The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (39 page)

‘With men.’

‘With men?’

‘They die.’

‘I see. So you weren’t surprised.’

‘Well no. And then yes, in a way. Because Darren was always so happy-go-lucky. Well, he wasn’t really. Clearly. And especially not lately. But that’s how he came across. But it’s all just an act, really, isn’t it? We’re all pretending that we’re fine, and deep down we aren’t, are we? Deep down we’re all so lonely we could die. And so in a way, I wasn’t surprised either.’

‘Because you empathise with him.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’

‘And you – have you ever contemplated suicide?’

‘No, never. Well, not as such. I mean, sometimes I think that it would be easier.’

‘Easier?’

‘Than putting on a brave face. Than pretending to be fine all the time. Because really life is just a big string of let-downs, isn’t it?’

‘You feel your life is a string of disappointments?’

‘Well, a bit. Yes. I . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Look, I was watching a kid on a push-bike . . . he was learning to ride it, tearing up and down laughing. And I thought that Darren
was
that kid once. And so was Waiine. And so was I. And I remember how easy it all seemed. You learned to ride a bike and you fell in love, and lived happily ever after. That’s how all the bedtime stories went, anyway.’

‘Innocence.’

‘Exactly. Whereas in real life you fall in love with a boy who never even notices you exist, and then you settle for someone who seems nice enough, but who would rather write down train numbers than a message on a birthday card or even better just get drunk and watch TV, and then he starts slapping you when he’s drunk, and then even
he
dumps you. And so you wait around, and one day you have a big love affair, only it turns out that this one is shagging someone else, and then he makes you have an abortion and then dumps you to live with the other woman . . . and . . . so it goes on. That’s what
real
life’s like. Men are disappointing, or unfaithful. Or they die. And no one tells you that when you’re a kid. Otherwise it wouldn’t come as such a shock.’

‘
They
die . . .’

‘Well yeah. Some do.’

‘Some? Your father, your brother . . .’

‘And now Waiine.’

‘Darren?’

‘Yes, Darren.’

‘You said Waiine.’

‘No, I said Darren.’

‘You said Waiine.’

‘Did I? Sorry. That’s weird. Isn’t it?
Is
it? I’m sure you’re reading all sorts of things into that.’

‘It’s interesting, but . . . who knows.
Was
Darren like your brother? Or perhaps like
a
brother to you?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘I see. So
men die . . .
’

‘Some don’t. Some dump you.’

‘I see.’

‘You don’t sound convinced, but I’m not making anything up here.’

‘I didn’t think for a second you were.’

‘Dad died, Waiine died. Darren died . . .’

‘Yes, yes . . . I can see how you might link those together.’

‘And I can’t go back to work. I can’t face seeing that empty chair.’

‘That’s understandable. You probably need some time off to come to terms with it.’

‘Yes. Maybe I should take some time off . . .’

‘It’s a shock. It’s perfectly normal.’

‘Yes. A shock. But somehow not entirely unexpected . . . as I say. Not like when Dad died.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, that was
really
sudden. I mean, Waiine, well, you knew . . . we knew . . . not exactly when it would happen, but we knew. And Darren, well, as I say, in a weird way, I knew.’

‘So how did you feel when your father died?’

‘Shocked. Devastated.’

‘And you cried?’

‘Yes. For weeks.’

‘Do you remember how that felt?’

‘Awful.’

‘Can you describe how it felt?’

‘Well . . . awful.’

‘Can you describe further?’

‘Sickening. Numbing, I suppose. From the trauma mainly.’

‘The trauma?’

‘Of
seeing
him die. Of actually being there. I think that kind of overshadowed the loss – the grief. It was mainly shock to start with. From the event itself.’

‘Can you describe the event to me?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘I think it would be useful.’

‘As I say, I’d rather not.’

‘I’m sure. I can only say what I think would be useful to you. In the end, like coming here, it’s all up to you.’

‘Is that IKEA? That red chair? Because I really like it.’

‘No. It’s Roche Bobois.’

‘Oh. No wonder. I wish I liked cheap stuff. It would make life so much . . . well, so much cheaper.’

‘So?’

‘So . . .’

‘So. Your father.’

‘I can try, I suppose.’

‘Good.’

‘We were shopping. For Waiine’s Christmas present.’

‘So Waiine wasn’t with you?’

‘No. It was just the three of us. Mum, Dad, and me. We were in the shopping centre in Camberley. We had lunch somewhere . . . probably BHS, Mum liked the BHS canteen in those days. And Dad said he had indigestion, which is a classic sign of course – yes it was definitely BHS – but no one thought anything of it. Of his indigestion, that is. You know what? I really don’t want to . . .’

‘Please carry on, you were doing really well.’

‘Right. OK. So, then we were on this escalator, and Mum and Dad were in front. And I was looking at this punk guy going down the other way . . . he was kind of cute . . . and then halfway up he just sort of slumped sideways. Dad, that is . . . he crumpled. And Mum and I held him upright to the top, and then we couldn’t hold his weight and he just slid to the floor. And that’s it really.’

‘But you tried to resuscitate him?’

‘Yeah. We thought he had fainted so Mum slapped him. But then somehow I realised . . . I don’t know why . . . but I took his pulse, and couldn’t find it . . . And that was it – he was dead.’

‘That must have been very traumatic. For a . . . how old were you?’

‘Seventeen. I was seventeen. I . . . I was doing my A levels.’

‘So what happened then?’

‘Some guy came out of John Lewis . . . and he ran off back into the store to call an ambulance. And I did CPR.’

‘CPR.’

‘You know, two breaths, thirty pumps. We learnt it in Guides. Only I couldn’t remember the numbers, how many of each, so I’m not sure if I did it right.’

‘Well, it was a very stressful situation.’

‘Yes. And Mum started trying to pull me off . . . and slapping me around the head. She thought I might hurt him, I think . . . She didn’t realise he was . . . Well, it all got very . . . And then the ambulance arrived, and I had to stop. And even then I thought they would just magically bring him back to life . . . I thought I was keeping him going till they could bring him back to life with electric shocks or something . . . but . . . then . . . I just stood there and watched, and they didn’t. I suppose they thought it had been too long or something. It was quite a long time . . . They faked it . . . trying to resuscitate him. I saw them faking it . . . Mum doesn’t know that.’

‘That must have been very hard.’

‘It was the feel of his mouth. That was the worst thing. That’s what I remembered . . . over and over. The feel of my mouth on his, like a kiss . . . but, obviously not a kiss . . . Because he was dead of course. And every time I remembered it, it made me cry, so I tried to blank them out, those final . . . But they kept coming back. And every time it made me fall apart all over again.’

‘You’re crying now.’

‘Well, my eyes are watering a bit.’

‘No, you’re crying.’

‘Am I? A bit maybe. Do you have a tis— thanks. No, I don’t really cry properly anymore. This is as spectacular as it gets.’

‘But you
are
crying now. Your chin is wet.’

‘Is it? A bit, I suppose.’

‘Quite a lot.’

‘Yes.’

‘You say it was like a kiss. Didn’t you mention kissing last time? I’m trying to find it here in my notes, but . . .’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘No? Oh. OK . . . No . . . yes, here it is . . .
beards
.’

‘Oh right. Yeah, I said that I don’t like beards.’

‘Did your father have a beard?’

‘Oh.’

‘Did he?’

‘Sorry, is this some Freudian thing? Because there was nothing . . .’

‘Not at all. But did he? Have a beard? Just for the record.’

‘Yes. But that’s not . . . is it?’

‘Not what?’

‘The beard thing? Is that why?’

‘Your biggest life trauma involved you giving mouth-to-mouth to your dead father. Who had . . .’

‘Yes . . . stop. I feel sick.’

‘What do you think?’

‘No. I don’t. I don’t think so.’

‘Another tissue perhaps?’

‘Thanks.’

What He Would Have Wanted

I end up taking an entire week of annual leave. I’m feeling tired and a little depressed, but more than anything, I simply can’t face walking into the office and seeing Darren’s empty chair. I’m hoping that the funeral, organised on Thursday, will make this easier come Monday morning. That is, after all, what funerals are for.

It’s a strange week though, slithering unnoticeably by in a sort of monochrome bubble of numb sadness.

The weather is cold but sunny, so I take walks through a frosted Hyde Park and think, in an unfocused, unproductive way about Darren, and Dad, and Waiine, and my own life. Talking to the shrink has shaken everything up again, and there’s too much really to even start to think about it all, but it drifts around at the back of my mind. Hopefully at some point it will drift into some useful shape.

I’m so lost in the freezing fog of my thoughts that the slightest of tasks – getting food in, finding a florist, reheeling my funeral shoes, or rescheduling the Cornish Cow visit, or, in ricochet, my gynaecology appointment – seem to take an entire day.

On Friday morning, as I step down onto the platform of Plumpton station (
a short platform, please disembark from the front three coaches only),
I feel ready for the closure that the service will provide . . . eager, almost, to move on to whatever comes next.

For thinking about Darren’s life has convinced me at least of one thing: that if your life isn’t working for you, you have to grab it by the throat and shake it up and down until it does. Because the alternative clearly doesn’t bear thinking about.

As I leave the station I see two separate couples of good-looking (no doubt gay) men. All four are suitably dressed in black suits and white shirts. I follow them down the main road, assuming that they will lead me to the funeral. After about thirty yards though, one of the men pauses, turns to face me and asks, ‘Excuse me, but do you know where the church is here?’

I shiver. He looks uncannily like Darren. I shake my head and pull my collar a little higher against the chill wind. ‘I’m sorry,’ I explain. ‘I was following you.’

A van pulls up beside us wanting to cross the pavement to enter a property on the right. I step back to let it do so and as it crawls past I ask the man driving for directions. And then with my black-clad entourage I carry on down the road. I feel a little like Madonna – out and about with bodyguards.

‘I take it you’re going to the funeral?’ the Darren lookalike asks.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Darren Langston?’

‘Dan,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘The brother.’

He doesn’t introduce the other three men, and none of them even acknowledge my existence, so I simply nod, smile weakly and say, ‘Of course. You look alike. I’m so sorry. I’m CC. I worked with Darren.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Good to meet you. It’s a waste. A terrible thing. So many of us are struggling to stay alive, and then you get someone like Darren . . . anyway . . .’

‘Yes,’ I say, repeating Mark’s words. ‘It’s a cliché, but that’s the only way to describe it. A terrible waste.’

And then, there, on the left, is the little church. A perfect parish church, surrounded by a weathered stone wall, and a shabby green lawn. None of the pomp or circumstance of Catholicism here.

I spot Mark and Ian just beyond the gate and, giving a restrained nod and a tiny wave to Darren’s brother, I step off the path to join them.

‘Hello,’ Ian says. ‘God that bloke looks exactly like . . .’

‘That’s his brother,’ I say quietly. ‘I met him on the way here.’

‘Wow, he really looks like him – were they twins?’

‘Nah, he’s two years older,’ Mark says. ‘It’s good to see your friendly face, Miss CC.’

I hug each of the two men and then turn to look at the two distinct groups forming in front of the church. ‘Don’t you know
any
of these people?’ I ask Mark.

He shrugs. ‘I know a couple of the faces – from night-clubs and stuff. But no, not really. And those people over there are his family.’ Nodding at a wiry ashen-faced woman he adds, ‘That’s his mother.’

‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘Imagine. The poor woman. Have you met her before?’

‘Once . . .’ Mark says. ‘Once was enough. Beware. She isn’t very gay friendly.’

I frown at Mark, wondering whether to take this apparent honorary membership of the gay club as a compliment or a wakeup call.

‘A lovely day for it,’ Ian says, his Scottish accent, suddenly strong. I wonder if it’s like my own Irish one, stronger in moments of stress.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Cold wind though. So has it been quiet?’

Mark pulls a face indicating non-comprehension.

‘At work?’

‘Oh, I’ve been off,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you even notice?’

‘Oh, no . . .’ I say. ‘No, I’ve been off too. I took the whole week off.’

‘Ahh, OK. I just thought you were off that day I phoned you about the funeral. Stanton didn’t say . . .’

‘No. So how come she invited this lot?’ I ask. ‘If she’s not gay friendly.’

Mark shrugs. ‘He left a list apparently.’

‘And a note,’ Ian says.

‘Note
s
,’ Mark corrects. ‘Multiple notes. One to be read out today.’

‘Jesus,’ I mutter. ‘Dramatic to the last.’

‘Indeed.’

‘No sign of Victor then,’ Mark says, giving me a calculated wink.

‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘I’m embarrassed enough.’