do you
explain to someone that the participation is all that reminded you that you
were alive?

How do you
explain that it was necessary to survive?

It dawned on
me that there was nobody in London who could ever really understand me, or help
me, or make it all right again. This wasn’t freedom. I was lost. I needed to
get back home again. I needed to get rid of it all and start anew.

By the time I
got to Paddington, I was stinking of smoke and lighter fluid, my fingers black
at the tips. People gave me odd looks; others veered away in disgust. I thought
nothing of it as I, quite elated at the thought of returning home, paid for my
ticket with a smile.

The journey
was long. I seated myself at a table for four, and was surrounded by three
middle–aged men wearing suits.

None of them
could take their eyes off me. I crossed and uncrossed my legs; even undid the
top button of my blouse and gave them a wink. They turned away, one blushing,
another frowning, one delving into a newspaper.

Finally, the
one next to me leaned in and spoke. I was laughing inside, thinking,
now I
know I’m coming home!

But what he
said confused me. ‘They’ve got CCTV of you, you know. I shouldn’t think you’ll
make it out of the station after what you did.’

‘What?’ I
said, shaking my head. Doing what? Picking up a man and letting him back to my
flat? He was the one who robbed me, after all. He was now a
bad ex
.
‘What I do in my own house is my business,’ I said.

‘You’re the
one who burned that flat down and set those shops on fire. It’s been all over
the news this morning. I’ve a mind to call the police myself.’

‘No, don’t,’ I
said, grabbing his elbow. ‘Just let me sit, okay? I’ll be quiet as a mouse. I
promise. You just...you...you just stay out of my affairs.’

The man
shrugged me off, ruffling his newspaper. He muttered something that sounded
like ‘crazy’, but I couldn’t be sure. He looked at the other two men, and they
all swapped a look of unease. When some people got off at the next stop, they
moved to different seats, leaving me alone. I sprayed some perfume to cover the
smell of lighter fluid. It was giving me a headache, and I supposed the smell
clinging to my clothes wasn’t all that attractive after all.

I leaned my
head against the window and watched the scenery go by until we reached St.
Austell.