by Paul Burston
But there’s no point in dwelling on what might have been. The important thing for me now is to look to the future. And I do have a future, whatever you might like to think. It might not be the future I’d have chosen for myself, but I’m extremely good at adapting to new challenges. I’ve had to be.
You see, Tom, I wasn’t always like this. There was a time, not that long ago, when I was a fine, upstanding member of society. I had a job. I paid my taxes. I had hopes and dreams, just like you. But then something happened and all that was taken away from me.
Not that I expect you to understand. How could you? Your own life has taken a very different trajectory. In fact, this is probably the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Imagine that! Imagine being so blessed that the biggest complaint you have is that someone you were once friends with and later discarded refused to crawl away quietly and die. What a ridiculously privileged life you must have led. Aren’t you even remotely embarrassed by your good fortune? I know I would be. But that’s the difference between us. You have a strong sense of entitlement, whereas I’ve always been grateful for whatever slivers of success came my way. What was it Quentin Crisp once said? ‘If we all got what we deserved, we’d be living in the gutter’. I’m happy to be in the gutter, looking up at the stars. But you? You want to own the stars.
Before I met you, I had a clear sense of my place in the world. I was under no illusions about how I was perceived by the people I encountered on a daily basis. I was someone’s daughter, someone’s neighbour, someone’s student, someone’s roommate, someone’s work colleague. I was even, briefly, someone’s girlfriend. But we needn’t go into that now. It didn’t last long and it didn’t end well. But that’s the risk you take, putting yourself out there. Life isn’t a safe space. Life is wild and exciting and fraught with danger. That’s what makes it so wild and exciting. Any fool knows that.
Which is why I feel so terribly disappointed in you, Tom. You’re no fool. You’re a writer, for fuck’s sake. You know what life’s about. You know the power of words – and you know their limits, too. I wouldn’t expect the blunt brains of the criminal-justice system to appreciate the finer points of what we had together. To them, I’m just another fan who developed a crush and became obsessed with her favourite author. But we both know it was far more complicated and reciprocal than that. You fed my illusions. You encouraged me to dream. And now the dream is shattered, and I’m left to pick up the pieces while you swan off into the distance without a care in the world. It isn’t fair, Tom. It isn’t right. But I think deep down you know that, don’t you?
Anyway, I think that’s enough narrow introspection for one day. My world doesn’t revolve around you, however much it might please you to think so. I still have a life to live, despite your best efforts to curtail it. I can hear my dad stirring upstairs. So no more words for now. Time for action. I’ll be seeing you.
10
Tom’s head pounds. He didn’t sleep well – a combination of too much alcohol, too much tension in his neck and shoulders, and a nightmare he can’t recall but which woke him early and with a profound sense of unease.
Climbing out of bed, he’d trodden on a used condom and very nearly slipped and fell on the hardwood floor. What a fitting end to yesterday’s misadventure that would have been. His impromptu date had proved something of a disappointment. It wasn’t the waiter’s fault. He’d tried hard to please. Had Tom been in a better frame of mind, he’d have got off on his enthusiasm if nothing else. Instead he found the groans of pleasure off-putting and dedicated himself to speeding the other man along and getting him out of the flat as quickly as possible. The waiter had let it be known that he was free to spend the night, but Tom had made it clear that he preferred to sleep alone.
‘I have an early start – and I’m the worst snorer imaginable after a few drinks. Trust me. You won’t get a wink of sleep.’
The waiter, whose name was Luke and whose body showed no signs of abating, smiled and pulled Tom towards him. ‘Maybe I don’t mind.’
‘But I do,’ Tom replied, leaping to his feet and just managing to catch his champagne glass before it toppled to the floor. ‘Sorry. But like I said, early start.’
The other man’s face had fallen at that point. Tom felt a pang of pity, before reminding himself that rejection was character-building. A young man with Luke’s physical assets wasn’t used to being rebuffed. The experience would do him good.
It was barely 10.00 p.m. when Tom’s guest left. He’d sat up for another hour or so, finishing off the champagne before cracking open a bottle of Grey Goose and smoking a few cigarettes from the pack he’d purchased on the way home.
Now, as he sits in the stillness of his open-plan kitchen, checking his phone and drinking his morning coffee, his eyes are drawn to the half-empty vodka bottle on the living-room floor next to the black leather sofa. At least it’s upright – a bottle lying on its side would look far worse – but there’s no escaping the fact that the bottle is half empty. Not for the first time, Tom wonders if his drinking is becoming a problem. And not for the first time, he tells himself that a real alcoholic would be reaching for the bottle now, just to stop the shakes.
Turning his attention back to his phone, he checks his email and social-media accounts. There’s nothing in his inbox apart from the usual spam and nothing of interest happening on Facebook. He hesitates before checking his Twitter feed, afraid for a moment that the crazy bitch will have found a way to worm her way into his timeline, the way she has so many times before. But again, nothing. He debates searching for her Twitter account on Safari. He blocked her a long time ago, and at some point in the lead up to the trial, she retaliated by blocking him. But the last time Tom checked, her tweets were still public and could be viewed by simply leaving Twitter and using a search engine. It wouldn’t hurt to see what she was saying, would it? He opens Safari and begins typing her name into the tool bar. Then common sense prevails and he places the phone face down on the kitchen counter.
Moments later there’s a ping, so loud he almost drops his coffee. He glances up at the wall clock: 6.50 a.m. Nobody ever texts him this early in the morning. Anxiously, he reaches for the phone, half expecting a taunting message from his least favourite internet troll, telling him she knows he’s been thinking of her. But no, it’s last night’s visitor, thanking him for a ‘fun time’ and suggesting they ‘hook up’ again soon. Funny, Tom doesn’t recall giving the waiter his number. But he was pretty drunk last night, so he may well have done. He reads the message again, cringing at the faux Americanisms. He considers firing off a gently mocking reply, then decides against it. There’s no need to respond now, if at all.
Draining his coffee, he feels the caffeine course through his veins and decides to go for a run. It’ll help clear his head and burn off some of those empty calories. Decision made, he’s feeling more positive already.
His mood darkens the moment he enters the bathroom. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he’s dismayed at how rough he looks. His eyes are hollow, his skin ashen. Is it simply the hangover or lack of sleep or is this the cumulative effect of living the last year in a state of constant anxiety? Well, at least he can put all that behind him now. Assuming, of course, that Emma’s assessment at yesterday’s sentencing was correct.
Tom’s whole body tenses as the thought of her brings last night’s nightmare flooding back. He’s in a strange room, in a house with floors the colour of dried blood. The walls are plastered with newspaper cuttings and hung with fairy lights, similar to the ones in Emma’s garden. Against one wall there’s a display case filled with framed family photographs, but on closer inspection Tom sees that all the photographs are of him. Here he is suited and booted at a book signing. And here he is in a vest and shorts, running beside the river. And the newspaper cuttings on the walls – they’re all about him, too. The whole room is some kind of shrine. A chill runs though him. Is he dead or about to be killed?
There’s a cold breath on his
neck and suddenly Evie is there. He grabs her by both shoulders, shouting at her to stop. She laughs. ‘I’ll never stop, Tom. I’ll never leave you alone. Never!’ He pushes her against the wall, pinning her there with one hand and slapping her hard across the face. But she won’t stop laughing. Blinded with rage, he hits her harder, first with his palm, then with the back of his hand, until his fingers sting and his knuckles are raw. And now it’s no longer Evie he’s hitting, but Emma. Her eyes are wide with fear and she’s pleading with him. ‘You have to stop this, Tom! Please! You’re scaring me!’
Shaking the nightmare away, Tom runs the tap and splashes cold water on his face. What the fuck was that about? He’s never hit a woman in his life. Did he fall out with Emma yesterday? He remembers that they were both pretty drunk, and that he was so eager for her to leave, he bundled her out of the restaurant and into a taxi as soon as she’d paid the bill. It’s not just the hangover making him anxious. There’s a pang of guilt, too. He shouldn’t have sent her off like that, not when she’d been so generous.
Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Tom switches the water to hot and reaches for his shaving gel. Guilty feelings are another sign that a person’s drinking is becoming a problem.
Lifting the razor to his face, he sees that his hand is trembling. That’s another sign. Or maybe it’s just tiredness.
A quick shave, a good run and he’ll feel a whole lot better.
Tom has been running all his life. As a small boy, he ran from the bullies who seemed instinctively to know there was something different about him, even before he did. As a teenager, he discovered the joys of cross-country running as a welcome alternative to the ritualised violence of rugby and other contact sports offered at school. And as a young man he ran as far from home as his exam results would take him, leaving the narrow confines of small-town South Wales and escaping to London, where the streets were paved with possibilities.
It was here that he finally gave himself permission to explore his sexuality. It was the mid-nineties. Bands like Placebo and Suede were channelling David Bowie and The Smiths, striking androgynous poses and singing songs about alienated outsiders and different kinds of love. Suede singer, Brett Anderson, even described himself as a bisexual who’d never had a homosexual experience. Tom had had no real sexual experience to speak of and rather fancied himself as someone similarly enigmatic. Yet despite his own claims of bisexuality, his brief period of experimentation soon led to the inescapable conclusion that he was gay.
Knowing this and accepting it were two different things, and for a while he struggled, alternating between periods of sexual abstinence and entire weekends lost in music and high on Ecstasy, rushing from one club to another in search of love or its nearest available substitute. There was no Mr Right, Tom soon discovered. There was only Mr Right Now.
And then along came Aidan – the one-night stand who stayed for the best part of a year. Aidan was everything Tom thought he was looking for – tall, dark and handsome, with dazzling blue eyes and a smile that could charm the birds from the trees. He was also a compulsive liar who slept around, and left Tom humiliated and more heartbroken than he’d ever thought possible. The day he came home unexpectedly and caught Aidan in bed with another man, Tom lost all control and put his fist through the bedroom wall. He might have punched Aidan too had he not grabbed his things and beat a hasty exit.
Tom was never naturally trusting, even before Aidan. Growing up in a family where declarations of affection were rare, and resentments never far from the surface, Tom soon learned the value of self-reliance. What some saw as an air of superiority was actually a coping mechanism; one which had stood him in good stead – most of the time, at least. He dropped his guard when Aidan came along. After he left, Tom swore that nobody would ever hurt him like that again. He joined a gym and developed the kind of hard, ripped body he’d often admired and now wore as a kind of armour. He cleaned up his act and threw himself into his work. And still he ran. Sometimes it felt as if it was the only thing keeping him sane.
It was around this time that Tom’s parents started alluding to his ‘London ways’ – meaning his love of culture and the air of detachment he assumes whenever they’re forced together at family occasions. What they fail to have noticed is that he’s been like this for most of his life. These days, communication between Tom and his parents is rare and strictly limited to safe subjects. They never enquire about his personal life and he never brings it up. He hasn’t even told them about the court case. They wouldn’t understand and he already knows what his father would say: ‘Bullied by a woman? What the hell’s wrong with you, man?’
If he only knew.
Outside, the early-morning sun is bright and the streets are filled with rush-hour commuters, milling their way towards Vauxhall Station. Soon they’ll be packed onto busy buses or crowded trains or sweltering on the underground with their face jammed against someone’s armpit. Tom takes a moment to ponder his good fortune. He’s never had a nine-to-five job, has always been his own boss. There’s insecurity in being freelance, but there’s freedom too. However challenging his day may be, at least he’s spared the indignity of the daily commute.
Looking up, he watches a few clouds scurry across the sky, driven by a light wind coming off the river. He reaches into his shorts pocket for his earbuds and selects a playlist on his iPhone. A few stretches and he’s off, heading down to the Thames, then turning right and following the path that leads eastwards, past the MI6 building and along the Albert Embankment towards Waterloo. It’s not his usual route. Normally, he runs in the opposite direction, westwards towards Battersea. But for some reason, today he feels the pull of the South Bank with its theatres and street markets and concert halls. Maybe later he’ll stop and see if they’re still stocking his books in Foyles, then grab a coffee at Starbucks.
He settles into a familiar rhythm, feet pounding the pavement in time to the music, the anxieties of earlier lifting away. Tom has experienced many highs – the thrill of sex, the rush of drugs, the first flush of success – but nothing compares to the high he gets from running. He’s addicted to it the way some people are addicted to cocaine, but with the added bonus of knowing it won’t empty his wallet or turn him into an egocentric bore. He loves the Zen-like meditative quality of running, the way it makes him conscious of each breath, how it helps clear his mind. Even in a busy city street it’s possible for him to zone out and focus. And there’s nothing like the rush of endorphins to lighten his mood and chase the dark thoughts away.
There are surprisingly few other runners along today’s route – just the odd one or two, who exchange nods as they go by, breaking the Londoner’s code of conduct out of a shared sense of being not quite like other people. Tom pauses to take a quick drink from his water bottle. He can feel last night’s cigarettes on his chest and promises himself there’ll be no more. Then he’s off again, the sweat trickling down the small of his back as he picks up speed.
More people start to appear as he approaches the Southbank Centre – fellow runners, tourists with backpacks, people in business clothes with styrofoam cups of coffee and tense expressions, barking into their phones as they elbow their way through the crowds. This is London in a microcosm – busy, diverse, frenetic to the point of rudeness. Tom dodges and weaves his way through knots of people, careful to avoid colliding with anyone, ignoring the frowns and tuts from those who think they own the pavement.
An old song begins to play on his iPhone – ‘Pure Shores’ by All Saints, from the soundtrack to The Beach. He glances to his left, sees the sunlight reflecting off the river, and immediately wishes he was in Hastings. He’d mentioned the idea to Emma – he remembers that now. He said he was going there to write. But he hadn’t told her the whole story. Tom has an ulterior motive for visiting Hastings. It’s not quite a plan, not yet. But he wants to consider his options. There are possibilities to be explored and decisions to be made – and Hastings may hold some of the answers.
He’s visited the town once before – many years ago, on a school trip. He’d have been ten at the time. He remembers his history teacher explaining that the Battle of Hastings actually took place several miles away in a place known as Battle. But Tom wasn’t really bothered about that. He remembers the oily, black fishermen’s huts, and the brightly painted boats pulled up onto the gravel beach. He remembers the sky, all pinks and yellows, like an oil painting. And he remembers the sea, so much bluer and more inviting than the grey, choppy waters back home in Wales. It was like being abroad, or how his ten-year-old self imagined abroad to be.
He smiles to himself, lost in the memory. Then something catches his eye – a familiar face up ahead, half obscured by passersby. His skin prickles. It can’t be, can it? But as he draws closer the crowd parts and he sees her. She’s sitting on a bench at the side of the path, facing out towards the river, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if she’s waiting for someone. She’s dressed in a familiar pale-blue military-style jacket. Beside her on the bench is a large bag for life with the Foyles bookshop logo. Her head is bowed, but as he approaches she raises her eyes and stares straight at him. Evie Stokes.
Tom’s breath catches in his throat. He feels a sharp stab of anxiety in his chest. All at once, the world seems to tilt away.
What is she doing here? It can’t be a coincidence, can it? Did she follow him?
His rational mind tells him to keep running, look straight ahead, pretend she isn’t there. But he isn’t feeling very rational. His legs still move but his upper body twists as he cranes his neck to get another look. Then the wind is knocked out of his lungs, and the music stops as his earbuds are pulled from his ears and the ground comes hurtling up to meet his face.