by Paul Burston
‘I meant for you to hold,’ she said. ‘Some people find it comforting.’
How old did she think I was? Five? ‘I’m not some people,’ I replied and tossed the cushion on the floor.
‘I understand that this can be difficult.’ She opened a drawer and took out a box of tissues. ‘Perhaps it would help if you were to think of these sessions as a safe space for you to explore your feelings. Anything you say here is completely confidential.’
That made a change from, ‘anything you say may be given in evidence’. I thanked her for the vote of confidence and assured her that, should I ever decide to explore my feelings, she’d be the first to know. ‘And we won’t be needing those,’ I said, indicating the box of tissues. ‘Unless you have a cold, of course.’
‘I’m sensing a certain amount of hostility,’ she said, proving that her education wasn’t entirely wasted.
‘I’m not really a fan of safe spaces,’ I replied. ‘Life isn’t safe. The best things in life certainly aren’t safe.’ I wanted to say that I wasn’t really a fan of therapy either. That I was only doing this to keep the powers that be happy. But I didn’t.
Maria gave me one of her smiles. ‘And what do you consider to be the best things in life?’
‘Ideas,’ I said. ‘Books.’ Then, just to see her squirm, ‘Sex.’
By now it was pretty obvious that this wasn’t going the way she’d planned, so I suppose she’s to be admired for sticking to her guns.
‘Have you ever had any kind of therapy before?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I lied, remembering the time my father dragged me along to see someone when I was twelve, and what a complete waste of time and money that turned out to be.
‘And what about your parents?’
‘I think they went for couples counselling a few times.’
‘No, sorry.’ Maria tilted her head. ‘I meant, what’s your relationship with them like?’
‘There isn’t a them,’ I said. ‘There’s just a him. She fucked off years ago.’
‘I see. And was that very difficult for you?’
‘Not at all. We were never close.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
I was tempted to say something flippant at this point: ‘She’d have preferred a boy she could vent her feminist rage on’ or ‘she never forgave me for ruining her figure’. But instead I just smiled sadly, as if the memory was too painful to even think about. Therapists like to see pain. It makes them think they’re getting somewhere.
We talked about my dad next. And even though I was far more forthcoming about him than I had been about my mother, and I noticed that Maria wrote things down in her notepad, I had the distinct impression that she was far less interested in him than she was in her. My mother would have loved that. She always liked to be the centre of attention. On the rare occasions that I think of my mother, she’s always mid-sentence and happily holding court, oblivious to the fact that nobody else has spoken in quite a while. And if by some miracle some poor sod is able to get a word in edgeways, she’ll allow them a brief moment in the spotlight before steering the conversation back to her favourite subject – herself.
‘And what about you?’ Maria asked.
I sniggered. ‘I don’t have kids.’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Not particularly.’ It’s sad, I think, that women still define themselves in term of their capacity to breed. All those yummy mummies and their cupcake feminism make me sick to the stomach. I see them in East Dulwich all the time, blocking the streets with their enormous buggies, meeting at Starbucks or Caffè Nero to get their caffeine fix and fill their empty days with inane chatter. But I didn’t say so. I figured I’d said enough already. If my therapist wanted any more from me, she’d have to work for it.
To give Maria her due, she’s not afraid of hard work. I don’t know how many times she tried to crack me during that first hour we spent together, how many tactics she employed. I was exhausted just watching her. She asked about my relationship history. I told her it was none of her business. She asked about my work history. I told her to look on LinkedIn.
‘Do you find that useful?’ she asked.
‘I never use it.’
‘You use Twitter, though.’
‘For my sins.’
‘Tell me about Twitter. What do you use it for?’
‘Killing time, mostly. Same as everyone.’
‘And do you still use it now?’
I’d have been lying if I’d said ‘no’. ‘Sometimes,’ I said. ‘When I’m bored.’ I reached into my pocket for my phone and made a show of checking the screen.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ Maria asked.
‘It’s a free country,’ I replied – graciously overlooking the fact that, thanks to you, my personal freedom has been somewhat curtailed of late.
‘Sometimes a good way to deal with negative emotions is to write letters to the people who inspire them,’ she said. ‘And then burn them.’
‘Great,’ I replied. ‘But what should I do with the letters?’
She looked rather alarmed at that, as if she truly thought I was some kind of pyromaniac. Immediately I pictured a bonfire of the vanities – not the satirical novel by Tom Wolfe but the actual burning of objects that might lead one into temptation, as sanctioned during the Renaissance. In my mind’s eye, I pictured you strapped to a chair at the top of the pyre, flames licking at your skin as you begged for forgiveness. My kind of guy.
‘Forget the letters,’ Maria said. ‘What about a journal?’ To hear her speak, you’d think she was the first person ever to suggest such a thing. ‘I think you’ll find it helpful,’ she added. ‘It will help organise your thoughts.’ As if thoughts need organising the way wardrobes do.
Here’s a thought: I don’t think Maria’s wardrobe is very organised. Her look is arty charity shop, although as she’s painfully middle class I’m sure this is merely an affectation. She could probably afford a personal shopper if she wanted one. But I don’t get the impression that she takes clothes very seriously or looks after them particularly well. I don’t think she assembles her outfits so much as throws them together from whatever items of clothing she finds strewn around her room. Maybe she thinks people are more likely to open up to someone who looks a bit of a mess.
I wonder what your wardrobe is like? Very organised, I imagine – like Richard Gere’s in American Gigolo or Christian Bale’s in American Psycho. Interesting, isn’t it, how popular culture’s idea of taboo masculinity went from gigolo to psycho in just a few years? Even today, there’s the suspicion that men who pay that much attention to their appearance aren’t to be trusted – which just goes to show how clever you were in court last month. But then, as I think we’ve established, you’re a particularly cunning kind of male narcissist.
I must have been slow to respond to Maria’s suggestion, because that eager smile she wears started to fade and she began to look like a supply teacher I once had – a woman so meek and mild she once spent the best part of a lesson locked inside a broom cupboard by a class of unruly eleven-year-olds.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You were saying?’
Her face lit up a little at that. Evidently she thought she was getting through to me. ‘A journal,’ she said.
‘Well, if it was good enough for Genet,’ I replied.
She looked at me blankly, as I knew she would.
‘Jean Genet,’ I said. ‘The Thief’s Journal. Widely considered one of the great transgressive texts of the post-war period.’
Still nothing. Truth be told, I felt a little sorry for her at that point, so I smiled and said a journal was a wonderful idea and one I would act on immediately.
Relieved, she glanced at her little clock, announced that our time was up and said she looked forward to seeing me again at the same time next week.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I replied. As if I had any choice in the matter.
One thing I’ve learned these
past few weeks. You don’t have a lot of choices when you’re a convicted criminal. Apart from the various restrictions placed on me by the restraining order, here is a list of things I’m currently obliged to do:
Attend therapy once a week for a minimum of twelve weeks;
Inform the police of any travel plans, including but not limited to holidays;
Prove to the world that I’m a good girl and won’t bother the poor, defenceless little man any more.
Okay, so I might have made that last bit up. Still. I’m sure you’ll agree that a lot of people would be seriously pissed off at this level of state interference in their daily life. And I confess there have been days when I’ve woken up seething with rage. I’ve lain in bed, staring up at the ceiling, fantasising about all the ways I can exact my revenge on you. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that, at times, my thoughts have bordered on the homicidal. This is what you’ve reduced me to. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Tom. Not only have you destroyed our relationship; not only have you taken away my right to free speech and seriously compromised my chances of future employment, but, thanks to you, I’m also entertaining thoughts of murder. And all for the ‘crime’ of taking an interest in you and your work. What is it people say – no good deed goes unpunished? Isn’t that the truth?
But as that other old saying goes, don’t get mad, get even. And this is what I intend to do, Tom. The restraining order forbids me from making contact with you, which is why I’m writing these words down but you won’t see them. This is just me organising my thoughts, as my therapist would say. These are letters I’ll never send, postcards that will never make it to the postbox, diary entries nobody but me will ever see. But what if they weren’t? What if, even now, I have a cunning plan up my sleeve? Think about it, Tom. The restraining order only lasts for two years. After that I’m free to do what I like. Maybe I’ll sell my story to a newspaper. Or maybe I’ll write a book about my ordeal. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Me getting a book out of this while you continue to struggle with yours.
You see, I wasn’t joking when I referred my therapist to Genet’s magnificent book The Thief’s Journal. It’s the book that cemented his reputation. And like all great autobiographies, it’s a blend of fact and fiction, with a large dose of what we’d now call ‘self-mythologising’. But that doesn’t make it any less true. In Genet’s world, the normal rules don’t apply. Traditional values are turned on their head. Moral codes are inverted. Truth and justice are merely concepts. The outlaw becomes the hero. Petty crime is raised to a fine art.
This is the thing I love most about Genet’s writing. This, and the fact that he refused to let a little thing like a custodial sentence stand in the way of his creativity. The book widely considered his masterpiece, Our Lady of the Flowers, was written entirely from the confines of a prison cell. Imagine that, Tom. No morning runs by the river for him. No literary lunches at the Groucho. And no laptop either. He wrote with a pencil, on pieces of brown paper issued to prisoners to make bags as part of their daily punishment. One day, while he and his fellow inmates were out exercising in the yard, a prison guard entered his cell, found the brown-paper manuscript and burned it. A lot of people would have given up at this point. Not Genet. He simply started again. Why? Because for him, writing was an act of defiance.
I know it’s bad form to compare oneself to one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century, but I’m beginning to understand how Genet felt. You know me, Tom. I’m not one to mince my words. But I do appreciate their power, and the freedom they offer. I’m like Genet, alone in his cell – writing because I have to and because nothing else matters.
And this will be it – my little book of sorrows, my voyage of self-discovery, my ultimate triumph in the face of adversity. All about Evie. I’m thinking of calling it The Troll’s Journal – partly out of respect for Genet and partly as a big fuck-you for all those disgusting, dehumanising things you said about me in court. I wonder what Genet would make of you. There he was – a sexual outlaw who defied social conventions and regarded the petite bourgeoisie with nothing short of contempt. And here you are. Petty. Bourgeoise. A man so bound by convention he runs to the police at the first sign of trouble. A writer so afraid of criticism he’d see an innocent woman go to prison for the crime of daring to disagree with him. Quite honestly, I think he’d hate you. And who could blame him?
I’m going to stop now. I don’t think this is quite what my therapist had in mind when she suggested that I start keeping a journal. She talked a lot about forgiveness and making amends. She used words like ‘healing’ and ‘letting go’. She said that I should own up to my mistakes – only then would I be able to move forward. But maybe I’m not ready to move forward. Or maybe my idea of moving forward is very different to hers.
How much further forward are you, I wonder? Have you let go of the past, or are you still clinging onto it? The last time I saw you, the day I was sentenced, you looked just as consumed with anger as ever. Has this whole nasty business been a disappointment to you? Were you expecting more from your beloved criminal-justice system, a far greater punishment that the one meted out? We both know you have an exaggerated sense of your own victimhood. What would it take to make you happy? Would you rather I was placed before a firing squad? Or do you dream of seeing me hanged, drawn and quartered? Maybe it’s you who should be seeing a therapist.
Joking aside, a therapist would probably do you more good than that agent of yours. If I heard you complain about her once I heard it a thousand times: ‘She never calls me. She never takes me for lunch. She takes days to reply to my emails. I feel so neglected!’ Poor you! But I bet she’s still your agent, isn’t she? You haven’t moved on. You haven’t dumped her the way you dumped me. And let’s face it – I was far more use to you than she ever was.
Which reminds me. The other woman in your life – she of the high maintenance hair. The lovely Emma. I think I may have judged her too soon. I knew a girl a lot like Emma when I was at college. You know – expensive tastes; money to burn. One of those home-counties blondes. Her father was big in property and doted on her the way my dad dotes on me – but in a showy way, parading her around in designer clothes like she was an extension of his success. It was quite creepy, actually.
Anyway, one night I showed up at the student union in some outfit I’d bought on sale at Top Shop, and there she was – Miss Home Counties, surrounded with her usual entourage of girls cute enough to reflect well on her but not so good-looking that they posed a threat. She nudged the one nearest to her as she saw me approaching.
‘You look great,’ she said, flashing a smile that probably cost thousands. ‘I wish I could carry off cheap clothes.’
Quick as a flash, I responded: ‘I know. I’m very fortunate. Some people can spend a fortune on clothes and still look cheap.’
She weighed me up for a moment or two, then her smile widened. ‘I like you,’ she said, though I don’t think she even knew my name at that point. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends.’
And the funny thing was, we were – for a while at least. Who knows? Maybe Emma and I will be, too. Stranger things have happened. Maybe I’ll bump into her one day and she’ll see the real me, not the person you made me out to be. People think chance encounters don’t happen in big cities, that the odds against them are stacked too high, that there’s safety in numbers. But they’re wrong. When I moved to Manchester I thought I’d never see certain people again. I was wrong about that. And London’s not that much bigger than Manchester, you know. Not really. It’s just a series of villages. The same paths are crossed by people from all walks of life every day. And with social media it’s easy to keep tabs on someone. All it takes is an enquiring mind.
So that’s where I’m at, at the moment. I’m keeping an open mind, looking forward to new experiences, exploring new possibilities. These are qualities we should all aspire to, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure my therapist would. She’s very big on personal growth
is our Maria. It’s good for one’s wellbeing, she says. Only by breaking old habits and trying new things can we hope to move forward.
It isn’t easy moving forwards, Tom. I know that better than most people. But sometimes you just have to put one foot in front of the other. You know how to do that, don’t you?
13
As the train shudders to a halt and the automated voice announces that they’ve arrived at their destination, Tom leaps to his feet and reaches up to the luggage rack for his suitcase. Ten days after he told Emma of his plans, he’s finally made it to Hastings. He dressed comfortably for the journey in cargo shorts and a polo shirt but the air-con is so strong that by the time the train was passing through Sevenoaks he had to place a zip top over his frozen knees, making him feel like an invalid and attracting knowing smirks from a group of workmen in paint-spattered overalls.
His mood wasn’t helped by the woman across the aisle jabbering away on her phone at full volume, only pausing for breath when the train passed through a tunnel or the signal dropped out. At one point she complained that the journey was too bumpy for her to apply her makeup. ‘I’m afraid I might poke myself in the eye!’
I think you’ll find there’s a queue, Tom thought, but said nothing.
Stepping off the train, he hoists his leather rucksack over his shoulders and pulls up the handle on his wheelie case. The rucksack contains his laptop, notebook and reading materials, and his case is filled with enough clothes and toiletries to last him a fortnight. If he decides to stay longer, he’s been told the apartment is still available and has laundry facilities. The photos on the Airbnb website showed a stunning second-floor property, close to the pier, with sea views. He can already picture himself seated in the bay window, gazing out to sea, a cup of coffee at his side and his laptop open in front of him as the words flow from his fingers.
The remaining passengers disembarking the train at Hastings are a motley bunch. Tom spots several student types with arty haircuts and facial piercings, though most of their kind left the train a minute or two earlier at St Leonards Warrior Square. There are a few elderly couples in matching pastel outfits. And then there are the pirates. As the train pulled out of Tunbridge Wells, Tom heard someone say that today was Pirate Day in Hastings. Sure enough, by the time they reached Battle the carriage had filled with young men in pirate costumes. Tom watches as a group of fit-looking lads make their way along the platform and up the stairs ahead of him, laughing and jostling in their buccaneer boots, tight breeches, ruffled shirts and silk headscarves. If this is what Hastings has in store, he’s confident he made the right decision.